Smolder: Trojans MC (25 page)

Six months later…

“You’re going to do fine.”

Shayla looked up at Luke with wide eyes, practically hyperventilating. “What if I don’t?”

He smiled wryly and shook his head. “You helped take down a biker gang and a sleazy psychopath with nothing but your wit and nerve.” He kissed her gently. “I believe in you. This is child’s play for you, little one.”

Shayla was unconvinced. She felt her stomach rise in her throat, and the electric excitement that tingled over her whole body reminded her of the first time she’d ever gone out with Luke. But that had been easy in comparison. At least with Luke she would only have to deal with herself if it all blew up in her face.

She peered out from behind the curtain, only managing to see a sliver of the crowd. If she tripped or slipped up her speech out there, she’d be lambasted in front of the whole country. They were calling her the Midas of news, which Luke absolutely loved. Every story she touched turned to gold.

It wasn’t that simple, but Shayla never corrected anyone. It was easier to let them think that she was naturally brilliant than to explain how hard she worked to get the stories and angles she did. Let them think she was magic. It would keep them on their toes, at least.

Luke followed her line of sight and pulled her chin up so that she only saw him. He was wearing a tux, and looked absolutely gorgeous in it. His hair was neatly combed, and almost all of his tattoos were covered by the high neck. Of course, the few that did poke through only made the look sexier.

“I have to get back to my seat, gorgeous.” He grinned mischievously. “I want the best seat in the house when you walk across that stage.”

She gulped. She was a big girl. She could do this herself. “Okay,” she squeaked. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

He kissed her again and patted the silver, silken material of her dress where it stretched across her ass. Luke’s eyes had nearly popped out of his head when he’d seen her in it for the first time. It was a modest enough gown, with a high neckline, albeit revealing back, but it was tight around her hips and chest in a way that Shayla had to admit was quite flattering.

She counted her breaths steadily as she waited for them to call her name. In. Out. In. Out. She reminded herself to be thankful that this was the hardest thing she had to do today. There had been a time, though it felt like ages ago, when she’d woken up one morning thinking that she’d have to sleep with Anthony Blake.

Shayla began to laugh, her body wracked with giggles and hiccups that caused those walking past her backstage to stare in confusion. But she didn’t care. She’d made it here, after all. She could do anything. Luke was right.

“We are happy to present the Emmy Award for Outstanding Investigative Journalism in a Regularly Scheduled Broadcast to a very special woman, who personally fought through the grit of her subject matter and came out victorious. Since what has become known as “The Reaper Conspiracy,” she has demonstrated time and time again the exceptional ability of her person. Please welcome Shayla Queene!”

Shayla’s heart did a somersault, and she plastered on a big, yet genuine smile and walked out across the stage. She barely saw anything amidst the flashes, though the applause and cheers nearly knocked her off her feet.

Once at the podium, Shayla grounded herself for her speech by looking out at Luke’s beaming face from the front row. It was a short and bland speech, thanking all those who had assisted in her success in recent months. She’d practiced it for over an hour in the mirror at home beforehand, though the words still felt clumsy in her mouth.

Finally, she gripped her trophy and prepared to make the long walk backstage. The crowd erupted again, but this time they seemed more boisterous than ever. Surely she couldn’t have had such an effect?

Shayla looked out in confusion, just in time to see Luke bounding across the stage toward her. “What are you doing?” she cried, laughing.

His only answer was to stop in front of her and drop onto one knee, pulling out a box from his jacket pocket and opening it for her inspection. She nearly didn’t hear the words that he spoke, the crowd was cheering so loud.

“Shayla Queene,” he said. Then, a little louder, “Since the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew that I wanted you to be my wife. Would you do me this honor?”

Only then did the room go silent. It was as every member of the crowd was holding in the breath in anticipation. Maybe Shayla was holding her breath too. She felt something deep and visceral then, something that only Luke could provide. And something he had been providing since the moment she met him—pure, primal joy.

“Yes!”

It took only one year, nearly to the day, after her Emmy win for Shayla to earn a spot as an anchor on Good Morning America—though she and Luke had called Los Angeles home for some time already. Leaving Templeton in the rearview had hardly been a tough call. After all, Shayla had outgrown KTMA faster than her belly had grown round with Luke’s child.

And Luke, who had once thought it simply wasn’t in the cards for him to be a father, took on the role with such vigor and enthusiasm that Shayla often joked his bike was jealous. He rarely rode it these days, busy at home with their little daughter, Athena, watching mommy on TV and learning all about the Greeks of old. And anyway, the only rush he craved anymore was the feel of his woman writhing beneath him in ecstasy. And that particular craving was one that they both had and satisfied quite frequently.

Sparky’s transition to leadership of the Trojans had been nearly effortless. Of course, it was made easier by Sparky’s ball-busting right hand man, who’d made it clear to anyone who thought they’d be free to make an incursion into Trojan territory with the new leadership that they were dead wrong. Well, right hand man was the wrong phrasing. Right hand woman, more like.

Shayla still saw Naomi; quite often, in fact. That was one of the side effects of being coworkers. Though they weren’t on the same show, Naomi and Shayla both worked in the mornings and spent many of their mornings doubled over in laughter. They were well liked by everyone, but had earned special respect from the station’s many interns.

With many of the higher ranking Reapers members behind bars, along with their new best friend Anthony Blake, the struggles Shayla and Luke had faced in Templeton were far behind them. Though life was never without its struggles. They weren’t so full of hubris to think they’d never hear the drums of war again, but they welcomed whatever the world had to offer.

After all, there was nothing they couldn’t conquer together.

THE END

CHAPTER ONE

They had told her a thousand times that police work was nothing like what she had seen in movies. There are no high-speed chases, no dramatic shoot-outs, no secret mafia meetings; that’s not real police work. Police work is about due diligence; it’s about protecting and serving the people; it’s about helping people in need. If that doesn’t interest you, then you shouldn’t be a police officer. Still, when Olivia Waters had dreamed of being a cop, when she had sweat and cursed her way through the academy, she had expected something more than this.

Sitting in her squad car in the passenger seat, Olivia watched as office workers in suits entered and exited a busy coffee shop. She noticed that they usually entered empty handed and left with coffee or some other purchase; her months of training were really paying off. She, herself, had a coffee sitting next to her, which she had barely touched. She was amped up enough and didn’t need the caffeine making it any worse.

She wanted to do something. She wanted to investigate, search, interrogate suspects, or clear a crime scene—any of the many things she had been trained to do. But instead, she was stuck in her squad car, watching her partner shovel an egg and cheese sandwich into his mouth.

“Never get a donut,” he had warned her on her first day. “It’s too cliché; the jokes write themselves.” Her partner was Lance Townsend, he was five foot six and over two hundred and fifty pounds. He grunted and groaned every time he had to stand up or sit down, and he seemed to always be sweating. Lance preferred to give tickets from the seat of his cruiser. If someone made him get up and out of his seat, he would find a way to double the person’s fine.

“Any other words of wisdom?” she had asked him on their first day.

“Just keep your head down and ignore the calls whenever you can. If you write enough tickets, they won’t give you any trouble for not responding to calls.”

“Oh...” had been the only response Olivia could offer. It was funny—when they had partnered her with Lance, she had no idea what he looked like or what his personality was like. She had been worried that something might happen between them. But there was no chance of chemistry with Lance; he was married to a miserable wife, and the happiest part of Olivia’s day was when he went home to her.

Two months later and little had changed. Olivia repeatedly ignored Lance’s order to not answer any calls. She had wrestled the radio handset away from him several times and was still often the first to respond to a call. When the siren went off and the cherry lit up as they raced to wherever trouble was brewing, Olivia’s heart would start to pound and she remembered why she had taken the job in the first place. But Lance hated trouble; he liked egg sandwiches and sitting in the air-conditioned car. The only thing they agreed upon was their shared hatred of litterers and the importance of ticketing them. 

Olivia was staring at the clock on the dashboard, wondering why it was moving so slowly, when there was the blessed sound of scratching as the radio lit up with a call from dispatch. “All vehicles in the area, we have a domestic dispute at 1854 Elder Street.”

“Dispatch, this is Sierra Five. We are five away from the location, on our way now, go ahead,” Olivia said, grabbing the handset before Lance could even look up from his sandwich.

“Copy Sierra Five. Reports of a domestic dispute, no weapons reported, the wife has asked for assistance. I will respond that assistance is on the way.”

Lance rolled his eyes and let out a long dramatic sigh, but he made no motion to start the car.

“Why do you have to respond to every call? You know we’re not the only cops out here, right?”

“Because it’s our job to answer calls,” Olivia said. This was not the first time they were having this argument. “It’s not like we’re busy at the moment. We’re just sitting here drinking coffee and eating. Why wouldn’t we answer the call?”

“Because it could be dangerous; we could get shot. Because it’s going to be annoying; domestic disputes are just couples arguing loudly enough to annoy the neighbors.”

“The wife called, not the neighbors. She’s asking for help. Are you really ready to ignore her?”

“You remember the story of the Boy Who Cried Wolf,” Lance said, as he finally balled up his sandwich wrapper and tossed it into the back seat. “All of these calls are people crying wolf. They love to fight; they love fights that are nasty and mean; they love it when the cops are called. It makes them feel important. These people, all they want is an audience, someone to pay attention to them. They’re crying wolf and should be ignored.”

“Have you ever heard the story of the Boy Who Cried Wolf?” Olivia asked, buckling her seatbelt as the car began to move. “Because that story ends with a little boy being torn apart by wolves.” Olivia hit the switch and the sound of the siren echoed around them as the cherry lit up. She felt her blood start to pump as the car picked up speed. In front of them, cars moved out of the way as they sped down the street, breezing through stop signs and red lights, bringing them closer to their destination.

This was what Olivia wanted. She never expected to live in some sort of cop movie fantasy, but she wanted to do something. She wanted to get involved in the neighborhood; she wanted people to know her and know that they could trust her. She wanted to help people in the most direct way possible. She never wanted to sit behind a cubicle under fluorescent lights all day; she wanted to be out in the world getting her hands dirty and feeling alive.

The neighborhood around them was growing worse. Marina’s Crest was a large town located on a tributary of the Colorado River. It was warm in the winter and scalding hot in the summer. Olivia and Lance patrolled the northern section of the city, half retail space and half residential. The pair got an interesting mix of calls. But the further north they went, the farther they traveled from the center of town, and the worse the land got. Houses with nicely manicured rock gardens turned into trailers sitting on patches of loose sand. Few good things happened in the north part of town.

As the car came around a turn, the address appeared in front of them. It was a dilapidated trailer with broken lawn chairs scattered across what could generously be called a yard. There was a rusted old car up on blocks, and a shiny motorcycle next to it. As they pulled into the driveway, Lance cut the cherry and the siren, and Olivia’s ears continued to ring for a few seconds after the noise had stopped.

“Dispatch, we’re on the scene, about to enter the home,” Olivia said into the handset. She checked her belt, making sure her gun, mace, and baton were all where they should be. Now that the silence was gone she could hear the yelling coming from inside the house, a woman’s high-pitched, indignant screeching, and the sound of things being thrown and broken.

“God dammit, Olivia,” Lance said, shaking his head at the house. “You happy now?”

“Not yet, not until we get inside,” she said with a smile, as she opened her door and stepped out into the sunlight and towards the screaming couple inside.