Borrowing Bentley (Wishing Well Texas Book 9) Page 2

  That was her name. Kate. And the fact that I was sittin’ on her couch professionally but callin’ her by the same name I had when we were in bed should’ve been my first clue something wasn’t right.

  I would’ve bet money that she was benching me for retaliation, not genuine concern for my wellbeing.

  Thankfully, I’d put in a request to see a different head doctor, and had already seen him on two occasions. Dr. Marsh seemed like a reasonable man, and he was certainly much more objective. I was confident that I’d be wearing my badge again within the week.

  Some people might be jumpin’ up and down at the chance to kick back for a few months, but I wasn’t some people. I loved being on the job. The job was my life. And if it were up to Kate, my life would be on hold for the next four to six weeks.

  And that brought us right back to why my head felt like tiny miners were chipping away at my brain. I’d tried to numb the boredom and the anxiety of not being able to get out there and do my job by hangin’ out with Don Julio.

  It had worked for a few hours. But now I was suffering for the short reprieve.

  “Pick up your phone or turn the damn thing off,” Brady grumbled before turning and stomping out of his guest room.

  My arm was heavy as I grabbed the ringing device from the nightstand and, with the only eye that was open, saw that I’d ten missed calls and a dozen texts. It was a quarter to eight. I’d only been asleep for a few hours.

  “What the fuck?”

  As my brain began to catch up to what my eyes were seeing, my phone rang again. The name Kingpin appeared on the screen. It was my boss, the police chief. Everyone referred to him as Kingpin because of his position, but also because he was a six-time national bowling champion.

  Unfortunately, Kingpin wasn’t my biggest fan. He was a by-the-book, black and white, right and wrong guy. I, on the other hand, was more of a rule-bending, living in the gray area, end-justifies-the-means guy. Needless to say, our differing ethical views and moral codes had caused some friction. But, over the past two years since I’d been promoted to detective, I thought I might’ve grown on him. Not that he’d admit it.

  “Morning, Chief. What can I do ya for?”

  “Get your ass down to City Hall. You have a meeting at the mayor’s office at eight.”

  The mayor. What the hell? Why did I feel like I was being called to the principal’s office? At least in school, I’d always liked my principals and they’d liked me. The mayor was a douchebag.

  Ken Bradley and I had never gotten along. We had a saying in Texas. All hat and no cattle. That was Bradley, no question.

  Which I guess made for a good politician, but not someone I wanted to grab a beer with. So, why the hell was I being summoned to City Hall to meet with him?

  “I’m on leave,” I responded, sounding like a pouty kid.

  Which wasn’t that far off from how I felt.

  “This isn’t an active duty assignment.”

  Shit. Was this a desk job? I’d been worried that the chief was going to make me push papers since I wasn’t cleared to return to active duty. So far, Kingpin had been more than happy for me to serve my time away from the station. But it seemed like he might’ve found a workaround by putting me behind a desk and not having to look at me.

  “What the hell does Bradley want?” I’d heard some rumblings over the weekend that he’d gotten himself into some trouble, but I rarely paid attention to gossip.

  I knew firsthand that you shouldn’t believe everything you read, or heard down at The Greasy Spoon.

  “Not Bradley. You’re meeting with Rogers.”

  “Fred or Orville?”

  The Rogers brothers had lived in Wishing Well their entire lives. Fred was a postman and Orville had been mayor for over two decades before retiring a few years back.

  “Orville, he’s acting mayor.”

  “Since when?” Was I dreaming? If I was, this was a nightmare. Orville meant well, but he was the poster child for peaking in high school. He and I shared the distinction of being all-state quarterbacks and every time I saw him, “the good ol’ days” was all he wanted to talk about.

  “Since this morning.”

  “What happened to Bradley?”

  “Eight sharp. Don’t be late.”

  The line disconnected after his last barked instruction which, make no mistake, was a personal dig at me. I wasn’t the most prompt of individuals. Again, the gray area of life.

  I looked at the time. It was seven forty-five. I knew the right thing to do was get my ass out of bed and into the shower. The problem was, the pillow was calling to me like a siren in the middle of a hangover sea. And I wasn’t exactly known for doing the right thing, especially when the wrong one felt so good.

  Ten minutes. I’d rest my head for ten minutes and then I’d throw on some Levi’s and be out the door.

  No sooner had my head hit the pillow than my phone buzzed again. With a groan, I grabbed it and saw that it was a text from Kingpin that simply read: Get your ass up.

  “Shit.”

  Before my early wakeup call, I’d planned on sleeping ’til four in the afternoon, waking up, having a big greasy meal, and playing Xbox. Looked like my day wasn’t going to go as planned.

  I pushed up off the small twin bed in my brother’s guest room and swung my legs over the side. When I sat up, I felt a pain in my tailbone. My hand flew to my lower back and I twisted and looked down. There was a large spot of discoloration at the base of my spine.

  A bruise? Where had that come from? Shit, did I fall on my ass last night? I didn’t have time to worry about that now.

  My entire body protested as I stood. I was just shy of thirty and my body didn’t respond the same way it did a few years ago after a night—or a couple of nights…or weeks—of boozin’.

  The sun was shining brightly when I stepped into the bathroom. I shut my eyes as I took the longest piss of my life, then turned the shower nozzle all the way to hot. When I stepped beneath the spray and started to wash off, I realized that one part of my body hadn’t been affected by my hangover.

  My morning wood was in rare form even after takin’ a leak. I knew that I needed to handle the situation, but I didn’t have a lot of time. Closing my eyes, my mind went to my go-to quick jerk fantasy, but I wasn’t happy about it.

  If time constraints would’ve allowed me to think of any other person, I sure as hell would’ve. But apparently my brain and my dick didn’t see eye to eye on the subject of Maisy Turner.

  I didn’t like the woman, never had. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. There’d been a time—namely my entire adolescence—when I’d definitely had a thing for her. But just like Kingpin, she was a by-the-book, black and white, right and wrong kinda gal. It was frustrating as hell.

  Every time I was around her, I couldn’t resist rilin’ her up. It didn’t hurt that she was easy to rile. I got more satisfaction, and felt more alive, sparring with her than I’d ever gotten or felt from any romantic relationship I’d been in.

  Not that I’d been in that many. In fact, there’d been only one of note. And it had crashed and burned in the worst way.

  I pushed all thoughts of my ex from my head and let it fill with visions of Maisy as I took matters into my own hands, so to speak. I’d seen her over the weekend at Movies in the Park on Saturday night. The weekly event was hosted by the town during the summer. People gathered on the grass area in the town square to watch a movie that was projected onto the side of City Hall.

  My mind drifted back to seeing Maisy sprawled out on a checkered picnic blanket, lookin’ like a country boy’s wet dream come to life. She’d been wearing a pair of cutoff shorts, a tank top, and cowboy boots. I let myself play out what I’d wanted to do that night.

  I walk over and pick her up. No, I don’t ask.

  She gasps, her arms fly around my neck.

  “Bentley,” she giggles, nuzzling her face into my neck.

  I carry her away from the crowd behind City Hall.
Once we’re tucked out of sight, I set her down and start kissing her as if my life depends on it. My hands slide beneath her tank top and my palms cup her breasts and I squeeze her nipples between my thumb and forefinger as I bite down on her lower lip.

  She moans as her hands scramble for my belt buckle. Quickly, efficiently, she frees my cock and drops to her knees.

  I watch her take me in her mouth. Her full lips slide up and down my shaft as she sucks hard. She moans and I feel it vibrate through my shaft. Her large, golden gaze lifts up to look at me as she takes me deep, so deep I can feel the tip of my dick hitting the back of her throat.

  My hand drops to her head, and I thread my fingers through the silky strands of her hair and fist them. She pulls back and then takes me deep again. And again. By the fourth time, my balls tighten and I explode in her mouth.

  “Oh fuck,” I gritted out as I leaned my head on the tile wall of the shower, panting like a dog on a hot summer day.

  I checked my Apple watch on the counter and saw that less than one minute had passed. Nothing could get me off as fast or as hard as thinking about Maisy Turner. I’d come to accept that. It was out of my control. Just like this damn modified leave. And my meeting with the mayor.

  Which I still had time to make, thanks to one Miss Maisy Turner. I grinned as I finished washing off and got out of the shower, thinking about what she’d do if she ever found out my dirty little secret.

  Thankfully, she’d never know.

  Chapter 3

  Maisy

  “Swimmin’ against the tide is as useless as it is exhaustin’. All ya end up doin’ is puttin’ out a lotta effort for a little result.”

  ~ Granny Turner

  The small parking lot at the back of City Hall was full. In all my summers interning there in high school and college, and then the four years I’d spent in the public works department, I’d never seen it this full. It looked like it was all hands on deck.

  I guessed a major scandal would do that.

  As city manager, I was issued a parking space. Unfortunately, HR hadn’t assigned me one yet since I’d only been appointed to the job on Saturday.

  I circled the block three times, my anxiety expanding tenfold with each loop I took. By the fourth loop, my anxiety was in the red zone, and I was about to park in one. But that would be breaking a rule. Something I never did.

  Hmmm… To be late or to break a rule… And not just a rule, a law. Sure, I could use my position to get out of any ticket I might be issued, but what sort of person did that? A person who didn’t follow rules, that was who. I was not that person.

  I was just going to have to suck it up and be late for the first time in my adult life.

  Karma must truly exist, because the exact moment that I resigned myself to walking into the meeting late and not using my position as a get out of jail free card—or in this case, a get out of a ticket free card—the heavens parted and I saw a white truck pull out of a spot at the far end of the lot.

  The Hallelujah chorus rang out in my head as I turned the steering wheel and drove into the row. I waited, blinker on, for Mr. Jackson to back out. He was a retired teacher. Two of my sisters had had him in Algebra—my younger sister Delilah and my wombie (womb roomie) Melody.

  “Hey there, Melody!” Mr. Jackson tipped his cap toward me.

  “Hi!” I waved.

  There was a time that I would have corrected Mr. Jackson, told him that I was Maisy and not Melody, but that time had passed. I’d gone through several years of needing to assert my own identity. Basically, from the ages of seventeen to twenty-two, I did everything I could to distinguish myself.

  I even went as far as to chop my long blonde locks into a pixie cut. Then, when it grew out, I dyed it every color under the rainbow, from bubble gum pink to peacock blue.

  I also used fashion as a way to exercise my individuality. While my sisters shared jeans, T-shirts, shorts and cute skirts, I’d gone a different route. I’d worn all black. Including accessories, and even lipstick. Then I’d gone through a baggy phase.

  But now, as my thirtieth birthday loomed in front of me like a root canal, I was focusing on making my mark in my career. Professionally, people would know me. Maisy Turner, City Manager. I would be known as the woman that saved the city.

  Or…couldn’t save the city, the tiny voice in the back of my head piped up.

  I waited, as patiently as I possibly could, as Mr. Jackson worked to shift from reverse into first. I could hear the sound of gears grinding, and it was like nails on a chalkboard. Finally, he puttered away. Relief washed over me as I began to turn into the spot. But it was replaced with white-hot rage when a gas-guzzling monstrosity swooped in and beat me to it.

  Before I even looked to find out who was behind the wheel, I knew exactly who I would see. I knew those forty-inch tires, dusty chrome running board, and metallic black finish anywhere. The driver was none other than the man who had terrorized me in my sleep.

  Bentley Calhoun, the devil himself, stepped out of the truck.

  “That spot was mine!” I shouted the second his boot hit the pavement.

  “Funny, I didn’t see your name on it.” He turned his ball cap from facing backward to front.

  “I had my blinker on!”

  “So did I, darlin’.” He tipped his hat and had the nerve to wink at me.

  Wink!

  Everything that Bentley did was meant to annoy me. Sadly, nine times out of ten, his efforts yielded results and they always had, ever since the first day I met him at the tender age of five. On that occasion, he’d ruined my first-day-of-school dress before we’d even gone into the classroom, and that turned out to be a running theme between us–him ruining my days. He had a way of getting under my skin like no other.

  “I don’t have time to argue.” Normally, I never backed down from a showdown with Bentley, but this morning I didn’t have the time to indulge. “I’m gonna be late!”

  He was already halfway across the parking lot and lifted his hand in a wave. “You’re not the only one.”

  “Shit!” I cursed as I pressed down on the gas.

  I never cussed. Ever. My sisters did, and Granny Turner used to brag about cursing like a sailor. Even my mom dropped an F-bomb when it was needed. But I didn’t. Except around one person.

  Bentley Calhoun. Granny Turner used to say that we pushed each other’s buttons. If that were the case, he definitely pushed my foul language button.

  After one more trip around the lot, I had just resigned myself to the fact that I was going to have to park in the metered street parking down the block when God took pity on me and a spot miraculously opened up in the front row. This time no one stole it from me.

  My heart was going a mile a minute as I rushed into the building and up to the third floor. I didn’t risk taking the elevator for fear that it would get stuck and make me even later for my meeting with Mrs. Dumas, the mayor’s executive assistant.

  She was not a woman you wanted to keep waiting. She’d worked for the mayor’s office for over thirty years, and she did not suffer fools.

  By the time I turned the corner to the hallway that led to both the mayor’s and Mrs. Dumas’s offices, I was out of breath, and sure I’d sweated through my silk top. Thanks to one unfortunate summer camp photo where my sisters and I were holding our hands up in the air spelling YMCA and I was the only one with a large, dark ring around my armpits, I’d had a fear of pit stains.

  I was going to check but when I looked up to see if I was alone, I saw I was not. None other than the parking spot-stealing devil himself was casually leaning against the wall in front of the mayor’s office.

  “Mornin’, Daisy with an M,” he said with a slow drawl that made some women, most women, swoon—but made me want to roll my eyes.

  He’d been referring to me that way since our first day of kindergarten, when our teacher, Miss Green, had made that observation about my name. I hadn’t liked it then, and I still didn’t like it twenty-five years
later.

  Irritation shot through me like a popped fire hydrant. I knew exactly what Bentley was doing. He was baiting me. But today, I wasn’t going to take that bait.

  “You here to see Dumbass, too?” He whispered beneath his breath.

  “Grow up, Bentley.”

  “Where’s the fun in that? Oh, wait. I’m askin’ the wrong person. You wouldn’t know anything about fun.”

  “Nice of you to dress up for the occasion.” It was a weak comeback, but it had already been a day and it was just getting started.

  And it wasn’t like it was unwarranted. Bentley wore jeans, a T-shirt, and a baseball cap… to go to the mayor’s office. And if the stubble he was rocking was any indication, he hadn’t shaved in at least a week.

  I’d never admit it, but I liked Bentley with a little facial hair. I’d always thought the stubble made him look more manly. That was probably why he always had it in my dreams—make that nightmares—even though we were in high school in them.

  He leaned down and his voice grew even deeper. “Darlin’, I just found out a half-hour ago that I was being summoned here. You’re lucky I’m wearin’ more than my Hanes.”

  A tremor rushed down my spine. I refused to believe it had anything to do with picturing Bentley in his underwear and everything to do with the vent that was pointed my direction and the fact that my hair wasn’t completely dry from rinsing out the coffee.

  “And hey, at least I showered.”

  There was something in the way he said showered that had images much more X-rated than him in his boxer briefs popping up in my head.

  When Mrs. Dumas opened the door suddenly, I felt like I’d been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Well, if my hand was imagination and the cookies were images of Bentley naked in the shower.

  Without saying a word or glancing in our direction, she walked back to her desk and sat down.