Page 15 of Wicked

Shock and awe.

This girl doesn’t mince words or disappoint, giving as good as she’s getting, and I’m turned the fuck on.

But I won’t consider the challenge she threw down. Decide how much and how often I’m willing to share her with other guys? Uh-uh.

If Harper is my girl in the true sense of the word and not this fake boyfriend-girlfriend shit we’re tossing around to placate our friends, no way in hell will I let another guy touch or come inside her so long as she’s mine.

Ever.

6

Ryker

The guys and I finish our meals in silence. How can anyone top what just went down?

But something is happening from the front of the diner. Two guys dressed in suits, escorted in by two police officers, mosey toward the back where the kitchen is.

In the corner of my eye, I see a small figure follow the men out the doors.

“Hey, man, what’s with yourgirlfriendleaving with the coppers?”

“No clue.”

A clamoring starts in my chest. Is Harper in trouble? I rise out of my seat and drop a wad of twenties on the table.

“I’ll be back. I need to check on my girl.”

With my hands crammed in my pockets, I pull my shoulders to my core and march past a concerned Pam and out the double doors. The parking lot lights are bright. Harper is speaking to the men next to their patrol cars.

“Harper? You okay, babe?”

The men look me up and down. I take my hands out of my pockets and let my arms hang loose at my sides. In this situation, my hulking size and the scowl on my face masking my worry aren’t doing me any favors.

“And you are?” Suspicion from the officer eyeing Harper with interest. The punk’s young. I’m putting him in his late twenties.

“Ryker Conway,” I say in a neutral tone. Throwing attitude around these guys won’t earn me points either.

“The offensive tackle for Prescott U? The one everyone’s predicting since last season to get picked up in the first round of the NFL Draft?”

“Yeah, that’s me.” I rear up to my full height of six feet two inches, preening my position as one of the best blockers. And I’ll block this punk’s ass if he tries to make the moves on Harper.

The taller guy of the two suits speaks. “Name’s Officer Ramirez. How can we help you, son?”

I’m liking the officer. He’s friendly. Professional. Unlike the one in Prescott PD’s uniform giving me the stink eye and standing too close to Harper for my comfort.

“Harper’s my girl.” I slam the nail into that coffin and step toward her and the douchebag who isn’t getting the message to move away from Harper.

He’s so close, his shoulder grazes hers.

“I saw her leave with men of the law and became concerned. Wanted to make sure I was here for her.”

Officer Ramirez nods, this slow up and down of his head. “I see.”

He and Harper exchange a look.

“I’ve known Harper since she was thirteen. Flew in from Chicago to deliver the news myself. Her father died in prison. Happened last night.”

“Murdered. He was murdered, sir.” The implication behind Harper’s words is clear as day, and the rage in her tone, scalding.

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