Ivy and the Cop (Power Play)
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Authors: Selena Kitt
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High school senior, Moxie, agrees to be moral support for her friend, Patches, who is totally enamored with a college boy, so she says yes to a double date, even though she has to lie to her parents to do it. But Moxie wasn’t counting on lying about her age to get into an x-rated movie, and she definitely wasn’t counting on her date’s Roman hands and Russian fingers, or the fact that the pants she’s borrowed from Patches are several sizes too small. By the end of the night, Moxie finds herself in far more trouble than she bargained for!
S
elena Kitt’s *Power Play*—where those uber-hot alpha authority figures take full advantage of their status to strike up all sorts of sexy naughtiness with their subordinates!
Ivy’s car has broken down in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere on the way back from a summer babysitting job, her cell phone
neglectfully uncharged, and she’s never been so grateful to see flashing lights in her rearview mirror. The familiar, rugged, gorgeous cop who comes to her rescue is sympathetic, inviting Ivy into the front seat of his cruiser where he intends to call for a tow-truck. But before he can get that far, their incessant flirting leads to Ivy’s confession that she has a secret fantasy about cops, and officer Paxton declares himself off-duty—so he can play out Ivy’s fantasy with her over the hood of the police cruiser. But there’s more danger lurking than just being stranded by the side of the road, and Ivy finds herself in a quandary even her rescuer may not be able to save her from.
Selena Kitt Single
Short Story—Big Bang!
(approx
10,000 words)
Warning: This title contains hot, steamy nobody-writes-it-like-Selena-Kitt sex between alpha authority figures and their subordinates!
Table of Contents
POWER PLAY
:
Ivy and the Cop
By Selena Kitt
Selena Kitt Singles
Short Story—Big Bang!
Her father
told Ivy a hundred times to get the oil in her 1992 Honda Civic changed, and her mother had reminded her at least that many times just that night not to forget to charge her iPhone before she headed over to the Forresters to babysit, but there she was stuck on the side of the road in the middle of the night cursing both of them for their endless stream of advice. Didn't her parents know that if they’d choose more carefully when to speak and when not to, instead of coming at her with a constant barrage of blah-blah-blah, she might actually listen to what they had to say more often?
And more importantly—why were parents always right?
"Fuck!" Ivy tried turning the key again, as if that might magically bring the car to life, but there was nothing, not even that funny clicking noise it made when she left the lights on overnight and the battery went dead and she had to bug her neighbor in the apartment upstairs to hook his jumper cables up to his giant Ford F-150 and give her a boost.
If this had happened anywhere on campus, help would have been within easy walking distance, but no, it had to be now, when she was home
from college for the summer at her parents' house in the middle of rural America, where the nearest store was at least a fifteen minute drive away from anywhere and the roads were mere dirt paths peppered with farmhouses amidst acres of corn and soybeans.
"Come on."
She tried it again. Nothing. Nothing, nothing and more nothing. Ivy rested her forehead on the steering wheel, trying not to cry. It was after two in the morning—the Forresters had stayed out until bar closing time—and she had no desire to spend the night on the side of the road sleeping in her car. So now what?
She tried to remember what was around her. Farm houses. She could walk up the road and knock on doors, ask to use the phone. That thought made her cringe at this late hour. And walking alone, even out here where she was likely not to meet much except a raccoon or a deer or two, wasn’t all that appealing either.
She took her iPhone out of her purse, pressing the round “home” button on the bottom again and again, hoping, like she had with the car, that some miracle of electricity would happen, but there was nothing, just the blank, black screen of a dead cell phone. This is what she got for texting Savannah all night, both of them tuned into and giggling over Magic Mike on Netflix, with no regard to the dwindling battery.
“Guess I’m walking,” she whispered to no one, tucking her phone back in her purse, tossing her keys in too, and opening the Civic’s door. It creaked nois
ily in the cricket-quiet night. There were no other sounds, and no lights at all. Thankfully, there was a full moon, casting enough of silvery glow to walk by. She pounded the lock down and slammed the door shut for good measure, glancing down at her shoes and regretting her fashion choice. Why had she dressed up to meet Savannah for coffee before she went to the Forresters? Well at least they were low heels and not the four-inch spikes she liked to wear clubbing when she was back at school.
They didn’t make for easy
travel on gravel though. Still, she slung her purse over her shoulder, put her head down, and started walking. She was sure to come across a farm house within the next half a mile. A mile at the most. Of course, a mile in these shoes might kill her. Ivy stopped to wiggle her already aching toes, glancing back at her car. Had she really only come that far? The length of a football field, at most! She squinted and frowned, peering down the dirt road, trying to determine if what she was seeing was what she thought she was seeing. Were those… headlights?
Oh thank god, they were headlights! They were just pinpoints, but they were growing. She started walking
back toward her car, praying it was someone a) not drunk and b) responsible enough to have a charged cell phone so she could call for road service. She was already making a mental note to thank her father for insisting she pay extra for towing and breakdown coverage on her insurance.
The car got to hers before she did, and she sighed in relief as she saw it pull up behind
. They were stopping to help! That had to be a good sign. Her little white Civic looked like a pale ghost car at the side of the road in the moonlight and her heart leapt when vehicle behind it came to life. She’d never been so grateful to see flashing red and blue lights go on in her entire life. It was a cop! She was saved!
She practically ran back to her car, getting a stitch in her side by the time she reached the Honda’s hood. The o
fficer was still sitting in his, probably running the plate, but he opened his door when he saw her approaching.
“Ma’am?” he called, walking toward her, and she saw his hand near the butt of his gun. “Are you all right?”
“Hi! Hello!” she called breathlessly, waving. “My car died. And my phone. I was—”
They both stopped at the Civic’s
driver’s side door, about five feet from each other. Ivy saw the recognition pass over Patrick’s face in an instant, and he must have seen the same on hers. His hand dropped from his side, his body visibly relaxing—at least a little. Ivy’s relief was replaced with a growing dread as they closed the distance, far more slowly than they’d started out.
“Hey Patrick.”
“Hello Ivy.”
She cleared her throat. “Well, this is awkward.”
“What are you doing out here?” He sounded all business-like now that the initial shock had worn off. She could deal with that.
“I was babysitting at the Forresters.”
He raised his dark brows.
“Aren’t their kids old enough to stay on their own yet?”
“Almost. Ten and eleven.” She used to babysit them back in high school, when they w
ere just preschoolers and she’d been dating Patrick. She wondered if he was remembering how he used to come over and visit her at the Forresters after the boys were asleep.
Tonight that would have been impossible, of course—the two boys had invited a friend over to spend the night and the three of them had stayed up playing Assassin’s Creed III until the Forresters returned. The Forresters usually had a strict bed time, but they suspended it for sleepovers, and the boys and young Brian had taken full advantage. The kids were at that in-between age, and Brian had kept coming down from their room to talk to her, a little kid with a babysitter-crush.
It was cute. She’d felt sorry for him, poor kid. He’d never seen an X-Box before, he said, and didn’t know how to play the game. Instead he wanted to spend his time with Ivy, devouring popcorn and ice cream and anything else he could find in the fridge, fascinated with her talk about her parents’ farm and horses. If she’d been younger, she would have been annoyed by his attention, eager to get them all to bed so she could invite her boyfriend—back in the day, Patrick—over, but that night it was just mildly annoying and kind of sweet.
“Car trouble?”
Patrick asked, breaking her reverie.
She sighed. “Yeah. It won’t do anything. My dad kept telling me I needed to get the oil changed.”
“Did it make any noise at all when you turned the key?”
She shook her head.
“Nothing.”
"Try it again for
me,” he urged.
She unlocked the driver’s side door and got int
o the car, putting the key in. When she rolled down the window, he leaned on the edge, watching as she turned the key in the ignition. He was still just as good-looking as he’d always been, with all that thick, wavy dark hair, and even in just the light of the dash she could see the hazy gray heat in his eyes as he watched her turning the key over and over.
"See?
” She sighed, pulling the keys out of the ignition and putting them back into her purse. “Nothing. I know I should have had the oil changed…"
"If you didn't have any oil,
you'd know it.” Patrick stood, a looming figure in the darkness the buttons on the front of his uniform shirt gleaming, his thumbs hooked in his gun belt. "Sounds like the battery or the alternator. If you had no oil, your engine would seize up. It makes a horrible, grinding sound. You don't want to ever hear that sound."
"Oh."
Ivy peered up at him, embarrassed by her lack of automotive knowledge, but saw that he was smiling, even amused. They exchanged knowing looks and a familiar feeling washed over her, something comfortable, like slipping into an old robe and well-worn slippers. How many times had Patrick rescued her from situations just like this one? The occasions were too numerous to count. Like her father, Patrick had often reminded her to get her oil changed, lock her doors, and always remember her pepper spray.
"Want me to take a look?
” Patrick offered, already heading toward the front of the car. “If it's the battery, I could give you a jump."
"Would you?"
Ivy swung her door open, hopeful. Patrick to the rescue again!
“Sure.
” He patted the rocker panel of her Honda. “Pop the hood.”
She pulled the hood lever for him, and joined him at the front of the vehicle, peering into the engine where his flashlight was shining, as if she had any clue what might be wrong. Patrick, on the other hand, seemed to know just what he was looking for. She watched him checking over engine parts with his big, capable hands.
“See anything?” Ivy asked.
Patrick pulled on her oil dipstick, shining his flashlight on it. “See? Told you. It’s low, but you still have oil.”
“Men!” She grinned up at him. “You always love saying ‘I told you so.’”
“Isn’t that the woman’s prerogative?” Patrick nudged her with his hip, playful, making sure she was out of the way before he closed the hood, turning out his flashlight, and putting it back in its place on his belt. “It’s not the battery. Definitely not the oil. Pretty sure it’s the alternator, so jumping you isn’t going to help.”
“Jumping me?” She grinned again, amused at the embarrassed look that flashed over his face.
Patrick steered her by the elbow toward his cruiser. “Do you have road service?”
“Of course.” She snorted. “My father insists.”
He opened the back door of the cruiser, waving her inside. “I’ll call them for you.”
“I’ve never been in a police car before.” Ivy peered in. “I feel like I’m in trouble.”
“Maybe you are.”
Patrick winked when she looked up at him, and the glint in his eyes made her stomach do a slow flip, like it used to whenever he pulled up in her driveway to pick her up for a date.
“You were the one who always got
me
into trouble,” she reminded him.
He blinked at her.
“Who me?”
“Mr. Innocent.” She bit her lip, hesitating.
“Do I really have to sit in the back? It’s like a cage.”
“You’re supposed to, but…
” He shrugged, steering her by the elbow again as he swung the back door of the cruiser closed and guiding her around the car.“You can sit up front if you want. With me.”
She smiled up at him.
“Thanks.”
He came around the other side of the car, getting into the driver’s seat. Ivy explored the dashboard of the vehicle, unable to keep her hands to herself, as usual. Patrick kept swatting her
fingers away from buttons and knobs as he made the call into dispatch for a tow truck.
“You have a laptop in here?” She opened the computer on the dash. “Do you Facebook while you’re supposed to be working?”
“Ivy!” Patrick sighed as she started pushing more buttons.
“You never did accept my friend request,” she pouted. “What is this? A camera?”
“I thought I’d better leave well enough alone,” he said, flipping the laptop closed again. “And yes, the dash cam is supposed to be on at all times, if I’m on duty.”
“Are you on duty now?”
she asked, raising an eyebrow in his direction.
“Officially? No.
” He replaced the radio, turning toward her and grabbing both of her hands in his before she could touch anything else. “I was actually on my way home when I got a call about—”
“About what?”
She had to admit, the way he was holding her hands in his—so familiar and yet, it had been so long—made her want to squirm in her seat. There was something about seeing him like this, in uniform, in his police cruiser, that excited her. It wasn’t something she’d expected, especially given the reason they’d broken up, but she couldn’t deny it. Her body wouldn’t let her.
Patrick turned her hands over in his, rubbing his thumbs over her palms, massaging gently.
“A prisoner escape,” he murmured, like an afterthought, and she might have dismissed his words if they hadn’t sent such a jolt through her.
“
A…what?”
“
You know that prison they built over in Poplar Grove, in spite of all the county protests?” He let go of her hands, more focused now, and she regretted the loss of his touch. “That’s why you see those signs out on US-27 not to pick up hitchhikers.”
“Does anyone do that anymore? Hitchhike, I mean?”
He shrugged. “Apparently, prisoners do.”
“So there’s some crazy guy out there somewhere?”
“My guess is he’s long gone by now.” Patrick touched her hand again, this time for no reason at all, turning it over again and tracing the lines in her palm. “Besides, I’m here. I’ll protect you.”
