“You bet your sweet ass we are! Kickoff is at noon, so don’t be late,” my dad warns.
When you live in South Bend, Indiana, and a stone’s throw away from the University of Notre Dame, football is a way of life. Every Saturday in the fall is dedicated to watching our favorite team and pigging out on beer and junk food.
“Oh, and I hired a new guy for a few of our cases. He’s an ex-cop, so I’m giving him a shot at some bounty-hunter work. He’s going to meet you at McFadden’s house in thirty minutes so you can show him the ropes. Be nice to him,” Dad tells me with a raise of his eyebrow.
I work alone. I’ve always worked alone. The fact that I own a business with two other women hasn’t changed that. We each bring something different to the table and we each have our own separate jobs to do. Alone.
My father knows this and I’m sure he didn’t need another bounty hunter, but he hired one anyway to make sure I wouldn’t get into any trouble. For some reason, trouble always seems to find me no matter how hard I try to stay away from it.
“Dad, I don’t need any help on this case. I’m thirty-five years old and I’ve fought in Afghanistan, for fuck’s sake,” I complain as I shake my head at him.
“Humor me, Kennedy. I’m old. I’m going to die soon. I’d like to die knowing you’ll be safe.”
My dad has many skills. But his best one is his guilt trips. He is as healthy as a horse and the most stubborn human being on the face of the earth. He isn’t going to die anytime soon. He’ll outlive cockroaches and Twinkies.
I throw my hand in the air in an irritated wave and head back outside to my car. I swear to God if this guy doesn’t stay out of my way or screws anything up on this job, I will take my dad out back and beat his ass myself.
GD newbie bounty hunters.
CHAPTER 3
I pull up to the address for Martin McFadden and even though I googled the area and I’m a little familiar with the neighborhood, I’m still a bit surprised that this is the house of the criminal I’m hunting. It’s not the typical residence of a person I’m tracking down. Those people lean more toward houses on wheels with Spider-Man bedsheets for curtains and one-room apartments that make crack houses look like the lap of luxury.
This house looks like a sweet, little old lady lives here, not a bail-jumping criminal. It’s a ranch with a gorgeous white wraparound porch and there are hanging baskets of flowers all along the railing. As I get out of my vehicle, I notice the lawn has been manicured right down to those crisscross patterns you see on baseball fields. I make my way up the front walk and when I see a decorative flag stuck in the ground by the porch steps that says “Welcome Friends!” I’m once again bolstered by the fact that bringing this guy in will be a piece of cake.
According to the file, he’s fifty years old, has never been married, and is kind of a hermit. I get to the top step and the loud rumble of a motorcycle has me whipping my head around and my hand automatically going for my gun. I didn’t see anything in the notes about McFadden owning a motorcycle, but you can never be too sure about these things.
I watch as a Heritage Softail Classic Harley pulls to a stop right in front of the house and feel my insides quiver. Even though this guy is wearing a helmet and I haven’t seen his face yet, I can already tell this isn’t my guy. McFadden is five foot five and a hundred twenty-five pounds soaking wet; this guy is wearing a tight, white T-shirt and the muscles in his biceps tighten as he clutches the handlebars and swings his leg over the seat of the bike.
With his back to me while he pockets the bike key, I have time to appreciate him. And by appreciate, I mean ogle. I’m staring at his ass and I’m not ashamed to admit it. Whoever this guy is, he has an amazing ass. I watch as he reaches up and slides his helmet off and I take note of the way his shirt stretches across the muscles of his back.
I need to get laid. I really, really need to get laid. I’m standing on the front porch of a bail jumper’s house panting like a dog.
This must be the guy my father hired. I can see his service pistol secured in the waistband of his jeans at his back. It’s a Beretta M9—the exact same gun I use. Maybe my father had the right idea hiring this guy. I don’t need the help, but at least he’ll be pretty to look at. And maybe if he’s lucky, I’ll throw him a bone. Or he can throw me his bone. My girly bits tingle just thinking about being anywhere near this guy and his bone.
“Come on, pretty boy. Turn around so I can see your face,” I whisper to myself as he secures his helmet to the back of the bike and finally turns to face me.
All thoughts of bones, humping, and great asses fly out the window and my mouth drops open in complete and utter shock.