Book ‘Em Bridget: Iron Badges

by Danielle Norman

  And all of this happens before she wakes up and faces reality where in fact she is a 50 something mom with grown kids, she’s been married longer than Theo’s been alive, and she now gets her kicks riding a Harley.

  As far as her body, she thanks, Ben & Jerry’s for that as well as gravity. Plus she could never be Adele’s backup since she never stops saying the F-word long enough actually to sing.

  Lets Socialize

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  Enough

  Chapter One

  Ariel

  * * *

  Moving to the happiest fucking place on Earth had nothing to do with fairy tales or finding my Prince Charming. Thanks to my daddy, I no longer believed in magic or happily ever afters. I landed in this city because this was the land of hotels, conventions, and destination weddings, which meant it was my best bet at becoming an event planner.

  I didn’t hate being a seamstress, but it wasn’t my dream, it was my mama’s. I never told her that I’d rather be on the other side, planning the events where people wore the fancy clothes, costumes, and uniforms.

  I never got the chance.

  During my freshman year of high school, she had her first stroke, spoke with a slur, and relied a little more on me. But just before my senior year, Mama had her second stroke, and someone needed to keep the business going to pay the bills, so I took over. Because Daddy was long gone, he had no use for an invalid wife, and no interest in raising a teenage daughter who hated him.

  I told myself repeatedly that Mama would have wanted me to follow my dream, even if it meant hers was gone. Though, I doubted that included buying a motorcycle.

  * * *

  I brushed the wetness away then strapped on my helmet and headed to my motorcycle. Ever since binge watching Sons of Anarchy, I wanted to be badass. Okay, not like crime badass. Just the I-look-cool-on-this-bike kind of badass. So, after I unpacked my last box, I went out and purchased a Harley Sportster. I couldn’t wait to start the engine and let the wind whip across my face. It was cathartic. As the engine roared to life, I replayed the words my teacher said just a few weeks ago during motorcycle safety class.

  Ease up on the throttle.

  Hold steady.

  Don’t freak.

  The bike will go where your eyes go.

  I found myself twisting the throttle a little more than I should have, and a small smile pulled at my lips.

  I shifted gears and headed to the service road around the Mall at Millennia, Orlando’s version of Rodeo Drive. Since I lived in metro Orlando, finding somewhere to practice riding wasn’t easy. There were always constant road improvements or tourists who drove like idiots reversing down the interstate because they missed the fucking exit. So, the rarely traversed area behind the mall was one of the best places to practice.

  It was also one of the only places I’d practiced. I stayed within a five-mile radius of my home, but I needed to get comfortable and feel confident so I could take my bike out for a long ride, let the sun shine down on my face and forget the reality that was my life.

  After a few laps around the mall, I pulled my bike into a parking spot, headed inside to grab a drink, and was walking back out to my bike when two men dressed all in black cut between two cars.

  They reminded me of Crabbe and Goyle from the Harry Potter movies, and I was still watching them from the corner of my eye when they broke into a run. There was nothing oaf-like or klutzy about them. Maybe they had just robbed Tiffany’s or Cartier? That didn’t seem right, though. There were no security guards chasing them. No alarms going off or police cruisers peeling into the lot.

  Eyebrows dipping, I paused. Watching.

  The two men zigzagged through another section of cars, and the one on the left pointed in my direction. In that earth-shattering moment it connected—they were after me. I ran. Fuck. I had no clue what to do. I would never be able to start my bike and get away quick enough. Their footsteps got closer then stopped. I turned around just as the two men separated, one going left the other going right, moving in an arc around me. They were corralling me like a caged animal.

  “Help!” I shouted just before a hand clamped over my mouth.

  Stetson

  Chapter One

  London

  * * *

  Why were funeral home’s chairs so uncomfortable? Did they have a catalog of nothing but hardwood, straight-back chairs? Chairs that constantly reminded you that you were uncomfortable, the people around you were uncomfortable, and that you were going to be uncomfortable for another two hours.

  Maybe they did it so that you wouldn’t be distracted from the people walking by and reminding you of how fabulous your father was or how every day since you learned about his lung cancer that you worried. Nope, they wouldn’t want you to miss a second of being reminded of how worried you were about not being able to fill his shoes.

  Worried that you would let your sisters down.

  Worried that despite everything—despite your father having raised you to believe that girls were just as great as boys—maybe the farm might have been better off in the hands of a son. That was if Samuel Kelly had had a son, but he didn’t. He’d been stuck with three daughters and a wife that had run off when the girls were little.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” I was pulled from my thoughts and self-doubt to accept more condolences.

  “Your family is in our prayers.”

  “Let us know if you girls need anything.”

  “Your father was a good man.”

  Were condolences like straws and everyone drew one; whatever was written on the straw was the platitude you had to repeat?

  I looked at my sisters to make sure that they were holding up. Part of me felt relieved because I knew that Daddy wasn’t in pain anymore, but at the same time, I was pissed at him for leaving us. It didn’t matter that I was thirty—nothing made you feel like you were a little girl all over again than losing a parent.

  The pastor finished the service, and my sisters and I followed the pallbearers, who carried my father’s casket out the doors of the church.

  Sweat trickled down my back, and I found myself more focused on the riding lawn mower I could see in the distance than I was on what was being said as they lowered Daddy’s casket into the ground. Taking a deep breath, I inhaled the scent of fresh mowed grass and impending rain. It was going to rain, I could smell the saltiness in the air, and when I opened my mouth I could taste the saltiness on the tip of my tongue.

  Who was I kidding? It always rained in Florida, especially this time of the year, and the rain was always salty thanks to being close to the ocean. But right then I needed the rain, I begged for it. I wanted it to pour and send all these people scurrying for cover so that I could sit here for a few moments and say
goodbye to my hero.

  I was on autopilot, my focus was up toward the horizon and the rain rolling in, while people were kissing my cheek, saying goodbye, and then walking off. Person after person stopped, but I was moving out of natural reaction.

  “You okay, London?” I looked at my sister Paris as she tucked a few loose strands of hair behind my ear. “You seem like you’re a million miles away.”

  “I’m fine, just tired. Let’s go home.” I stood and held out one hand for each of my sisters. Being the oldest, I’d always felt a heavy amount of responsibility for them, and right then, I needed not to be the weak one.

  The three of us headed to my truck. Jumping up into the seat, I paused for a second before pulling my legs in to kick off any excess dirt that still clung to my heels. Nothing about Geneva was fancy, not even the cemetery, where I had to walk through, dirt, sand, and stand in soft sod while I watched my father be lowered into the ground. After removing my hat—because in our little town you always wore a black hat to a funeral—I laid it on the console and started the engine. As I glanced into my rearview mirror, I met the eyes of my baby sister Holland, who hadn’t said a word, which was so strange since of the three of us, she was always the most outspoken one.

  But I wanted to get this day over with, which was probably why we had bucked tradition and decided not to have a potluck after the funeral. People from the church had been bringing food by for the last month while Daddy was in hospice. I just didn’t want any more people traipsing in and out of the house telling us how sorry they were, which in the end ultimately led them to discussing the fact that none of us were married and someone was bound to offer up one of their relatives to help us out. As if we were so desperate to find a husband that we needed someone to give us their cousin’s son, who was probably still living in his mom’s basement and went by the name of Bubba. No thanks.

  Getting Even

  Chapter Two

  Riley

  * * *

  “Really, it’s seven o’clock in the fucking morning. Parents need to teach their kids some fucking manners.” Riley’s mood had been shot ever since his sister had called him last night and asked him to come over this morning but refused to tell him why. All she said was, “Don’t say anything to Greg.”

  He stayed up half the night worried that his baby sister had cancer, or that something was wrong with his niece. They were the only family he had left. “Now I’m even more on-edge, thanks to some asshat punk who doesn’t realize he can fucking listen to music below eighty-five decibels.”

  “I’m sorry, did you say something?”

  Riley looked up at the sultry voice and saw the real-life version of a wet dream. She was gorgeous and had curves he could grab on to. He was so busy picturing exactly how he would grab her that he hadn’t even realized that the ear-rattling music had ended. He was more shocked that the gorgeous woman was staring at him, then he realized she was waiting for an answer.

  “Oh no, sorry. I was just talking to myself.”

  “Yeah I heard . . . asshat punk.” The sultry-voiced vixen smiled at him, then stepped back so Riley could get a good view of the V8 muscle car that had rolled in with music blaring, the one he’d assumed belonged to an asshat punk. “Don’t blame it on my parents, they gave up on me years ago.” The woman winked at him and then removed the gas pump from her car and put it back onto the holder before strutting off.

  Yes, she fucking strutted.

  Riley rolled his eyes. “Way to go. Way to fucking go.” Returning his gas pump to the holder, he headed inside to grab his coffee and groaned when he saw her smirking at him.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve come to give me a hard time for adulterating this fine cup of joe.” She held up a cup that was indeed destroyed in Riley’s book; it had shit in it. Riley liked his coffee black. If he wanted a dessert, then he’d fucking buy a dessert, but coffee was a drink, it was meant to wake you up, and that shit she held in front of him definitely wouldn’t.

  “You think that the world revolves around you, don’t you? You blare your music at a ridiculous level, not even considering that other people might be trying to have a conversation.”

  “What? In their car? You mean, talking on their phone while driving? I consider what I’m doing a public safety measure, they can put the phone down.”

  “Then you stand around just waiting to harass the next person that walks into a store and shove your coffee in their face.”

  “No, not the next person, just you. I was hoping that you would come in. You really are cute when you get angry, and I wanted to see if I could do it again. Remember? I’m all about public safety. Women should know what they’re getting into with you.”

  “Let me guess, you’re single. Oh, wait, I’ve got it . . . divorced. You ran him off, didn’t you?”

  The sexy woman flexed her fingers so he couldn’t help but notice her blood-red nails. “No, I buried him after I took him to the cleaners. Looking for a wife?”

  Book ‘em Sadie

  Chapter One

  Sadie

  * * *

  Damn, I made this shit look good.

  I stared at myself in the mirror for what had to be the tenth time this morning, making sure that my pins were perfect and my shirt was pressed. The only things that weren’t sexy were the boots, but hey, I didn’t mind them, since they were part of the standard uniform of all motorcycle deputies. Who would have ever guessed that I, Sadie Kathryn Lazar, would become a motorcycle deputy? I still got butterflies in m

  * * *

  y stomach just thinking about it. I mean . . . why wouldn’t I? I was getting ready to roll out on two wheels of county-owned property, and it would be up to me to save the people of Orange County, Florida from danger. Okay, more often than not I was saving them from their own stupidity, and I wasn’t doing it alone, but whatever. There were other deputies and city police officers and state troopers, but I was part of that team. I was twenty-eight fucking years old, and even though I wasn’t a kid any longer, this was a lot of responsibility. A lot of pressure.

  I grew up watching Cops with my daddy. I was all about bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do thanks to that show, and I never wavered from my career choice.

  My ten-minute warning alarm signaled it was time for me to get my ass in gear. After sliding my gun into its holster, I grabbed my helmet and marched out of my small duplex. I opened the door to my tiny garage, which was truly meant for storage, and rolled out my motorcycle before reporting in to dispatch.

  “Thirteen twenty-two, ten-eight.”

  “Orange County copies. 05:57 hours.” Dispatch confirmed that I was logged in and on duty.

  I fired the engine on my bike and then rolled back on the throttle. To many, the roar of the engine might as well have been a foreign language, but to me, it was my native tongue.

  As the early morning sun warmed my cheeks and the wind whipped against me, I hummed and maneuvered through the rush-hour traffic. It wasn’t even ten minutes after beginning my shift that my call signal rang out across the radio.

  “Thirteen twenty-two.”

  “Thirteen twenty-two, go ahead.”

  “Are you available to support a search at Mills and Colonial?”

  “Ten-four, show me fifty-one, be there in under five.” After letting dispatch know that I was on my way and less than five minutes out, I upped my speed, only slowing when I spotted the three deputy vehicles along a side road. “Hey, what’s going on?” I asked Colton. The guy had been on the force about as long as I had.

  “Hey, Sadie, this is one of those stories that is totally Cops worthy.”

  “Oh, do tell.”

  “It seems that Wanda”—he pointed to a tall woman in gold stilettos and a catsuit (the pleather kind, not the furry kind)—“and her best friend Pammy are no longer best friends.”

  “Why?” I asked with all the fake concern I could muster, and Colton nodded with his own fake concern for their friendship.

  “Wanda believe
s that Pammy stole her client.”

  “Well, that isn’t a very best friend-like thing to do, is it?”

  “Nope. Not at all.” Colton was clearly trying to keep himself from laughing.

  “Apparently, his name is John, and he’s a very loyal . . . client.” Colton raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s six o’clock in the fucking morning. If that doesn’t say loyal, I don’t know what does. So, why the sudden change of heart from our friend John the Client?”

  “Oh.” Colton finally lost it and let out a chuckle. “I’ll let them tell you. I don’t want to deprive you of any of the joy.” Colton gave me a knowing grin and I shook my head as I flipped him off and made my way over to the two women.

  I walked over. “Oh, good, missy, you need to arrest her. She’s a thief.”

  “I ain’t no thief, I’m a hooker.” I looked over my shoulder to Colton, who had moved to stand with Dan and Enzo. All three were watching me with bored expressions. I knew better, and would pay each one of them back for this nonsense. Three male deputies, and they called me.

  “Ladies, since the dispute has to do with business, this is actually a civil case and not criminal. You need to get an attorney and sue through the courts. Perhaps you can even try to get loss of income.” Yeah, I said that last part with a straight face, looking to all the world like nothing more than a helpful officer handing out helpful advice.