by Regina Wade
Protecting Her Curves
Alpha Authority Book 1
Regina Wade
Contents
1. Sage
2. Jackson
3. Sage
4. Jackson
5. Sage
6. Jackson
7. Epilogue: One Month Later
8. Extended Epilogue: Five Years Later
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Also by Regina Wade
About the Author
Texas Sized Playlist, Vol 1.
Chapter 1
Sage
God blessed Texas, with his own hand. Sent down angels from the promised land. Gave them a place where they could dance; if you want to see heaven, brother here’s your chance. — Little Texas, ‘God Blessed Texas’
“Ok darlin’, these biscuits are ready to go out.”
Nearly a week in, and I think I’m finally getting the hang of things. This isn’t my first restaurant job. It’s not even my first hole in the wall diner job. It is, however, the first time I’ve had any trouble deciphering the word biscuits before. Brielle’s burger joint in Seattle was eclectic, the vegan spot in Los Angeles an exercise in patience. But True Grits is a whole new world.
Maybe it’s the city girl in me, but adapting to the outskirts of Sugarland, Texas is giving me more trouble than I expected.
Nobody ever tells you there are at least six different versions of southern twang.
Maybe I’m just getting too old to start over in a new place once a year?
Ugh. I hope not. I can’t even imagine what kind of dull, cookie-cutter existence that would leave for me. What’s next, going back to my natural hair color?
A tiny internal shudder goes through me at the mere thought.
“Got it!” I grab the plate and balance it carefully on a tray that’s already as full of sweet tea as it is coffee at nine AM.
Melvin gives me an enthusiastic thumbs up from his post behind the flat top.
Edith and Melvin Carlyle are the sweetest couple I’ve ever met. They hired me the moment I walked in the door of their restaurant. For that, I’ll be forever grateful. They didn’t fire me when I dropped my first, second, or even my third blue plate special. I’m even more thankful for that. A little surprised, too, if I’m being honest.
“Behind you.” Sarabeth, the Carlyle's daughter and the only other waitress in the place swings past me with her own empty tray with the kind of grace that’s managed to escape me for going on twenty-three years now.
Crap! Crapcrapcra—
“Easy now.” As usual, Edith seemingly appears out of nowhere.
She swoops in behind me to save two mugs of rich black coffee before they topple to the immaculate tile floor. Invoking her sweet southern black magic, she manages to do it without so much as sloshing over the rim. Not a single silver-blonde hair falls out of her sky-high bouffant updo as she reassembles the tray and pats my arm understandingly.
“Don’t you worry, sugar. You’ll catch on in no time. Go on and take this out now.”
Is twenty-three too old to be adopted by a kindly grandmother in vibrant blue eyeshadow?
Edith and Melvin are exactly the kind of people I’ve always wanted this part of the country to be populated with. Expectation and reality are very often at odds, though— something I’ve come to learn more than once over the years. You don’t hit the road on your seventeenth birthday without learning a little about people along the way. Not every surprise has been as pleasant as this one.
It makes me want to do right by them.
“Alright ladies,” I smile at the cheerfully gossiping clutch of housewives gathered around a scarred tabletop as I approach.
According to Sarabeth, they’re a gardening club that comes in every Thursday morning to talk about everything but flowers. I have a feeling my coworker handed the table over to me out of sheer pity.
I’ll take what I can get.
“I’ve got biscuits and gravy, a short stack of blueberry pan—”
A loud clattering at the front of the restaurant cuts me off before I can set a single plate down. It sounds strangely out of place in here, where the languid ringing of the bell above the front door is usually the only thing to interrupt the hum of conversation within the diner.
This is a different; loud and distinctly rushed, urgent in the way only the sudden entrance of an agitated person can be.
Sure enough, I whirl around just in time to see someone rush through the glass door. He’s overdressed for the warmth of the spring afternoon in a dark hoodie pulled up over his head and dark jeans pooling down around a pair of sneakers scuffed nearly as badly as the battered Converse on my own feet.
Too many years of working in service and being on my own have given me a keen sixth sense. This time, I don’t bother trying to save the tray. It tumbles to the floor with a clatter, grape jam and maple syrup spreading across the checkered tiles in a sticky-sweet river.
The pole vault maneuver I pull to land on the other side of the counter holding the ancient register lacks grace, and it probably won’t land me a ticket to the next Olympic games. But it does get me behind an inch of Formica just as the lanky blonde man tugs a handgun out from the front pocket of his sweatshirt.
“What on earth—” no doubt startled by the crashing of dishes, Edith pokes her head out from the kitchen. She comes up short at the sight of the twitchy robber in her restaurant dining room.
“Let, let me have all the money in the register.” I can’t tell if the intruder is asking or telling. From my spot crouching on the floor behind the dessert display, I can’t even tell who he’s talking to. His voice sounds small, far too unsure for someone who waltzed into a roadside diner ready to rob the place in broad daylight.
“Oh, no.” There’s no trace of fear in Edith’s sweet voice. “You go right ahead and put that away and git gone, ‘fore I call the sheriff. Or worse.” She sounds more annoyed at having her mid-morning coffee and gossip break interrupted than anything else.
At the sound of a communal gasp from the gardening club table, I hazard a look up from my fortified position behind the lemon meringue pies. Somehow, Edith is already in possession of the robber’s gun.
No, scratch that.
Edith has her own gun out. I have no idea where the Dirty Harry-sized piece came from. It’s bigger than the one the shifty kid in the dining room is holding, and twice as steady in her otherwise fragile wrists.
At least now I know how Edith gets that much volume in her hair. Maybe she’s born with it. Maybe it’s Smith and Wesson.
“Just give me the money and nobody has to get hurt.” The guy waves the gun around again. I duck my head back down onto my knees, wondering when I fell through this rabbit hole.
“Only one who’s gonna get hurt here is you, son. Now go on.” It’s Melvin’s calm voice that answers. Twin shotgun barrels have appeared over the counter. Apparently he keeps more than an endless supply of bacon grease under the flat top after all.
Note to self: Texas is crazy. Whole state is full of nutjobs. Even the little old ladies and grey-haired grandpas. Good to know.
I’ve already resigned myself to my fate as a one-line mention on a backpage newspaper article when the bell over the front door tinkles again.
Oh, good. And here I thought this might be a slow morning.
Chapter 2
Jackson
If you’re gonna play in Texas, you’ve got to have a fiddle in the band. That lead guitar is hot, but not for a Louisiana man. — Alabama, ‘If You’re Gonna Play in Texas’
Silence greets me as I walk into the diner.
At first, I think it’s just bad timing. One of those coordinated lulls in conversation where the murmur of separate
groups all ceases at once and everything becomes oddly quiet for a second before it resumes. Like someone pressed pause on the whole damn world.
Then my training fills in the blanks.
My eyes sweep the room and note the scene of disarray and carnage. At my entrance, no less than two guns swivel towards me. The only one that concerns me is in the shaking hands of Matt Bootfield.
Palms up, I keep my voice cool and soothing, more like I’m talking to spooked cattle than a tweaked out meth-head.
“Easy, Matt. Easy. It’s Jackson.”
The wild-eyed would-be robber in front of me grins, showing rows of broken teeth.
“You here to arrest me, Jax?” His speech isn’t slurred, but Matt’s always been a bit of a mumbler. The ravages of his drug of choice haven’t made his speech any easier to understand, but as quiet as it is, I can hear him clearly.
“Well, that’s really up to you, Matt.” I give him my best smile as I indicate my clothes. “See, I’m off-duty. It’s my day off. Not really looking to go into work, unless you want me to.”
Matt seems to ponder this for a minute, then shrugs.
“Howsabout you just walk outta here then, huh Jax?” He gives me a hopeful look, like a kid asking his parents for five more minutes outside.
I give him a sad, brief shake of my head.
“You know I can’t do that, Matt. Why don’t you just put that gun down, we go take a ride.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Edith thumb the hammer on her revolver. Her aim is never shaky, not even by a millimeter.
“Edith, how about you set that piece down too.”
“Boy drew on me in my own place, Jax. It ain’t right.” Edith is as sweet as anyone’s old granny, but there’s a core of stubborn strength to her. You have to be a little hard, to live in a place like this.
“You know as well as I do that he’s got an airsoft gun, Edith,” I say calmly, stepping slowly into her line of fire. I don’t take my eyes off Matt’s firearm.
“Aw, c’mon Jax. I told you that in private.” Matt mumbles, causing me to roll my eyes.
“Well Matt, it’s no secret that Edith’s .38 is real. Pretty Sure Melvin’s got birdshot in his 4-10, but let’s not roll the dice, alright? We both know getting shot with anything makes for a pretty fucking bad day, amirite?”
Matt nods glumly, lowering his shaking arm. I step up and hold out my hand, and he places the fake handgun carefully into my hand.
“Now, Matt, you sit here in my booth while I get what I came here for, and then we’ll go have a talk, alright?” I give him a gentle pat on the shoulder as he slides into my booth.
“Edith, better make my usual to go. Get me some extra bacon too, will ya?” I give Edith my best smile, but she’s still watching Matt like a hawk. Her gun has magically disappeared to wherever she keeps it, but I have no doubt her trigger finger is still itching.
She meets my gaze and relents with a sigh.
“Sure thing, Jax. I’ll have the new girl bring it out right away. Sage.” She jerks her head towards the back of the counter.
That’s when I see her.
I feel like I just took two rounds point-blank. The first to my heart, and the second to my cock.
Edith’s new waitress isn’t from around here. No one remotely as gorgeous lives anywhere nearby. I’d know. Her short red hair is thick with gel and style, and neither of the local beauticians are capable of anything more modern than dousing hair in half a bottle of Aquanet. The messy auburn pixie cut frames her face perfectly, displaying green eyes wide with surprise. I extend a hand down to where she’s pulling herself up off the floor. The simple grey waitress uniform hugs her curves in a way that makes me want to do the same. It takes effort to keep my eyes from dragging across the thick swell of her hips and the way her tits press invitingly against the cotton.
“Pleasure to meet you, ma’am. Names Jackson Bell.” She takes my hand as if on autopilot, and I give it a gentle squeeze. “You alright?”
She gives herself a shake, seemingly finding her tongue and her courage in the same moment.
“Fine. Fine. Who doesn’t expect their workplace to turn into the OK Corral at high noon?” There’s a note of something in her voice, an undercurrent of panic that she’s stamping down hard.
I recognize the sound well. I hear it every day.
Unlike anyone at the station or in the VA though, the slight waver in Sage’s voice makes me want to pull her in close, tell her everything is ok. I push the thought to the back of my mind.
“Well, you go on in the back and get whatever Edith’s got for me, then I think you better take the rest of the day off, Sage.” I glance over the top of this beautiful girl’s head and meet Edith’s eyes.
“Yeah, girl. You take the afternoon, calm your nerves.” She says with a slow nod. Edith has a big heart. It’s usually in the right place— it’s just her even better trigger finger I worry about.
“No, no,” Sage protests with a shake of her head.” “I need to work. I’ve got bills to pay.” A glimmer of fire flashes in her beautiful green eyes.
“Well, if it’s about money, let me hire you for the afternoon, then.” That gets me more than a few looks from around the restaurant, not least of which are from Sage and her employer.
I realize belatedly what it sounds like and can’t keep a grin off my face.
The thought of having Sage’s curvy body at my disposal all day flashes through my mind, unbidden. My cock swells almost painfully in my jeans for a moment before I wrangle my wayward imagination.
“I shouldn’t be transporting dangerous criminals alone,” I explain. “Not even the ones that are terrible at committing crimes like Matt. I could use another pair of hands.” I give Sage my best smile, the one I use to win over little old ladies and young girls.
She chews on her plump lower lip, thinking it over.
“If you make me, I’ll insist I need an eyewitness for this little altercation,” I add, letting a bit of steel creep into my voice. I don’t like using my ‘police officer’ voice on her, but the shaky look in Sage’s emerald eyes when she came up on the floor tells me she really doesn’t need to be in the diner right now.
“Fine,” she finally mutters with a sigh. She takes off her apron, stalking towards the back of the restaurant. “The tip for this better be huge, though.”
“Oh trust me, Sage. It will be,” I say, my cock twitching at the sight of her walking away.
Chapter 3
Sage
Amarillo by morning, up from San Antone. Everything that I’ve got is just what I’ve got on. When that sun is high in the Texas sky, I’ll be bucking at the county fair. — George Strait, ‘Amarillo by Morning’
I always figured I’d end up in a police car someday.
The fact that I’m in the front seat and not riding alongside the shaky kid in the back is already a vast improvement on all the scenarios that have run through my head over the years.
“You warm? Want me to turn down the AC?” Jax’s deep voice pierces the fog of my muddled thoughts.
Speaking of vast improvements.
Officer Jackson Bell is the most beautiful specimen of man I’ve ever laid eyes on. The sunshine trickling in from the windshield gleams off his blue-black hair. It’s like velvet, and I can’t help but wonder what it’d feel like to drag my fingers through it. In the brightness of the front seat, his hazel eyes look lighter than they did in the restaurant; more like grey slate. They’re mesmerizing, ever-shifting in the most beautiful way.
“I’m ok, thanks.” I smile at him from the comfort of the shotgun seat.
Just thinking the word sends a mild shiver through me, remembering the madness of the morning. In the driver’s seat, Jax has one hand at the wheel, the thick cords of his biceps straining the short sleeve of his tee. The gun and badge sit casually at his hip, resting on his well-worn belt.
He wears his authority easily. There’s something subtly sexy about a man who wields power and strength without sacri
ficing kindness. I cast another sideways glance at the man beside me.
Not so subtly, too.
“You hungry, Matt?” Jax’s question is gentle, the look in his eyes soft as he glances in the rearview.
Liquid warmth blossoms in my chest at the tone. Logically, I feel like I should be mad at the lanky man in the backseat. I can’t bring myself to feel anything but sorry for him, though. It would appear that the big, beautiful cop beside me agrees because he seems to be treating him more like a patient than a suspect.
“A bit, yeah.” Matt’s voice is quiet, almost sheepish.
We drive in relative silence for a few minutes before pulling up in front of a nondescript brick building. A small plaque outside decrees it the local Veterans Affairs Center.
“Aw, Jax. You know I can’t come here. I—”
“Hush.” Jackson cuts Matt’s protests off with a single word. “Let’s get you fed and cleaned up.”
I wait in the car while Jax escorts the would-be robber into the building. Alone with my thoughts, it’s hard not to let my mind wander back over the morning’s events. Jackson managed to swoop into the diner and diffuse the situation without so much as raising his voice. He’s back in about twenty minutes, buckling his seatbelt with a small sigh.
We sit in silence for a moment, looking over at the squat building and the stretch of lawn in front of us. It’s not awkward or uncomfortable, which says something considering the situation.
“Matt’s not a bad kid.” Jax’s rumbling voice is rich and deep, filling the space around us.
I wouldn’t mind having more of him filling me.
