“Zeek,” I greet. His bike is a metallic black, with leather whips hanging from the handle bars. They call them GetBack whips. They are usually braided with club colors and are used in case of emergency. Meaning, if they’re in a tight spot and don’t have anything else to use as a weapon, they use the leather whip. Nervous, I clear my throat, taking my focus off the whips and back on Zeek.
He takes his helmet off, his hair shifting in his face as his eyes slowly find mine. My courage and bravery flee, my lips aching to taste him again. He looks like a beast straddling his motorcycle.
“Rookie.” He smiles. My eyes sweep his frame on their own accord. His ripped jeans, gripping his muscular legs. His strong torso and bulging arms etched with beautiful ink. “What can I do for you?” he asks, my eyes darting to his face. A face that is defined with strength, his chin strong with stubble.
“Um... uh...” I stumble, my train of thought and mission disappearing. The men behind me start laughing, angering me, reminding me of everyone at the department laughing at me.
“Where are you coming from?” I snap.
His brows furrow with my tone, and his jaw ticks.
“Why?”
“You go visit the Gentrys?” I cut to the point.
His lips form into a smile, one that is sexy and evil.
“Yeah, but nobody was home. So, we left.” He shrugs, and a spot of blood on his neck catches my attention. It looks fresh.
“Got a call of a disturbance there, you know anything about that?” I continue, trying to read him for lies.
He stands from his bike, and my heart falls. He towers above me, casting a shadow over me, blocking the hot sun. It’s fitting, really. Zeek is the darkness, one that hides the light, shadowing over the land of Vegas. He emits cold and strength, giving fear to those who he reigns over.
“Please sit back down, Zeek,” I commence, my voice cracking.
“I think I know what this is all about.” He tilts his head to the side arrogantly.
“What is that?” My tone of authority is gone, curiosity reigning supreme.
He leans in and my body stiffens, my hand gripping my weapon.
“If you wanted another kiss, you didn’t have to come pull me over, babe.” My cheeks flush as his lips brush against my ear. My eyes flick to his men, the looks on their faces not giving away that they can hear him.
My breathing begins to hitch, my eyelids growing heavy with the way he affects me.
Snapping myself from whatever the hell this is, I reach forward and grab his hand, turning his body away from me, surprising everyone, including myself.
“You’re under arrest,” I inform him.
He chuckles as I grab the other hand, pulling it behind his back. The muscles in his back bulge, showing me how built he is and how under-qualified I really am to take down such a man.
“What the fuck, Prez!” One of his men—Felix, I think—steps off his bike, the rest of the men following.
“Stand down, sir,” I order.
“Fuck you!” he spits, moving toward me with urgency.
“Back off, Felix!” Zeek orders, his command surprising me. He didn’t have to tell his men to back down, and to be honest, I didn’t expect it. I knew what I was asking for when I pulled them over, knew it would be a fight.
Felix pauses, his men halting, as well.
“Prez, no way in hell am I letting this bitch take you in!” He shakes his head, his hands balled into fists. I swallow hard, second-guessing what the fuck I’m doing. Stupidity, that’s what I’m doing. I am exercising my stupidity because I was angry at my fellow officers, and now I’m going to be killed.
Zeek looks over his shoulder at me, his eyes trying to tell me something, but I can’t for the life figure it out. It’s sensual, almost soft in nature. He turns, looking down.
“I’ll be out before dinner,” he mutters.
“Fat chance,” I state. Grabbing his forearm, I walk him toward my squad car.
“You’re dead, bitch,” one of the men mumbles. Zeek flexes beneath my palm as his men threaten me, his jaw clenching. Is he angry that I’m arresting him, or that his men are insulting me?
“Get my bike to the station and leave it there!” he hollers to one of his guys.
I read him his rights and put him in the back of the squad car.
“5Paul69, one in custody.”
“5paul69, affirmative.”
Getting in my car, his smell assaults me. The leather and cologne mixed with exhaust makes my heart pitter-patter, a flashback of my face in ecstasy as he kissed the wind from me.
Inhaling a steady breath, I pull off the shoulder. As I pass the bikes, one of his men grabs his crotch and flips me off.
“Why are you arresting me?” he grumbles from the back. “You got nothing on me.” He’s right; I don’t have anything. I have no evidence that he was at the actual residence of the disturbance call. I’m going off a spot of blood on his neck. Shit, I should have gotten my test kit out and took it into evidence, or checked his bike. That’s okay; the station can take the blood splatter into evidence when we get there.
“You were in a striking position, and uncooperative. Not to mention you have blood on you,” I ramble.
“You know what I think it is?”
“I don’t really care,” I state, but I am curious.