“Sounds about right, Ronnie,” Sheriff Buckman said as he wrote on his notepad.
“Let’s discuss the charges I want pressed on your son for trying to take the clothes off Indy without her consent.”
“Take her clothes off—wait, you can’t press charges! He’ll never get a football scholarship to A&M. You’ll ruin his life.”
“Maybe your son should have thought about that before he went all grabby on a fifteen-year-old girl.”
“That’s not what happened—”
“I beg to differ.”
“You’re overreacting,” Mr. Jones muttered, still refusing to see that what his son had done was inappropriate.
“Indy told him to stop,” Ronnie said. “And he didn’t.”
“Well, maybe if she wasn’t wearing such a tiny bikini . . .” Mr. Jones let his sentence trail off when we all gave him a filthy look. Well, all of us except George Jr., of course. He was too busy trying not to cry. Stupid ass.
“Don’t embarrass yourself with that old chestnut,” Ronnie said with a cocked eyebrow.
George Jones Sr. shifted uncomfortably on his feet. His comment had been spoken with misogynist fuckery, and he knew it.
“It’s about time we start looking at bad behavior for what it really is and stop brushing it off as harmless playfulness.” Ronnie raised an eyebrow at Mr. Jones. Again, her hooded eyes took him in with unflappable contempt. “How would you like it if I reached into your pants and tried to pull them down, grabbing your balls along the way?”
“What the fuck—?” Mr. Jones’s eyes went so round I thought they were going to bulge right out of his head.
But Ronnie remained unfazed.
“What? Because it’s a pair of balls it’s somehow different than a pair of breasts?” Ronnie leaned forward. “Open your eyes. Inappropriate touching is inappropriate touching.” She straightened and turned to Sheriff Buckman. “Are we free to go?”
“Free as a bird,” Buckman replied, with a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “What about the charges against George Jr., here?”
Ronnie looked at George Jr. and he withered beneath that look because Ronnie was not someone you fucked with. “I ever hear about you touching another girl inappropriately again, there’ll be trouble. Do you hear me?”
“Are you threatening my son?” Mr. Jones gawped.
“No. I’m warning your son to stop putting his hands on other people without their consent.” She looked at me. “Come on, Indy. Let’s go.”
I walked behind Ronnie and climbed into her car. Behind me, George Jones Jr. started to cry.
“You know those charges probably wouldn’t have stuck,” I said, once we were inside her car. For all of my fifteen years, I knew how things worked. You didn’t grow up an MC kid and not know a thing or two about prison sentences and criminal charges.
“Maybe. Maybe not,” Ronnie said, pulling onto the street. “People are starting to take this kind of situation a little more seriously nowadays. And so they should. Because stop means fucking stop.”
“You certainly scared them.”
“Serves them right.”
We pulled up to a set of lights.
“You think George had his lesson scared into him?” I asked.
“If anything, I think he will think differently before he touches someone inappropriately again.”
I sighed. “The sad thing is, if Cade were here, then it would never had happened.”
Ronnie looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “If Cade were here, George Jones Jr. would be in a body bag.”
CADE
Now
I didn’t see Indy until after lunch because I was busy at Spank Daddy’s. The police had been called. Apparently, one of the dancers—a feisty redhead called Bronte—stabbed her ex-boyfriend with her stiletto when he climbed on stage and tried to drag her off. By the time I got there it was fucking chaos and the club was lit up by the lights of an ambulance and a patrol car.
Something like this would usually shut us down for the night. But one call to Sheriff Buckman, and the situation was handled. The blood got cleaned up, everyone was treated to a round of free drinks, and we were back up and running like nothing had happened.
When I got back to the clubhouse, Indy was waiting out front. She stood up when she saw me, and Christ, she looked incredible. Silk shirt. Black, thigh high boots over a pair of blue jeans I wanted to undo with my teeth.
She walked toward me and all I could think about was how good it had felt falling asleep next to her last night. But I knew, fucking knew, if it happened again, I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off her. There was only so much a man could take.
“I wanted to thank you for last night,” she said, digging her hands into her back pockets. She seemed nervous. Cautious. Her walls were down but she was definitely still reserved.
“It was good to hang out,” I replied, trying not to notice the subtle hint of her nipples pressing against the silk of her shirt. Or the way her jeans clung to her firm thighs.