Protecting-Lu-Kindle.jpg

Protecting Lu

Lu's trouble, hot in that dirty-daddy sort of way, and I'm risking everything to make her mine.

She’s all kinds of wrong for me, grumpy, headstrong, as disagreeable as they come, and she’s tangled up with the outlaw biker club I’m taking down. 

She’s not my responsibility.

Not my priority.

She’s not even my type.

But hell if any of that matters because, even if it’s the last thing I do, 

I’m protecting Lu.

Note: This story, originally part of the Dirty Daddies Anthology 2020, has been rewritten to include new content, doubling its length. 

Excerpt

“Hey,” he says, and I nod, coldly. Admittedly, my cheeks do warm though, but not because I’m embarrassed by how rude I was the last time I saw him. It’s more because up close he’s even more handsome, and last night, as I was cramped in my car’s too-small backseat attempting to sleep, I’d dreamt of him. Specifically, my skirt hiked up and the top of his gorgeous head between my thighs.

Lu doesn’t wear skirts, but Tallulah does, and she’s apparently got a thing for this guy as well. Down, girl.

My dream, and its unattainable nature, make me hangrier. Hangry and bitter, Lu’s two best friends.

Sexy Security Dude’s expression is bright—all straight white teeth and crooked boyish grin. And his eyes sparkle as if he knows a secret — gulp, hopefully not what I’d dreamt about last night.

“What?” I blurt accusingly as he stares expectantly.

His brow wrinkles and those sexy eyes drop to stare at the card in my hand. “Uh, good shift then, huh?”

I frown when his gaze finds mine again. Saucy fucker.

I shove out my swipe card for him, but he only glances at it. I’m standing at the front of a long-ass line of tired workers, and he’s just staring at me as if he knows I crumpled at his touch in my dream last night. I glare at him, then look pointedly at the line behind me before turning back.

Leaving this building is my favorite thing these days. My life is so incredibly crappy at current, leaving at the end of my shift can be counted as self-care. Except when it’s really cold.

“I’ll be happier when it’s over,” I finally say, in hopes it will move things forward. When he doesn’t budge, I nod my chin toward the punch clock. He looks over his shoulder at it, to the card in my hand and then back at me expectantly.

My eyes narrow and I’ve gone from frowning to scowling. “Let’s go! It’s eleven-oh-two, buddy.”

“That’s not going to work, I’m afraid.” He points at my card.

For fuck’s sake. I’m about to explode when I suddenly become aware of who’s actually holding things up.

Me.

Hell.

In my hand is a loyalty card — from a place I can no longer afford to shop — not my swipe card.

“For fu—” Before I can finish my oath, SSD clears his throat as if uncomfortable. “You could have said something,” I growl.

“Because my interactions with you are always so pleasant I’m eager for more?”

I can’t help it; I bark out a laugh. Touché, SSD, touché.

Fumbling to find the right card, I mumble an apology behind me, but as I do my card drops to the floor. I curse (this time without interruption), and bend to grab it, only as I do I’m paying more attention to SSD’s well-fitting pants than I am my surroundings and bash my head on the metal armed chair. It’s not a cute little knock either. I hit hard, hard enough to stumble and land on my ass.

“Jesus! Would you back the hell up!” I say with the finesse of an over-caffeinated, overtired, long haul trucker. Glaring, as if he’s to blame for my stumble, I rub my head. SSD plucks my card off the floor and pulls me up by the arm, his face plastered with concern.

“Ouch, that looked like it hurt.”

“Thanks, Captain Obvious,” I grind out. “This is bullshit, anyway,” I say, trying to distract him and everyone else from my injury. “There’s no reason we all can’t swipe our own cards.” I’m still rubbing the spot on my forehead when he shoots me an impatient glare and moves me forcefully to the chair.

“Sit. You hit your head pretty hard.” He moves me back until the chair forces my knees to buckle and I plop down. “Let me see.” He bends his knees to look, but I don’t move my hand. “I think you’re bleeding.”

“No,” I bark and swat him away with my free hand, pressing the other more firmly over my wound. “Leave me alone.” That last bit comes out rather pouty. I’m not proud, but I’m pretty sure I am bleeding and it’s the last straw of my crappy day, week, month… or eight.

“Don’t move.” He drops my card into his breast pocket and gives me a stern look. A look I’m sure he didn’t intend to give me flutters.

“We’re not in kindergarten,” I say. “We shouldn’t have to wait in line for recess. And this isn’t a damn time-out chair.” There’s more than a dollop of snark in my words, but not too much more. I’m edging toward defeat.

“Really? And here you are sounding all petulant like a five-year-old in need of one.” His back’s to me as he speaks because he’s taking cards and swiping the others through. “And it’s not my rule, anyway. Apparently, someone broke the punch machine last month…and we don’t know why or who because the camera was also broken.” He suddenly looks over at me with accusation in his eyes. “It’s fixed now too, by the way.”

Is he psychic? I swallow. The camera was necessary for me to sneak back in unnoticed. The punch clock? A bit of temper.

Rising, I slam my hands onto my hips, but then a wave of dizziness has me sitting back down, sheepishly. I’m not sure if it’s low blood sugar, my head injury, or maybe anxiousness at his sort of half-assed accusation, but either way, I won’t be storming out anytime soon. I need a change of tactic. “Come on, Mr. Security guy, let me go. I have a nice boyfriend at home to play nurse.”

“I’m not letting you leave until I check you over properly. Can’t you just sit and behave for two minutes so I can let everyone else leave?”

Behave? That word is… er…there’s just something about it. I lick my lips.

“We can handle punching ourselves out,” someone says from the line. “She’s bleeding.”

I can’t tell who spoke so I glare at them all, but my mind is still chewing over the word behave and the bossy way this sexy, sexy man speaks to me.

“Just give me back my card, buddy,” I say, and rise to go for it in his pocket, but he stops me with a firm look and a gentle hand on my wrist. The look has me swallowing hard again, but the touch, phew, fire extinguisher, please.

“It’s not your card; it’s company property. Now sit… before I make you.” He mumbles that last thing so no one but me can hear.

Oh. My. God.

Please make me.

He’s big. Have I mentioned that? Sexy Security Dude is like well over six-feet big. Wrestler big. And I don’t mean sumo. He has muscles, maybe not as big as Python’s, but way more delicious.

And he’s super hot!

Who’s your daddy, hot.

And at current he’s being very who’s-your-daddy like and dominant and it’s causing a flood of…

Mmhmm.

How hard did I hit my head? I brush off the weird wave of needy desire and continue my fight.

“Are you detaining me, officer?”

His brow wrinkles. “No.” His word is tentative, the vowel elongated. “Should I be?” His mouth curves slightly when he looks at me. “I do have cuffs if I need them.” He pats his hip where the silver metal bracelets hang on his duty belt.

I narrow my eyes at him, grunt, and sit. I’m tired, cranky, and now instead of hangry, I’m turned on. And maybe… I grab my stomach and close my eyes.

Nauseated.

“Are you dizzy?”

My eyes pop open and everyone is gone. SSD’s face hangs over mine as he looks at my forehead.

“I was, but I don’t know now.” I’m cooperating, but my tone makes it obvious I don’t want to be.

“Come on.” He grabs my arm and helps me up. “The infirmary’s this way.”

“I know where it is,” I bark. “I’ve worked here longer than you.”

His mouth pulls up at the side as we walk. “That’s some serious attitude. You need a Snickers?”

“You got one? Or five?” I reply, dryly.

He shakes his head, the corner of his mouth hitched up as if he’s both exasperated and amused, and unlocks the door to the infirmary. Opening it, he waves me through. “Sit on the bed.”

I eye him. “Trying to get me into bed, officer? Tsk, tsk, what would HR say?”

“Be a good little girl and I’ll find you that Snickers,” he says, patting me on the head before grabbing a first aid kit off the shelf.

I’m speechless.

First the behave and the bossiness and now the be a good little girl. Lord almighty, I might be called into HR if he keeps it up. What is it about a bossy, dominant man that makes us girls swoony?