Confess (The Blue Line Series Book 1)

Confess

A Blue Line Series Novel

Reagan Phillips

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, or people, living or dead is coincidental.

Confess Copyright © 2015 Reagan Phillips. All Rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the author.

Reagan Phillips

[email protected]

Visit my website at

www.reaganphillips.me

Edited by Kara Leigh Miller

Cover design by Paramita Bhattacharjee

For the men and women who wear the blue.

And for my personal officer.

Love ya, babes!

If he wanted to murder a girl, Charlie’s Bar would be his first stop.

Tucked into a table in a back corner of the roadside dive, Detective Mitch Kilpatrick sank lower in his chair and swung a near empty bottle of lager to his lips.

The late summer heat wave packed the place with women in short skirts, skimpy tops, and cowboy boots. A slow country song crooned from speakers that flanked the empty dance floor. In darkened corners, bodies intertwined and bare skin flashed.

Yes, if he wanted to catch a killer he had to find where killers hunted. And that’s exactly what he’d done, meeting with a group of Rebel Rapids’ finest every night at Charlie’s for the past week.

To infiltrate the blockade of information the chief had hidden within the department, he’d have to play detective with his own breed to break the case.

Mitch drained his beer and signaled a passing waitress for another, hoping the buzz would drown out the memory of what had happened the last time he’d been to Rebel Rapids. The reason why he hoped he’d be able to hand his case over to Nashville before the temptation to take the kill shot grew too strong.

In and out. Two weeks tops. No one in Nashville had to be the wiser until he caught the asshole.

Deluna and Helms, two Rebel Rapids officers he’d scoped out a week ago, sat opposite him.

“I heard if you dab hot sauce on your tongue before oral she’ll scream your name into the next county.” Deluna leaned back in his chair and interlocked his fingers behind his head in the cocky bullshit-slinging way that came from too many hours on the job followed by too many beers. “Ever tried it?”

Helms heaved a sigh over his beer and rolled his eyes. “Dude, I’m engaged. Put a ring on it and those thighs lock up tighter than Fort Knox.”

“How about you?” Deluna unlocked his hands and grabbed his beer, swaying it in Mitch’s direction. “What’s the wildest thing you’ve done to get a woman off?”

Mitch deflected the question by accepting a fresh bottle from a redheaded waitress in painted-on daisy dukes and a pink halter top with
Charlie
’
s
scrawled across her ample chest. Walking away, she turned and winked, catching him appreciating the view of her round ass swaying beneath skintight denim.

Deluna drove a fist into Mitch’s shoulder. He gave the impression of the kid in school who tried too hard to make friends and ended up pissing everyone off. His nose was shoved so far up his partner’s ass he could smell what the off-duty officer had eaten for breakfast. “So is it redheads or waitresses?”

“Neither,” Mitch deadpanned and took another swig of beer.

Something that looked like disappointment washed over Deluna’s baby face.

“There’s a murderer on the loose and your main focus is foreplay?” Mitch grabbed his beer bottle by the neck and sank back into his chair.

His sexual preferences weren’t at the forefront of his mind tonight, and his dislike of small talk was showing. Even if his third beer worked some kind of suppressant magic on his ever-present detective brain, he wasn’t in the mood to blow two young officers’ minds with the sordid details of his explicit tastes.

He was fine with them thinking what everyone else thought of him. Typical Southern boy. Polite. Dedicated to his job. A gentleman with the ladies. They’d attribute his loner attitude to his driving work ethic.

He’d tried to be that man, the one who tenderly spooned her to sleep after fucking her brains out. But the missionary-style wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am bored him quickly, and the kind of women secure enough with themselves to enjoy his definition of fun didn’t exactly grow on trees in the Bible Belt.

Deluna and Helms were good guys. If they spent more time focused on the head on their shoulders rather than the one between their legs they’d both have promising careers in law enforcement. If they worked with him, he could teach them; the way his mentor, Detective Bishop, had done for him. Take them under his wing. Show them the lesser-known ropes of the job.

“Cinnamon Altoids.” Mitch sat his bottle on the table. He’d play along if it meant earning their trust enough to milk them for intel later. Given the amount of beer they consumed, and their attractions to the clientele in Charlie’s, he wasn’t getting very far with either tonight. But soon. With his focus solely on the murder case he’d have it solved and be back in the swivel chair behind his desk in Nashville before his superiors noticed the growing stack of neglected case files. “Keep one in your mouth when you go down on her, and they’ll hear her screaming your name
three counties
away.”

“Altoids,” Deluna muttered.

A sexy brunette Mitch had watched from dark corners all week was restocking the liquor shelves behind the bar. Her dark hair, streaked in pink, was pulled back into a low ponytail that ran down the length of her arched back and brushed the top curve of her ass. Long, muscular arms – from slinging liquor boxes behind the bar, he guessed – worked the bottles into place.

He’d fought the distraction all week. The first night she’d leaned over his table to clear empty bottles he’d caught the hint of cleavage spilling from her low-cut tank top.

During the day, he’d been able to push her from his thoughts by opening the case file he’d lifted from the Rebel Rapids PD. He could shift his focus to the girl with her face beaten into a bruised mound of flesh and the blue ropes still tied to her wrists and ankles.

But tonight, like most nights over the past week, the barkeep’s black tank rode up her back to reveal the waist of her low-cut jeans and the thin line of a pink thong he’d give his left nut to see her wearing with nothing else. The black outline of a tattoo along her right hip caught his attention. He couldn’t make out the design in the dim light except a straight line of letters.

Inked and a bartender. With her sauntering into his dreams every evening for the past several nights, backwater Rebel Rapids hadn’t been the dry hole in his sex life he’d pegged it for.

He shook his head and downed another long swig. The fastest way to lose focus on the job was watching that woman work.

“Ever used your cuffs on a girl?”

Mitch vaguely heard Deluna’s question, still transfixed by the thin silver belt hugging the brunette’s curves.

He imagined losing himself in her. His hands wrapped around her, using the thin strap to pull her into him, taking her from behind. Her ponytail bobbing in his face. The musk of sex and the sweet scent of girlie shampoo lingering in the air as she rode him hard and fast.

It had been too long since he’d known the warmth of a soft woman in his bed. Felt the heated touch of a lover. The satisfying release only a woman’s body could invoke. One night with her and he could clear his head of the need for sex and get his mind back where it should be before another innocent girl died.

The plan sounded solid enough until he’d done a little reconnaissance work and found her to be the only daughter of the Rebel Rapids police chief. The same chief who was pouring every resource he had into blocking outside investigations of the recent murders.

Mitch turned to find Deluna and Helms hypnotized by the bartender stacking drinks. Something hot and vile raced through his veins. He hadn’t been jealous in a long time, hadn’t the need to be, but the feeling reared up inside him the second he noted Deluna’s gaze traveling the curved line of her legs up to her ass and halting at the cleavage spilling out from the too-tight top.

Mine
echoed in his head.

Helms barked out a laugh and slapped his partner on the back. “If you have to restrain her, Deluna, you’re doing it wrong.”

In a fervent attempt to sway their attention, Mitch answered, “If you want to restrain a lady, there are far more imaginative ways than cuffs.”

The brunette pivoted, giving Mitch a view of her face. Not the kind of overly made-up and self-indulgent woman he usually gravitated toward. This one had trouble written all over her, from the seductive way her gaze swept the room to the confident glide of her tongue over her lips. Trouble he couldn’t afford to have clouding his judgment when he should be looking for a killer.

She picked up a tray of beer bottles and passed their table with a confident rock of her hips and a half smile toward Helms before nodding to a group of locals playing pool in the back corner. The taller player, shrouded under a white Stetson cowboy hat, smacked her backside and gripped her bicep.

Mitch’s jaw tightened. His protective instincts sparked to life like pistons revving an engine and twice as hot. The kid had been practically dry-humping her with his gaze for the last three nights and counting.

Before Mitch could leave his seat, she’d pressed Stetson into a chair with the palm of her hand and a knee aimed firmly at his crotch.

Without dropping a single beer, she spun on the heels of her pink cowboy boots and disappeared behind a black door.

The whole scene made him hard. He slid back in the chair to ease the sudden ache.

Strong. Confident.

A total conquest for a dominance freak.

His mind snapped back into detective mode. He hadn’t been thinking about the case, but about how far down his darkened road of sexual desires she’d let him lead her. She took his mind off the case just by walking across a room. He’d never solve a murder with her running through his head at all hours.

“Damn, Detective. When you set your sights on something, you aim high.” Deluna punched him in the shoulder again.

The gesture made Mitch want to knock Deluna’s drunken ass right off his seat, but he refrained. The kid would learn not to stick his dick where it didn’t belong soon enough. “Who is she?” He’d play stupid for the sake of the case and male bonding.

“Lacy Andrews,” Helms answered with a note of warning in his tone.

Mitch twisted in his seat to face Deluna. “Chief Andrews’ daughter?”

“One and the same, Kilpatrick. His
only
daughter.” He followed with a husky laugh. “Even if he’s not pissed as hell you’re asking questions about his murder investigations, she’s got an older brother on the force who’ll tear into your ass and feed your flesh to the Tennessee wild hogs. Over protective is the understatement of the century.”

“I guess we found Kilpatrick’s weakness.” Helms slammed his mug on the table. Beer sloshed over the sides. “A passion for the unattainable.”

The heated look in Helms’s eyes made Mitch’s curiosity perk up. He lifted a brow in question. “Unattainable? Because she’s the chief’s daughter?”

Helms leaned back and kicked one booted foot to the table. The man was sloshed, but the resentment on his face was obvious. There was history. “The one law guy she ever let in fucked with her head. She doesn’t date cops.” He lifted his beer bottle between his fingers and swung it to his lips. “Hell, she doesn’t date, period.”

Mitch ignored them both. There was no way in hell a sweet thing like that working in a country bar didn’t date. She just hadn’t met the right guy yet, not that he had the time to be that. He had to do something to get her out of his head long enough to solve the Wray case, and the only way he’d ever gotten any girl out of his mind was to take her.

He grabbed his beer by the neck and followed the path she’d carved to the door near the back of the bar. The door creaked when he slid it open, but no one looked up from the pool tables. The room was small, a few hundred square feet at best. Two stained-glass light fixtures hung over two parallel pool tables, both surrounded by men nursing beers and intently watching two tense games.

Along one wall sat a smaller bar lined with stools occupied by women in higher-end attire. A blonde in a sequined top and tight black skirt tended the drinks.

He searched the room for Hellcat, finding her bent over a vacant pool table, reaching for a discarded bottle on the far end. Her body lengthened across the green felt.

He imagined her stretched over his bed, her breasts pressed into the sheets, her back arched, ready for him. Begging for him.