By: Alexa Riley

I can’t fucking believe I let her slip out of here. She’s probably going home to her fiancé. I should have made it clear there was no more fucking fiancé in her life. She may have been his yesterday, but she was mine tonight. I coated her pussy and mouth with my cum and marked her as my territory. She doesn’t know it, but now she’s mine. The sooner she comes to terms with it, the better.

Fuck, I don’t even know her last name. Everyone I asked in the bar has no clue who she is. Shit. I pull my hand through my shaggy hair, trying to release some of the tension. I haven’t even known this girl ten hours and I’m all kinds of fucked up. She’s got me twisted up like never before, and it was so hard and fast I couldn’t stop it.

“I fucked up,” I tell Joey, looking over at her fiddling with the paper on her beer bottle, pulling it off and sticking it back on.

“Yeah, you did. You went after something you can’t have and you shouldn’t want,” she says, her dark green eyes coming to mine. Something like understanding flashes in them. I wonder if she’s talking more about herself than she’s talking about me. I didn’t mean I fucked up by being with my little Duchess, I meant I fucked up by letting her slip through my fingers tonight. I don’t like the feeling of not knowing where she is. It doesn’t sit right with me.

“Evening, Sheriff. What can I do for you tonight?” the bartender says. It draws my eyes to the mirror behind the bar, and I see the sheriff standing five feet back from Joey and me. Joey flinches, and I see her grip the empty shot glass tightly in her hand.

Well, isn’t that interesting. I sure hope it’s not what I think it is. I’m still not sure how I feel about Sheriff Law Anderson, the Mayor’s son. The mayor named his kid Law, as if he knew that one day he’d use him, which is what worries me about him. Anyone under Mayor Anderson’s thumb is someone to keep an eye on.

I’d heard he used to be a big detective up in Chicago until Daddy Mayor made him come home. And he had himself a sheriff in his back pocket two point five seconds later. Law’s not the type I thought Joey would go for, or vice versa. Joey has jet-black hair, so dark it’s almost blue. Sometimes she’ll put wild colors in it that match the tats she’s got on her shoulders and back. She’s always in simple jeans, boots, and tees, and never has a trace of make-up or anything girly on her. I guess I always thought she’d go for some tatted-up motorcycle guy, or maybe a tatted-up motorcycle chick. I don’t ask her a lot of questions. But I never thought she’d go for the good ol’ boy next door like Law Anderson.

“Just checking on things,” he responds, but his eyes stay on Joey’s back. She’s pretending he’s not there. Until he speaks to her. “How you doing, Josephine?”

Josephine? Fuck me. This isn’t good. I expect her to stand up and get in Law’s face, but she just raises her hand, giving him the finger. She still hasn’t turned around and refuses to meet his eyes in the mirror.

“Josephine, sweets, don’t—”

“Sweets—” I try to say something, but she cuts both of us off.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Anderson? Pretty sure stalking is against the law.”

I watch the Sheriff’s jaw tick. The bar has become eerily quiet now because everyone is watching what’s happening. It seems to make the Sheriff uncomfortable, until he breaks the silence.

“Jake, my sister around? I thought they came in here tonight,” Law says, looking to the bartender.

“She with that bachelorette party?”

“That would have been them.” If Law’s sister was with the bachelorette party, I realize I might have a way to find out who my Penelope is. I start to speak up, but his next words hit me hard. “She’s the bachelorette.”

Suddenly everything clicks into place.

A distant memory of the Mayor’s daughter coming home from college to marry his lawyer, Scott Winstead, has me clenching my teeth so hard I’m surprised they don’t crack. Scott and I go away back, and the history isn’t fucking good. The guy’s a cocky bastard who thinks his shit doesn’t stink, and he’s just as crooked as the mayor. Two peas in a fucking pod, those two are.

At least I know where to find her now. She’s either at the Mayor’s house or their old family estate. If she’s at fucking Scott’s house, I’ll burn the place to the ground with Scott still in it.

“They left here about two hours ago,” Jake says, pouring old Jim at the end of the bar another glass of cheap whiskey.

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