Bite Deep (9 page)

Ben Jericho.

Her eyes narrowed in on the patch. She'd be willing to bet Bowden and Jericho had some sort of arrangement in place, no doubt along the lines of Bowden keeping his nose out of Diablo Dogs business.

With a sigh, she dropped the plastic bag on her desk and rubbed her eyes, exhaustion washing over her in a sluggish wave. She knew she should leave it alone. Hell, it was only her first week. But the vision of the dead girl appeared every time she closed her eyes, and the stink of old blood from the clearing lingered with her, like she'd bought it back with her.

Bowden had told her not to do anything on her own about the Anna Lewis case until he gave her instruction to do so. But it was just too much of a coincidence, the discovery of the Anna, then the apple trees splattered with blood, and Lydia was sure they were related.

She got to her feet, casually pocketing the plastic bag, before realising Novak had finished his call and was now staring at her. He picked up what looked like a black knuckleduster, showing her.

‘Confiscated this from one of the little shits at the school today. Teacher caught him showing it off to his friends.' He grinned at her, like they were sharing a joke. ‘You ever seen one?'

‘I guess,' Lydia replied, trying to be civil. She glanced down at her paperwork, deciding she had done enough. The rest could wait until after the morning briefing.

‘This one's a bit different.' Novak slipped them on his knuckles and engaged a button. Blue electric light sparked, accompanied by a telltale zapping sound.

Lydia's eyebrows rose. ‘It's a taser?'

‘That's right.' Novak set it down on the desk with a heavy clunk. ‘Said he ordered it from the internet for eighty dollars. Little shit.'

‘Did he say why he had it?' she asked.

‘Who cares.' He leaned back in his chair, murky brown eyes unreadable. ‘The sarg said you found a gutted cow on the Tanner farm. Said you got a bit funny about the blood.'

Lydia didn't answer at first, just gathered up her bag as a hostile silence stretched out between them. She slung her bag over one shoulder and fixed him with a glare.

‘Look, do you have a problem with me? If you want to say something, now's the time.'

‘Yeah. I got a problem,' Novak sneered. ‘I've seen your kind before. Seen it on rookies when they get here, all too eager to please, needing to prove they belong.'

Lydia wanted to bare her teeth at him like an animal. He was trying to goad her, but she wasn't going to bite. She'd seen the look he was giving her before. Like he was curious to know how far she would bend before she broke.

‘You done?' she asked.

Novak top lip curled higher. ‘I've know your type, trying to take charge because you think you're a big shot. But I've been here longer and I know how this town works. You need to understand your place here, or I could make things very difficult for you.'

Lydia's eyes narrowed. ‘Afraid I'll show you up?'

He gave a harsh laugh. ‘You think I'm afraid of you? Slinking back to your hometown after you got slapped around a bit?'

His words struck her like a blow to the chest. Time slowed down as she watched Novak's mouth move. She knew what he was going to say next. That he'd read her file and knew what had happened. How she'd been dating Peter Randall, a man with a hidden history of sexual assaults. She'd thought Peter Randall had been just your average working stiff in a local government department. Someone who had bought her flowers on their first date. She'd thought he'd been a good guy, right up to the moment he came at her with a knife in one hand, rope in the other. Novak saw her comprehension and his eyes lit up.

‘How did it feel?' he asked. ‘When you realised you'd been dating a deviant?'

His words were lava, pouring through her veins, scalding her. Sweat popped out on her skin, her breath came short. Novak sat back, a satisfied look on his face, and she was suddenly aware of how alone they were in the office. He hadn't explicitly threatened her with physical violence, but his words shocked her. With legs like heavy logs, she stumbled to the front door. Panic swamped her, ears straining for any noise indicating he might be coming for her.
Enemy
, a voice screamed inside of her.
He wants to hurt you
. Her jaw locked as she pushed open the front door. There was a creak of a chair from behind her and her nerve shattered. Adrenaline giving her legs the strength they needed, she half ran, half stumbled for her car, hearing Novak laughing behind her.

* * *

Lydia sat in the ute the Solbergs let her borrow, the radio turned low and soft jazz drifting about her. She was parked outside Dusty Roads and was working up the nerve to get out. She'd never actually seen the bar herself and felt somehow disappointed. She'd almost expected a cesspit of incivility: drinking teenagers, shady deals in the shadows, bare-knuckle fights in the parking lot. Instead, all she found was a reasonable-sized saloon-style establishment with wooden panelling and neon beer advertisements in the window. A faded sign sat on the roof in the shape of a devil head, crossed pitchforks under its pointed chin.

Harleys were parked out front, along with a few dozen trucks and cars, some in various stages of stripping and repair, and murky light shone through dirty windows. The place didn't look too busy and Lydia turned the engine off and got out, nerves still scorched from Novak's words. She had debated with herself about saying something to Bowden, but her mind flashed back to his words earlier that day.

Doesn't know how we do things around here.

Everyone was treating her like a rookie instead of the experienced officer she was. Of course, if she was so experienced, why was she at a biker bar alone, and worse, still in uniform? But here she was, her fear curdling to rage, and now feeling furious enough to rattle some cages. She got out and slammed the door behind her. The image of the dead woman flashed through her mind. Had she begged for her life before it had been taken from her? Lydia remembered begging for her own. And the man who had hurt her had gotten off on a technicality. Who had sworn vengeance for her? Nobody. Her colleagues had been embarrassed at the poor handling of the case and she found herself ostracised. She had even heard rumours some wondered if she'd known about Peter Randall's violent tendencies, but had kept silent. After all, she had been a good cop, so how could she have not
known?

But she was still a good cop, she was sure of it, though as she stomped up to the entrance, she wondered briefly if she'd developed a death wish. It didn't matter that Camden was a small town, violence was the same flavour all over and walking into a biker bar without backup had to mean she had to be a certain kind of crazy.

She pushed through the entrance, then stopped to take in the room. A few old men lined the bar, drinking beer while the jukebox wailed with a punk rock song she didn't recognise. To her right, six large men sat around a table, playing a card game. Their clothing was similar: jeans, heavy boots and long-sleeved shirts under leather vests with the Diablo Dogs patches on the back.
Cuts
, she remembered, was the name in this world.

A silence fell the moment she stepped into the room, her police uniform like a defiant shout. She tilted her chin up a fraction, like she had all the right in the world to be there. For a split second, the situation reminded her of when she went undercover at an illegal brothel. Her wits, a skimpy dress and a microphone taped to the small of her back had been her only weapons, and she'd walked into the place like she'd owned it. She'd almost forgotten she had that courage inside her, and now it surged back to her in a reassuring wave.

All eyes in the room turned to her. Some hostile, others curious. A chair dragged on the floor as one of the bikers at the table stood. He had long dark hair, and tattoos decorated his neck and arms. His gaze was feral and Lydia wondered if she was going to have to draw on him.

‘Sit down, Reaper.'

A newcomer walked out from a back room and the tattooed man obeyed, glaring at Lydia like he hung onto civility by the barest of threads. She turned her attention to the latest addition to the party. He had short dark hair and eyes like chips of polished amber. Three scars tore onto the right side of his face, disappearing in the hairline above his ear. They looked like claw marks and she wondered how on earth he had gotten them. Bear fight? He looked big enough to take on a grizzly.

Her eyes flicked back to the seated bikers, assessing them, wondering if one of them was the killer. There was the tattooed caveman who'd sat back down, an old greaser with an eye patch, a pair of bedroom blues under a fringe of sandy hair and a giant Viking with dead-man's eyes. She turned back to the man with the scars, real slow, like she had all the time in the world. A white shirt stretched over his broad chest, right arm covered in bold tribal tattoo. He wasn't wearing a cut like the others, and she filed that rather interesting point. He had full lips and his amber eyes fixed on her like they could burn. A thick wallet chain looped from low-slung jeans, some keys clipped to the front, clinking as he walked towards her, steps fluid, body moving with a graceful strength, despite his large size.

She rested her hands on her belt and addressed him. ‘My name is Officer Gault. Are you Mr Ben Jericho?'

‘Call me Bulldog.'

‘No,' she replied flatly.

A short bark of laughter came from the table and he almost smiled. ‘Fine. I'm Jericho,' His voice was a low rumble that ran right through her and goosebumps broke out on her arms. ‘What do you want?'

The small hairs on the back of her neck stood up as he approached, as if his body was ringed by a wide electrical field, and fear fluttered in her stomach like moth wings. Fear, and anticipation. She clamped down on her suddenly frazzled nerves and glanced at the men sitting at the table, before addressing Jericho again. ‘I'd like to talk to you privately, if I could.'

‘Baby, if you want to talk to someone
privately
, you're barking up the wrong tree.' The man with bedroom eyes got up from the table and got in her face, crowding her. But Lydia knew this dance. She sidestepped, keeping her eyes on Jericho, dismissing the aggressive approach of the other man.

‘Leave it, Blades,' Jericho said.

Disappointment flicked over Bedroom Eyes/Blades face. He turned to go, then changed his mind, swirling back, hands flashing out, as if to pull her into an embrace. Maybe throw her around a little. Maybe plant a kiss. Maybe give her a scare. Lydia didn't know and she didn't care, because she was ready for him.

The expandable baton slipped easily from her belt and she snapped it left. The baton flipped out and she snapped right, smashing the hard steel rod against his wrist. Twisting, she then slammed it into the back of his knee, but instead of buckling over in pain, Bedroom Eyes just grunted in surprise. Lydia stepped back and gripped the baton tighter, waiting as he rubbed his arm and limped back to the table with a wounded look.

There was a stunned beat of silence, then the men at the table broke out laughing, like she was the comedy special for the night. Sweat broke out on her neck.
Shit
. Even Jericho looked amused. He jerked his head towards the back rooms he'd come from.

‘Follow me.' He grinned at her, teeth gleaming white against his beard and Lydia thought some of those teeth looked unusually sharp. ‘If you think I can be trusted, Officer Gault.'

She snapped her baton down and shoved it back into her belt. She'd gotten the feel of the room now. It was relaxed, though it reeked of testosterone and cigar smoke. She knew she'd have to be an idiot not to be afraid. Her eyes drank in Jericho: the arrogant stance, the wide grin. She marched past him.

‘You can be trusted as much as I can.'

Chapter 8

Jericho hadn't felt this amused in some time. Bowden had mentioned he'd hired a new constable and he thought he recalled Bowden saying she'd grown up here before moving to the mainland. Jericho suddenly wished he'd paid more attention.

His eyes trailed over her body as she passed him. The cop jacket covered quite a lot, but he could tell that underneath the uniform were some dangerous curves. She'd tried to tame a mass of chili red curls into a braid, but some had come loose, curling around a heart-shaped face.

He strolled after her, trying to keep a grin from his face. It had been a while since one of his pack brothers had been put in their place by anyone, and it had been very entertaining to watch. Not that he'd ever admit that. He tried not to stare at the shape of her ass and the way it moved when she walked. His hands twitched, suddenly wanting to touch.

She paused in the short corridor and he brushed past her to open his office, making a gesture for her to enter first. She strode inside and he kept his hands to himself with some effort. Having Blades take a beating for being the lecherous bastard he was, that was okay. But if she pulled that baton on him, he'd have to respond and teach her a lesson. The MC had its own rules and as an alpha he would not be disrespected by anyone, let alone a cop.

Closing the door behind then, he felt tempted to lock it. He caught her scent, light and tantalising. It was delicate, like a dew-drenched strawberry. His mouth watered and he struggled to focus. Walking to the small bar fridge beside his desk, he kicked it open. Bending, he hooked a finger around two beers. ‘Pretty slick moves back there.' He offered her one of the beers. ‘You'll have to excuse Blades. He's not used to rejection.'

The cop dismissed the beer with a glance, and he saw her eyes were a soft violet colour, framed by black lashes. Desire crackled up his spine as he placed the second beer back into the fridge. Straightening, he twisted the lid on his beer and took a long swallow. ‘What's your name?'

‘I told you.'

‘Your first name is Constable?'