Page 5 of Starting Over

The tall stranger walked to the front of my car, keeping himself on the driver’s side, choosing to walk away from me and along the road. I wasn’t naïve enough to assume he was a gentleman. So, I kept myself alert, my hand tightened on the gun. I held my finger along the side of the barrel, ready to slide to the trigger at a moment’s notice.

“She just stopped. I looked at the engine, but I don’t know what I’m looking at,” I said, kicking myself for being so truthful about my weakness.

I didn’t want this man to see me as helpless. Helpless women were victims, and I would never be a victim again.

“She’s a beauty,” he said as his eyes trailed up the side of my car, then glanced at me. “Sure is a shame to see two beauties stranded by the side of the road.”

When he stood at the front of the car, the headlights shined on the cut he wore over his jacket. I noticed the 1% patch that sat by his shoulder, next to the one that read President. And under that, his name.

King.

It was fitting for a president.

He was a criminal. Criminals, I understood. Criminals had raised me. Criminals had taught me to survive. I knew what to expect from a criminal.

My shoulders loosened a bit, and King must have noticed. He looked down at his chest and saw what I was staring at.

“Never had a woman relax after seeing the patch. You an old lady?”

“No.”

He looked at me curiously before extending his left hand.

I looked down at it.

“You can hold on to your gun while you shake with your left,” he said with a grin that I imagined had dropped the panties of every woman he had ever met.

I reached over and shook his hand. “Maureen.”

“Good to meet you, Maureen. You live around here, or just driving through?”

“On my way to a little town called Diamond Creek. GPS says it isn’t far from here.”

“You found it.” He smirked. “Diamond Creek ain’t really all that little. Got quite a few square miles, but the sparse population makes it seem smaller than it is.”

King looked down the road, and I followed his gaze. The double headlights and the blue flashers on top had my shoulders tensing again.

“Here comes the calvary,” King remarked in an easy tone.

The cop car pulled up and stopped behind King’s motorcycle.

“Fuck,” I mumbled.

Rushing to open the door, I slid my gun back into my purse. I hadn’t looked into the carry laws in Nebraska, because honestly, it didn’t matter. I had carried a gun in Boston for years without a license.

By the time I straightened up, the cop had made his way to King.

“What seems to be the issue?” he asked.

“Nothing you need to worry about. You can be on your way.” My lips started moving before I could think about what I was saying. I had to remember this wasn’t Boston, and I didn’t know which cops were dirty, and which ones were clean.

The cop looked at King, who shrugged with a smile.

“Ma’am—”

“Did you just ma’am me?” I asked.

I stalked angrily to the front of the car and got my first proper look at the cop.

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