Protect (31 page)

She could only groan in response as he
slammed into her, over and over. The table jumped and squealed
against the vinyl flooring, eventually stopping as it wedged a
chair against the wall. That’s when it got really good.

One of his large, warm hands rode under her
shirt, taking its time roaming over her ribs before tucking into
her bra. He pinched and rolled her nipple, and her fingers
scrambled for something to hold onto. There was nothing. Her nails
scraped at the wood veneer until one caught his arm, the one that
was torturing her tit. His other arm ... she had no idea where it
was.

Until she felt its hand on her clit again.
“Oh
fuck
, Fritter!”

“I got no purchase here. You gotta use me to
get off, Sharon.”

So she did. She grasped both arms, bent over
as she was, nails digging into skin and muscle that was built for
tearing up this way, and shoved against the motion of his hips with
each thrust.

“Oh
fuck
. Like that. Just like that.”
His voice was coarse, rough. She liked that. It meant he was losing
control, too.

“Fritter—”

“Don’t stop, babe.”

“Oh God!”

“Yeah. Yeah. Like that.”

The squeak was loud, and she face-planted
onto the table as her body quaked. Almost immediately after he let
go with a long, male, caveman grunt that she felt between her legs
and everywhere else.

His hands stilled on her, then moved away.
His chest was heaving. He’d collapsed on her. The hair covering the
side of her face was gently pulled away, and he pressed a kiss to
the side of her neck. That was sweet.

“Hell, babe,” he groaned while pulling free.
“That’s the cost of wearing that skirt.”

She giggled and stood, letting the skirt fall
into place as he tucked himself away again.

There was a snort, and they both looked down
to see Earp, sitting on the floor next to the table. At their gaze
he wagged his tail.

“You’re a pervert,” Fritter told her dog.

Earp whimpered, moved three inches closer and
sat down again, tail wagging harder.

“He’s a mooch,” she corrected, patting the
dog’s head and scratching his ears. “But that’s okay.”

“Save some of that affection for me,” Fritter
advised, taking her by the hips and turning her for the doorway.
“I’m taking you to bed until the kid’s curfew is up.”

Rebel Circus was a disaster of a construction
zone. Drywall was half done, no mudding yet. Wires hung from open
holes in the ceiling waiting for light fixtures. But most notable
were the missing tools the contractors had been using for the past
four months.

Rose had called Tank in a tizzy that morning,
even though she was right next door. The contractors had walked off
the job, something about being scared of working with the club.
They’d kept the cash for the work they done and gave back the
advance.

Contractors. Returning money for unfinished
work. This was bad.

Fritter stood on the bare concrete floor,
waiting to hear what the big idea was going to be here. They’d
hired local; the
only
local contractor, to be exact.

“Shit,” Jayce was muttering, alternating
between that and
fuck
as he kicked through the discarded
ends of drywall that had been cut off and left where they landed.
The missing lights, generators and work tables had left a footprint
in all the dust on the floor.

“Wiring and plumbing have been done,” Tank
was pointing out. “Even the bathrooms are tiled, they just need
grout.”

“And who the fuck’s going to do that?” Jayce
snapped.

“Tiny used to finish houses, man. It’s been a
while but we could ask if he knows about some of this shit. And
even I can figure out how to paint a fucking wall. How hard can
mudding be?”

“It sucks,” Fritter spoke up. “My first
summer job was with a dry walling company. I hated it. Preferred to
be outside, even back then.”

Jayce grinned. “But you remember how?”

Shit
. “Yeah, I remember how.”

“Okay. So between runs and hunting down these
pricks that got Mickey, we’re here working on this. Use the
prospects for whatever you want. Make sure they know what to do in
case we need to leave them in charge.”

“Jayce?” Shit, he couldn’t believe he was
about to ask this.

“Yeah?”

“What about Downey’s kid? Brayden?”

Jayce blinked, then shrugged. “What about
him?”

“He worked at the garage, it was the only job
he could find. He’s young. We should ask him if he’d like to make a
few bucks doing this grunt work.”

Jayce nodded. “Good idea, actually.”

“I don’t know if getting the Sheriff’s son
electrocuted is a good idea,” Tank grumbled.

“There was that guy that used to chum around
here,” Fritter said. “A hang around. Remember? Older guy, bald. I
thought he had his electrician’s papers. All we need is the lights
hooked up. They’re here already, the wires have been run.”

“Charlie,” Tank said, nodding. “Yeah, that’s
right. He’s still around.”

“See? Solutions are all over the place.”
Jayce sounded like he was trying to be optimistic, but it wasn’t a
great sell job. There was a chirping noise and the Prez pulled out
his cell, checking his messages. “It’s Spaz. He wants to show us
something.”

“I’ll track down this electrician,” Tank
offered as they left the half-light of the reno zone and hit the
sidewalk in full sunshine. Fritter winced and Tank did the same.
“Come up with a schedule. Then we call in the kid to help.”

“Sure.” Sounded enough like a plan.

They circled the club, cut through staff
parking off the alley, then they were in the compound in front of
the clubhouse again. Inside the clubhouse sweetbutts were at work
cleaning up from the night before. Once the families and old ladies
had cleared out it had, predictably, turned into a biker clubhouse
again. It still stunk of many bad deeds.

Spaz’s office off the hall leading to the can
was open with the lights on. They let Jayce in the room, since
there wasn’t room for anyone else.

“This just popped up on 4Chan,” Spaz was
saying, his eyes darting to Tank then resting on Fritter.

“I don’t know what that is.”

“It doesn’t really matter what it is, but it
can be a super anonymous way to share files and trade secrets for
hackers. There’s also a lot of disgusting shit on it.”

“What kind?” This from Tank.

Spaz shrugged one shoulder. “Nasty videos.
Like anything else on the internet, there’s plenty of porn.”

“So why is this so special?”

“The anonymity,” Spaz said, turning back to
his computer. “Anyone with half a clue can post pretty much
anything and it’d be hard to trace to them. But something started
showing up online and I sourced it back to here.”

“What is it?” Jayce asked, crossing his arms
impatiently.

“I just ... I’m sorry. I’ll have to show
you.” Spaz glanced at Fritter yet again, which made him frown.

“Why do you keep looking at me?”

“I’m sorry,” Spaz said, and Fritter didn’t
think the nerd was apologizing for staring. He hit play on
something on the screen and a window popped open with a video. No
sound, just grainy, jerky images.

They all crowded closer, not sure what they
were looking at until the camera gained focus, then Fritter felt
his stomach turn to ice like he’d swallowed nitrogen.

It was Downey’s kitchen, and he was right
there. On screen. The back of his kutte completely recognizable as
he held her head in place by the hair and sucked at her neck.

“What the fuck?” He breathed it, but Jayce
turned to him and shouted it at him.

“Exactly. What the
fuck
?”

“Whoa whoa,” Tank was between them, trying to
be the cool head as always. “How many people have seen this?”

Fritter couldn’t look away from the screen.
He watched as his own image backed her to the table and pushed her
face-first onto the surface, his hand disappearing around her
front. At least all you could see was his back, but with the motion
of his arm there was no mistaking what he was doing. And the way
her leg bent upwards in a jerky motion told the story that this
wasn’t unwanted.

“A few views on here,” Spaz was saying. “But
it’s been downloaded a couple times, and it’s being shared on
Facebook. Twitter.”

“Fuck,” Fritter muttered, letting his eyes
fall closed.

“What the
fuck
have you done?” That
was roared and Fritter opened his eyes just in time to see Jayce’s
fist, a split second before it connected with his cheekbone.

Son of a
bitch
—the guy had a wicked
right.

Fritter stumbled back, hitting the wall of
the hallway as Jayce kept coming at him. A left his gut, another
right connected with his jaw hard enough he saw a couple stars.

Defending himself never occurred to him. He
knew being found out would result in him getting his ass handed to
him. Might as well get right to it. No need for a table
discussion.

His arms came up defensively but Jayce was a
dangerous opponent when he was furious. Fritter withstood gut
shots, more jaw hits, and the next to hit his right cheekbone
brought him down to his knees.

Then it stopped. His head was ringing from
the assault, but once it was paused he could hear Tank. “You can’t
fucking
kill
him, Jayce. Calm the fuck down!”

“Sleeping with a fucking
cop
!” Jayce
was hollering back.

“And when the hell did that hurt us?” Tank
shot back. “In the last while, how many times have the cops been
onto us? You think he’s been yapping about the club?”

Jayce muttered something and stalked off,
then it was him and Tank. The big guy was breathing hard from
wrestling Jayce into submission, and Fritter was bleeding.

“Fuck, Fritter.”

“I know,” he said, swiping at the wet under
his nose. Yep, bleeding. “It just happened. And I’d like to tell
you it’s just the fucking ... but it ain’t.”

“Fuck,” Tank repeated, leaning against the
opposite wall.

“First few times it was just physical.” Now
Fritter met the big guy’s eyes. “But I care about her. I
do
.”

“How long?”

He swallowed hard. “How long?”

“How long you been fucking the sheriff?”

His hands clenched to hear Tank speak about
her that way, but he kept his voice calm. “Remember when I got shot
outside Ma’s house?”

Tank had to think back--that’s how long it
had been. Then he frowned. “Jesus. That’s almost two years, isn’t
it?”

Fritter nodded. “Meeting once a month,
sometimes every two months. Not too often. Until recently.”

“And what about her?”

“What do you mean?”

“Does she know about your ... feelings?”

Fritter nodded. “She feels the same.”

“You’re sure?”

He nodded again, more definite this time.

“Fuck.”

“I wanna see how much is in that video,”
Fritter said, tone hardening. “Honest to Christ if it shows any
part of her—”

“I know, I feel you. Let’s go see.”

Spaz didn’t want to play it again, but Tank
ordered him to do it. Little the tech geek could do against that
bellowing command. Fritter kinda liked watching them kiss, if his
half-erection was any indicator. Then he remembered that strangers
were out there watching this and that cooled him off.

“Great,” he muttered, watching his image,
one-handed, roll on a condom. “My fucking cock’s on the
internet.”

“Shit.” Tank muttered, squinting. “Is that
her ass?”

Fritter turned away from the monitors,
cursing. Yeah, her ass cheek was there. Not all the goods, thank
God. Then he had to look again as the video rolled, still silent,
and he watched himself fuck her and the kitchen table clear across
to the wall. Inappropriately Tank chuckled, and when Fritter glared
the VP held up one hand. “Sorry man. But kitchen tables aren’t as
sturdy as the movies would have you believe.”

“Shut up,” Fritter mumbled, watching the
motion of his own ass, remembering how good she’d felt, digging her
nails into his forearms and riding his cock bent over. Jesus, he
was hard after all. Then he collapsed on her back, and the screen
cut to black.

“That’s it,” Spaz said, spinning his chair to
face them.

It didn’t show any of Sharon’s ... well,
nether-regions. So that was good. But from the start of the video
anyone knew, very definitely, it was her.

“And it’s on Facebook and Twitter?”

“Yeah.” Spaz swallowed hard. “Someone had
posted it on her campaign page. I traced it to here. In the
meantime someone’s deleted it from that page, but not before it got
a few views. And a lot of rude comments. The Admin on the page, her
son, removed it. Then he deleted the page, and deactivated his
Facebook account.”

“Who put the video on the page?” Tank
asked.

“Turnbull’s son, that piece of shit.
Justin.”

The pieces were falling into place, a lot
quicker than he ever would have expected. This was all to hurt
Sharon, nothing to do with the club.

“And you can’t tell who put it on here?”
Fritter asked, remembering now what Spaz had been saying before
shit came raining down.

“Well, if it had been put on by someone with
more than rudimentary knowledge it would be hard to tell. Luckily
it was by someone who didn’t think to cover their tracks.”

A flicker of hope lit his chest. Maybe he’d
get to beat someone up over this after all. “Who did it?”

Spaz swallowed again. “Dylan Prescott.”

Fritter frowned at Tank. “How do I know that
name?”

“He runs the newspaper,” Spaz answered, not
wasting any time. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the next issue
featured the Sheriff’s love life on the front page.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Tank had to ask
it, Fritter’s stomach was freezing over again.