Relentless River: Men of Mercy, Book 10 Page 2

  “You’d think after the number of times I didn’t see the sign, you’d stop pulling me over.”

  Lamont chuckled behind her, and Bo’s gaze fixated on her cousin. “I can ticket you too for encouraging this kind of behavior.”

  Lamont maintained his relaxed air, when any other man would’ve gone all stiff at the sheriff’s tone. “Now Sheriff, you know I don’t have any more control over this here girl than you do.”

  “What do you mean reckless driving? I was driving perfectly fine.” She didn’t like it when Bo focused his laser-like gaze on her cousin. Lamont had just enough splotches in his past to make her worry about Bo zeroing in on anything related to her family.

  Besides, she hadn’t swerved or anything. She’d actually been paying attention in her mad dash to get to work and unlock the doors.

  “Straight has nothing to do with going thirty miles over the speed limit,” Bo said.

  “Not possible. No way I was going that fast.”

  Lamont coughed and quickly covered his mouth, and Cheri glared at him out of the corner of her eye. So, she might’ve been doing eightyish in a fifty-fiveish zone – what was the harm? There was literally no one on the highway out here, and she promised herself she wouldn’t be late to work again this week, especially after the bar owner, Maxine Videl, had promoted her to manager. This was the first time anyone Cheri respected had given her a real shot at responsibility.

  Cheri would rather rack up a few grand in speeding tickets than let Maxine down.

  “You’re going to have a wreck one day and kill yourself in this little death trap you call a sports car. I ought to haul your ass into jail just to save it.”

  An image of Bo pinning her to the wall in the local jail cell flashed in her mind, and her stomach gave a little tremble. She’d harbored the fantasy since she first laid eyes on the Sheriff of Mercy, Mississippi.

  Cheri licked her lips, and Bo’s gaze followed the movement. The air between them practically sizzled. She didn’t really have time to flirt, but she couldn’t resist. “Only if you promise to lock yourself in there with me.”

  Bo’s gaze glinted and then doused completely. Emotionless. “License and registration.”

  Maybe she’d gone a little bit too far. “Really? You just saw it last week. I mean, don’t you have it saved on that stupid pad you carry around everywhere?”

  Oh crap, why did she have to open her mouth?

  Her mouth didn’t just have a mind of its own; sometimes it seemed to have its own body and functioning parts.

  Bo’s harsh expression showed exactly how little he appreciated her smart-ass attitude, with an expression not unlike her father, Jeremiah Boudreaux. “Don’t push me today, Boudreaux. License and registration.”

  Oh, dear Lord, he’d called her by her last name. She could practically hear her dad’s voice echoing in her past. Cherise Amelia Boudreaux, get the switch.

  The thought left the taste of sawdust in her mouth.

  Fine. If he wanted to pretend like there was nothing between them, then she could be just as cold and distant. She yanked her worn red purse from the back seat, quickly found her license and registration, and shoved it out the window. Bo took it and silently turned and walked back to his cruiser, leaving her to fume.

  “I’d be willing to bet you a hundred dollars he wears tighty-whities,” she muttered under her breath.

  Lamont made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Cher, when are you going to learn you can’t handle him like you would’ve done a teenage crush who’d broken your heart?”

  “Bo has nothing to do with my heart. I just like to get a rise out of him is all.” She shrugged and silently prayed Lamont couldn’t see the familiar pang of hurt accompanying Bo’s latest rejection. Not that she still tried to hook up with him or anything, she’d quit months ago. After all, she had enough pride not to make a complete fool of herself. If the man didn’t want her, she certainly wasn’t pitiful enough to keep giving chase.

  “Some people need a slow hand. You’d do well to figure that out,” Lamont said.

  Cheri finally turned her attention from her rearview mirror to her cousin. He leaned back casually, assessing her in a way that virtually shouted he knew everything she was trying to hide. “So says the man who can’t stay with one woman for more than a week.” Indeed, one of Lamont’s primary skills was getting in and out of women’s beds in record-setting times.

  “Don’t attack me. I’m on your side, just trying to help you out with some sage advice.”

  Bo got out of his car and strode her way, a familiar yellow slip of paper clenched in his left hand. “Yeah, well do me a favor and keep your advice to yourself. I’m not changing for any man, especially an uptight sheriff. No matter how fine he is.”

  Bo leaned down to her window and handed back her license, registration, and a ticket. “I didn’t write you up for reckless driving. This time. But if you make me pull you over again you’re not going to like it.”

  Something inside her, maybe the devil, more likely the rebellious teenager still trapped inside, made her lower her sunglasses and glance at him over the rim. She batted her eyelashes slowly, raking her gaze from his buzz cut blond hair to his worn boots. “Is that a promise?”

  Bo didn’t move. Didn’t even blink, but she could practically see the flecks of gold in his eyes turning to steel. “Last warning, Boudreaux.” Bo glanced up at Lamont and said, “I’ve got my eye on you, too.”

  “Easy Sheriff, I don’t want no trouble with the law.”

  Cheri swore she detected a slight tinge of fear in her cousin’s voice, but when she flicked her gaze to the side, she saw he was still in his relaxed pose.

  She crushed the ticket in her hand, holding her fist clenched against the torn gray material of her seat and leaned over to give Bo full view of her low-cut top. “You ought to stop by the bar tonight, Sheriff; we’ve got buckets of beer for half-price.”

  She’d never seen him take a drink. He’d have to actually know how to have a little fun to do that first. But Bo Lawson didn’t know how to do anything except follow the letter of the law.

  “I mean it, Boudreaux, slow down.” Bo spared a glance at her rack, then rapped on the hood of her car and walked away without another word.

  She waited until he’d gotten back inside his cruiser and could clearly see her through the untinted back window of her little two-door Miata before she tossed the wadded-up ticket over her shoulder to join the ever-growing pile in her back seat.

  “Cher, you’re playing with fire.”

  Cheri threw her car into drive, made sure the road was clear and floored it onto the small stretch of highway leading to work. “Getting burned a little is better than jumping head first into the flames.”

  3

  Bo ground the steering wheel in his grip, forcing himself to keep his car in park as Cheri speed off, completely ignoring his command to slow down. Why did she have to challenge him at every turn? She had to be doing it to get his attention.

  Like he could ignore her.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off of her, a fact which pissed him off even more. Cheri Boudreaux was a walking, talking grenade. Everything she touched exploded into an unruly mess.

  She lived in what amounted to a river shack and had about as much discipline as a three-year-old on a full bag of Skittles. All of which should completely and totally repulse him.

  Nevertheless, worse than a moth to a flame, he was drawn to her like a mustard stain to a white shirt.

  He should have asserted his control and shown her sassy ass how serious he was by making her sit in his holding cell. Bo released his death grip on the steering wheel and sighed. If he’d taken her in, she’d miss work, and he’d seen the condition of her car. Her shack/house. Her everything. She needed a job.

  And as much as she pushed his buttons and infuriated him, he knew he’d always protect her.

  He couldn’t figure it out – why couldn’t he get her off his mind? She was all wrong for
him. He knew what he wanted in a woman. Blonde. Short, straight hair. He preferred his women to dress conservatively.

  Like Anna Claire, his last girlfriend. She was a librarian who’d mastered the filing system, preferred cardigans and slacks over jeans and tank tops. More importantly, she didn’t do anything if it didn’t make sense. Anna Claire preferred order. Her pantry had been alphabetized for Chrissake.

  To top it off, she had her own ranch style suburban home in Greenville, over an hour away, which meant he didn’t have to see her every day, or even every week.

  A fact he loved.

  Thinking back, maybe he should give her a call. He hadn’t seen her in a few months. He could take her out to a nice restaurant and then back to her organized, pristine white bedroom where he could screw Cheri out of his mind.

  Next to Cheri, Anna Claire was…boring.

  Shit.

  Bo dropped his head back on the headrest of his SUV cruiser and stared up at the clean tan ceiling. There was a speck just above his head. Bo frowned and tried to scratch off the dirt. It wouldn’t budge from the material. Just like Cheri wouldn’t budge from his brain.

  Call Anna Claire. Forget the stain and forget the redhead.

  He couldn’t even make himself reach for his phone.

  Kissing Anna now would be like kissing a damn light pole. Boring. Cold. And about as satisfying as getting a splinter stuck in his tongue.

  He glanced down the deserted highway, but the twin red dots from Cheri’s taillights were long gone. She hadn’t bothered to pull off the shoulder slowly for his benefit, just like she hadn’t bothered not to floor her accelerator when she’d hit the pavement.

  She drove as out of control as she lived.

  She would love just as wild.

  Cheri wasn’t the kind of woman to lie passively beneath him, she would take command and demand he satisfy her. His gut clenched as heat slid down his thighs.

  Dammit, he needed a distraction before he caved and tailed her hot ass to the bar, giving in to the insatiable need to pin her to the wall and find out if she tasted as spicy as she acted.

  Bo shoved the gearshift in drive and pulled out on the highway. A horn blared. His heart locked down and he swerved back onto the shoulder as a truck flew past.

  Jesus. He hadn’t even looked in the rearview.

  She’d completely disrupted his entire being. Bo leaned forward and rested his head on the steering wheel as he sought his bearings.

  He’d been in enough tough spots to recognize pretending Cheri didn’t exist was about as effective as a boat with a hole in the bottom.

  He needed to alter his plans and meet the problem head on. Even if it meant giving in to his urges and claiming Cheri as his own – for one night. One night and he could screw her out of his system. Then he could go back to his normal life and his orderly routine.

  And take the unpredictable variable of Cheri Boudreaux out of his future and put her in his past.

  That’s it. That’s exactly what he’d do. He’d learned in MARSOC not to ignore a festering wound and expect it to disappear on its own. You had to recognize the problem and devise a plan of attack.

  Getting Cheri out of his thoughts meant a full frontal.

  The thought left him way too eager to pursue her than he should be.

  *

  The rusted pendant lights hanging overhead rattled with the bass, causing the bar below to appear as though it moved with the music. Heat and humidity inside the bar were as thick as the Mississippi River and grew thicker as more and more patrons joined in on the line dance song currently blaring out of the speakers. The Campbell Band hit the dead center of the chorus and everyone stomped in unison. The entire building groaned under the onslaught, and Cheri grabbed the counter, casting her eyes to the roughhewn plank floor at her feet and sent up a prayer – something she normally made a point not to do – for the entire structure not to collapse.

  Built in the 60s and standing fourteen feet off the ground on old cypress wood stilts, The Wharf was Mercy, Mississippi’s only bar. A lack of upkeep and repair made its structural integrity questionable. Even so, positioned half out over the Mississippi River and half on land, it’d withstood three floods, five tornadoes and a pretty nasty mice infestation. As far as the owners, C.W., Evangeline, and Maxine Videl, were concerned, it gave the place character.

  As far as the county inspector was concerned, it was an annual cash machine based on the number of citations he churned out each October at their review.

  C.W. Videl, who’d probably had a hand in its inception and construction, swaggered her way, flipping up the half door at the end of the bar and letting it slam shut behind him with a loud bang. He didn’t say hello. Instead he staggered to the back wall where rows and rows of liquor lined the glass shelves in front of a cracked mirror. He went for the bottle of Wild Turkey, plopped the pale green plastic cup he always seemed to carry with him onto the counter, and proceeded to fill it three-fourths’ full of whiskey, then tossed a splash of Coke on top. Once he’d completed the task, he made his way to Cheri, in his army surplus-issue boots, camouflage pants—hanging on his old bones and held up only by a repurposed black strap around his waist—above which was a tucked standard issue POW T-shirt.

  “Exactly how much advertising did you do for our 90s remix tonight?”

  C.W. took a long swig, wiped the back of his hand across his bearded face and said, “Don’t really know. Lamont helped spread the word. Me and Squirrel just told the fellas to tell their friends.”

  Squirrel was a true mountain man who’d moved down to Mercy when his goddaughter married Jared Crowe, a local special forces operative. Squirrel set up a trailer in C.W.’s back yard shortly after and they’d become inseparable. Both men had shaggy gray beards, skin weathered by too many days in the sun, and small, beady black eyes – almost close enough to look related.

  “You do know we are way past capacity, right? If Sheriff Lawson gets wind of it, he’d be within his rights to close the bar down.” And knowing his Mr. I’m-the-law personality, he’d lock the doors and throw the keys in the river.

  Not to mention the fact she’d thrown the law in his face a few hours ago.

  “You let me handle the legalities, girl. I’m the owner of this bar; you’re the manager. If the sheriff wants to get in somebody’s ass he’ll have to go through me.” C.W. gave a firm nod, his long beard tapping his chest with the movement of his head.

  “That would mean you’d have to actually be here when he showed up.”

  “What do you mean? I’m up here every day.”

  “Okay, let me rephrase my statement. You’d have to be sober enough to deal with him.” Because more days than not, C.W. was either drunk or high or a combination of the two. Thankfully he didn’t drive much anymore, although he and Squirrel managed to get up and down rivers as much as they wanted in a reclaimed World War II era gunboat they’d named “Betsy.”

  “I’ve been drinking whiskey so long my body don’t know if it’s water or milk. Either way, it doesn’t affect me.” He took another sip, which was more like a gulp, emptying half his cup.

  “All right then, why don’t you help me take orders or something? Lainey’s about to collapse out there; Joe’s barely keeping the crowd under control, and I haven’t seen Lamont poke his head out of the kitchen since we got here this evening.” Not even an hour after Cheri had opened the bar, the band set up and the locals swarmed. A 90s remix was always a guaranteed crowd-pleaser – but on a Saturday night and the only bar within 50 miles… She’d be lucky if they all made it out alive.

  Lainey, smaller and with mousy brown hair in the process of falling out of her ponytail, managed to shoulder her way through the crowd and behind the bar, slapping her tray on the counter. “The Woodard twins are at it again.”

  “Crap.” Cheri’s gut tightened at the mention of the hell raisers. She’d had to replace two chairs and a section of the pipe on an old black stove in the corner from their fight two months
ago. “Please tell me they’re not causing any trouble.”

  “You know the soldier who’s been flirting with you?” Lainey’s already tight crop-top shirt and matching blue jean skirt were plastered to her body with sweat.

  “Yeah.” Riser Malone. He was definitely her type, blond, tall, muscular – eerily similar to Bo Lawson. I’m so not going there.

  “The twins are sitting right beside him and his buddy Cord Carter, and they’re doing everything they can to try and pick a fight.”

  “Why?” Although the twins were young and dumb, she hadn’t thought they were completely stupid. Riser and Cord were both trained operatives; they could take out half the bar without breaking a sweat. Two drunk, overweight catfish farmers wouldn’t stand a chance.

  “Who knows? Maybe their favorite pig died? Either way, they’re about to get their asses handed to them.”

  Shit. “Where’s Joe?” Her bouncer, Joe Johnson, was nearly three hundred pounds of packed muscle with fists the size of dinner plates. He walked softly and carried a big punch. Most folks around here stayed in line just to stay out of his path. Except for the two idiot Woodard twins, apparently.

  “He just hauled out a couple of teenagers who tried to sneak in with fake IDs. Said he was taking ’em downstairs to call their parents. I don’t think this situation will keep long; you need to go talk to Riser and keep him quiet.” Lainey wiped her hands down her skirt and started pulling out loose sheets of paper containing her drink orders. “I can start mixing the drinks; I think I remember how to make most of these.”

  C.W. raised his hand like a third-grader who knew the answer to a vocabulary test. “Got an expert mixer right here, girl. You go on out there and handle your fella, and I’ll help our girl in training.”

  Oh, Jesus. C.W.‘s measurement abilities weren’t exactly accurate.

  Cheri heard a crash. She lifted onto her toes and all she saw was a brick wall of people lining her bar. Crap. She didn’t have a choice.

  Cheri stuck her finger in C.W.’s face, and he weaved from side to side, trying to focus. She sighed. “You can tell Lainey what goes in the drinks, but let her do the mixing. I don’t want to run out of alcohol.”