Page 8 of Pretty Poison
Pump those puny arms and legs, Jacobs, and haul your skinny ass across that finish line.
Ahhh. Coach Nivens had never been one to mince words. The students had joked that their shop teacher must have lost a bet and got stuck coaching track instead of a sport more befitting a man of his size. Christ. The coach’s thighs had looked like they’d been carved from oak tree trunks, and his ass was made for those shorty shorts. It was no mystery why those two years in junior high saw a record number of kids trying out for track.
Coach Nivens was crass, rude, and dominant. The school board hadn’t bestowed the esteemed coach-of-the-year award on him, but Rocky credited the man with awakening his sexuality and obsession with thick thighs. That had to count for something. Rocky had pumped his puny arms all right, especially when alone in his room and—
Sharp teeth chomped down on the ass of his jeans, interrupting his meandering thoughts.
“Attaboy, Snickerdoodle,” a man yelled.
Fuck me.He was about to lose his life to a dog named after a cinnamon cookie. On the bright side, Snickerdoodle’s owner sounded winded. Rocky’s escape looked promising if only he could get away from the dog.
Rocky pumped his not-so-puny arms and legs harder and nearly shouted with relief when the fabric gave way with a loud rip, tearing a long strip of denim all the way down his leg. The air against his bare skin was an incentive for Rocky to run as he’d never run before. Snickerdoodle gave an indignant growl when Rocky pulled free from his grasp. He risked a glance over his shoulder and saw that the dog had stopped his pursuit to shake his head victoriously, flinging the strip of denim from side to side like a dead animal.
“Get him, Snickerdoodle,” his owner shouted. “He’s getting away.”
Rocky didn’t look back to see if the dog had obeyed the command. He assumed he had and used it as motivation to churn his legs faster. Rocky cut sharply to the right and sprinted between two houses toward the street running parallel to the one he was on. He’d headed in the opposite direction of his car, but he could circle back later. If he survived, that is. Rocky hurdled over an abandoned tricycle and dodged and weaved through a group of kids riding their bikes down the sidewalk.
“Watch it, mister,” a little girl retorted.
“Stranger danger,” another cried. “Blow your whistles.”
Oh God.That was the last fucking thing he needed. Before he could react, a little boy hollered, “Look! A doggie!”
A chorus ofawwsrang out, and the kids forgot all about Rocky as they threw their bikes down and ran toward Snickerdoodle. Rocky risked another glance over his shoulder and saw the dog had dropped his strip of denim and rolled onto his back for belly rubs. How fucking cute was he? Just as Rocky decided he could let up, Snickerdoodle’s daddy caught up to his dog.
The man pointed at Rocky and said, “Get him, boy.”
Rocky faced forward and prayed he still had gas left in his tank. Unfortunately, his distraction meant he’d miscalculated the distance to the street and darted out in front of a big, black SUV. Screeching brakes and burnt rubber assaulted his senses, but luckily the vehicle managed to stop before plowing into him.
Rocky leaned on the hood to catch his breath and stared through the windshield at the car’s inhabitants. It took a second for his oxygen-deprived brain to register the identity of the man with the pirate’s smile sitting in the passenger seat.
“Oh fuck” seemed hardly adequate, but it was all he could come up with under the circumstances. Asher unbuckled his seat belt, pushed open his door, and stepped down from the hulking SUV.
“Fancy meeting you here, Ford.”
Was it, though? Sure as hell didn’t seem like it. And to think, Rocky had once thought Lady Luck smiled upon him. Ha! She had long since tired of his bullshit and handed Rocky over to her ugly cousin, Misfortune.
Before Rocky could respond, Snickerdoodle’s daddy yelled out, “Get him! He’s a Peeping Tom!”
When the man started in their direction, Rocky had to act fast. He lowered his head so the brim of his hat shielded most of his face. “Get out your handcuffs.”
“Oh, that’s new,” Asher said, his voice deep and rumbly and so fucking delicious. Rocky’s toes curled inside his sneakers tight enough to snap. “Don’t think we tried that—”
“I’m on a case,” Rocky said urgently. “I don’t want to blow my cover. Please help me.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Asher turn to face the fast-approaching man. “I’ll take it from here, sir.”
The man didn’t even slow down. “But you haven’t let me tell you what he did. I want to file an official report.”
Asher held up his hand, and the man jerked to an abrupt stop. “My partner will take care of that,” he said. Then he ducked his head inside the SUV to speak to the deputy Felix had dubbed Gingersnap after their run-in with the marshals on the Spencers’ property.
After a brief exchange, Asher’s partner got out of the vehicle and walked over to the man. They shook hands, and Gingersnap gestured for them to step even farther away, freeing Asher to approach him. Rocky wanted to insist on dealing with Deputy Gingersnap instead, but his bargaining position was fragile at the moment.
Asher’s stride was powerful, confident, and assertive, epitomizing three of the characteristics Rocky had been drawn to from the onset of their relationship. The closer Asher came, the harder Rocky’s pulse pounded.
“Place your hands on the hood, spread your legs to shoulder width, and don’t move,” Asher commanded.
A surge of longing gripped Rocky by the balls and squeezed hard, rendering him immobile. Too bad he couldn’t say the same for his lips. “Whose shoulder width? Mine or—”