Sweet Burn (12 page)

The sheriff lit them up as they blew through the straight bit at the bottom of the hill. She must have been waiting for them because Mimi definitely hadn
’
t seen any sign of a cop car. Not being stupid or suicidal, she would have done a little preventative braking, if only to minimize the price tag on the new speeding ticket clearly headed her way.

“Not my night,” she groaned as she rode the brakes, trying to slow down. Joey didn
’
t share her sentiments, whooping loudly as he blew past the sheriff. Damn it. Between the helmet and the speed, reading Joey
’
s face was impossible. Tearing it up had felt so good, the wind whistling in her ears as she hugged the curves fast and tight, and now the good sheriff
’
s siren wailed, deafening her. The flash of red and blue in her mirror demanded an immediate cessation of the good times… and it was time to admit she
’
d lost this battle. She wasn
’
t outrunning her demons any more tonight.

She signaled and started to slow down, her Harley crunching over loose gravel as she steered the bike onto the shoulder. Damned if Joey, however, didn
’
t pick the pace up. A speeding ticket was one thing—although Mimi already had a nice collection of unpaid ones—but evading an officer was the kind of charge that stuck. He was an idiot. He was also a grown man and she had no way of controlling him, so all she could do was watch him ride off while the sheriff pulled in next to her, blocking her access to the road just in case she decided to follow in Joey
’
s footsteps after all. A year ago, she might have.

Five minutes later, she was seriously questioning her newfound responsibility. “You
’
re arresting me? Why?”

Sheriff Hernandez handed back Mimi
’s license.
“You
’
ve got unpaid tickets.”

Well, yeah. She
’
d prioritized things like the electric bill.

“And?” She was clearly missing a connection.

“The county passed a law last year. If you don
’
t pay your tickets and you
’
re ninety days past due, I have to take you in.” The sheriff actually looked vaguely sympathetic. Of course, she probably had better things to do with her time than process Mimi for unpaid speeding tickets.

“You
’
re throwing me in jail for fifty bucks?” She knew she sounded like a bad actress in a mediocre sitcom, but really? She was getting arrested over an unpaid bill when other people literally got away with murder?

The cuffs closing around her wrists were her answer. Her ribs seemed to tighten up, squeezing her lungs and making breathing difficult. She
’
d played a few kinky games in her times, but those games came with safe words. There was nothing sexy about this. She hoped Joey knew what he was getting into. She
’
d caught him staring at the sheriff a time or two, but there were better ways to get the woman
’
s attention.

With her usual efficiency, the sheriff led her over to the patrol car, opened the door, and guided her inside with a hand on her head. Yeah. God forbid she hit her head. She knew the drill, though, and it was too late to get out of this mess. All she could do now was minimize the collateral damage.

“What about my bike?”

“You want me to call a tow truck?” The deadpan expression on the other woman
’
s face didn
’
t give anything away, but… shit. If she couldn
’
t afford a ticket, she definitely couldn
’
t afford a tow.

Her head hit the back of the seat with an audible thump. This was definitely not the kind of ride she
’
d imagined. Although, damn, they
’
d gotten some speed. Joey rode like a demon.

“You going to catch up with him?” She interrupted the other woman
’
s speech about unsafe speeds, could have had an accident, blah blah blah. The only person who could have gotten hurt tonight was herself. She knew that. Part of her had wanted it.

The sheriff
’
s fingers tapped on the roof of the car. The look in Mercedes Hernandez
’
s eyes promised that Joey had definitely bitten off more than he could chew. Sheriff Hernandez was all neat creases and starch. Lined up, tucked in, no-nonsense—the exact opposite of laidback, devil-may-care Joey. On the other hand, the sheriff
’
s eyes snapped plenty when she talked about Joey. Whatever was going on between those two was complicated.

“You bet,” she said. “Just as soon as my deputy shows up and takes care of you. Then I
’
m heading after Joey and he and I are going to have a little talk.”

She
’
d bet
talk
was a euphemism for
kick his ass.
Joey seemed to be inviting the contact, however, so it really wasn
’
t her business.

“You got somebody local you can call?”

At least the sheriff didn
’
t mention her family in Chicago. That was one bright spot.

“You
’
re really going to make me sit in jail until I pay off those tickets?”

“It
’
s not my call. And you owe two hundred and twelve dollars—not fifty. If your checking account isn
’
t up to it, I suggest you start thinking of numbers to dial. The courts are going to overturn that law someday, but that day isn
’
t going to be tomorrow. That
’
s a whole lot of sitting and twiddling your thumbs.”

Well, damn. Just
… damn.

Unfortunately, the list of folks she could call to hit up for money was mighty short. Non-existent, even. She
’
d never asked anyone for money after she
’
d left home. Cold-calling now made something in the pit of her stomach quiver. She hadn
’
t thought she still knew how to feel shame, but apparently she did. She thunked her head back against the seat.

She could call Mack.

He
’
d made it plenty clear that he
’
d help her, if she asked.

That was a mighty big
if
for her.

On the other hand, sitting in jail for a week until she came up with two hundred bucks was equally unappealing. She tried out phrases in her head while she waited for the deputy to make his appearance. When the police car finally pulled out and Sheriff Hernandez lit out after Joey, she still didn
’
t know what she was going to say.

***

Mimi had no idea where to start because there were so many things wrong with her current situation. Fortunately, the deputy sheriff was matter-of-fact. Her current housing situation was not precisely cozy, what with the industrial lighting, but the deputy had been surprisingly respectful and he hadn
’
t so much as patted her down. She appreciated that.

Then, of course, he
’
d asked her who she wanted to call, she
’
d made the obligatory joke about using her single phone call well… and she
’
d passed on doing so. For the next hour, she
’
d sat there, cooling her heels and trying not to panic, but she couldn
’
t come up with an out. Her sole credit card was maxed to the gills. She was paying it off thirty bucks at a time, but it couldn
’
t handle this kind of hit. The deputy had obligingly run it for her, just to see, but it had come back with a big, fat decline.

Her lousy taste in men had compounded an already perilous financial situation, leaving her well and truly up financial shit creek. The sad truth was, no one got rich running a tattoo street shop. Sure, she
’
d put in the hours and she
’
d been good at what she did, but at fifty bucks a pop, she
’
d been lucky to make the rent and still have enough left over to cover her ink.

Her ex-boyfriend had cleaned her out.

Inheriting Ma
’
s from Auntie Belle had been a godsend in more ways than one. She
’
d packed up what she could and headed out. Now, however, she was closer to broke than she liked to be, with approximately forty bucks in her checking account, and a bar that was still closed due to smoke damage. The
closed
part worried her, because she liked eating.

She also liked keeping the lights on.

Toilet paper.

All those attractive essentials of life—including freedom.

Strong
’
s jail wasn
’
t precisely a hellhole, but neither was it a luxury spa on a Tahitian island. She was stuck until she coughed up the money to cover her tickets. She spared a moment to wish she
’
d voted in the last midterm election (and she
’
d sure as shit be voting in the next), but…

She was stuck.

“You got family to call?” Her jailer clearly wasn
’
t any happier about her unexpected and increasingly long-term presence in his jail. “You sure you don
’
t want to make that phone call?”

She tried to remember if she
’
d seen him in the bar before. He was wholesome, in a lanky, sun-browned way, with bony wrists, large hands, and a tall, shambling frame. Wherever Sheriff Hernandez had gotten him from, he was young. And painfully earnest.

“No family,” she said, the lump in her throat just making her angrier. The good deputy didn
’
t need her personal details. She might have living family in Chicago—a mother, stepfather, and a decent assortment of cousins, uncles, and aunts—but it
’
d been years since she
’
d had any kind of a relationship with them. They
’
d tried hard. She
’
d give them that, but she
’
d been the cuckoo in their nest. They hadn
’
t understood her any more than she—if she was being honest—had understood them. Eventually, her nineteen-year-old self had given up trying. Now, ten years later, maybe she
’
d try harder if she had the chance.

Maybe.

That was the thing about looking backwards. You had a whole different view than when you were standing on ground zero.

“Someone here? A friend? Boyfriend?” The deputy eyed her cautiously. “
Girlfriend?
”

He was charmingly equal opportunity. Or PC.

Whatever. She was bitchy and locked up and more than willing to knee him in the crown jewels if he gave her the chance, because there was really only one person she could call and she didn
’
t need the deputy
’
s coaching to do it.

“I
’
ll make that call,” she growled.

***

By three a.m., Mack had given up on actually sleeping. Since the mountain (also known as Mountain Mimi) wouldn
’
t come to Mohammed, he
’
d swung by her place to check on her. He
’
d sent her a quick text heads-up that he was on his way, but he
’
d been late himself. Jack had pushed the jump team hard and he suspected they
’
d be flying all too soon. The weather was already dry and the teams in the southern part of the state were hard at work. It was possible they
’
d be called down there to help out. It was good to have work, something to focus on, but he didn
’
t want to be leaving Mimi now. She had to be the most stubborn woman he
’
d ever met. How satisfying would it be to get her to open up some and trust him? To let him in?

So far, he hadn
’
t made it past her couch.

Since she
’
d been out, he
’
d decided to wait for her. And wait… and wait. She hadn
’
t come home. By one a.m., he
’
d mentally rehearsed a half-dozen conversations. By two a.m., he
’
d been worried. Now, he didn
’
t know if he wanted to kiss or kill her. Maybe both.

Before he
’
d met Mimi, it had been a long time since he crashed on a couch. He
’
d forgotten how uncomfortable it was. He had his head pressed against one of those stupid pillows with tassels. He didn
’
t think much of Auntie Belle
’
s decorating sense and the pillows definitely weren
’
t big enough to sleep on if you were bigger than the average toddler. Her couch was also three feet too short for actual comfort, the cushions stiff and firm. He
’
d stripped down to a pair of sweatpants, more as a barrier against the way his body reacted to hers than because he was cold. The nights were still cool, but summer was coming, bringing with it the promise of heat. He was tangled up in the throw blanket he
’
d purloined from the back of the couch when his cell phone vibrated.