Page 20 of Cocky Jerk

You know you’re fucked whenyou spend the better part of the night with a bag of frozen peas pressed to your cheek. Bringing Antonia her license was a mistake, but I couldn’t stay away. I wanted more of that wild woman and as I nursed a six-pack of beer and tended to my bruised jaw, I decided one chance encounter wasn’t enough.

I wanted Antonia DeLuca in my bed.

I wanted her writhing beneath me, screaming my name and begging me for more.

Convincing myself I was drunk, I pushed those thoughts out of my head and forced myself to go to sleep. I figured I’d wake up a new man. I’d forget all about the hot-blooded vixen that sent a typical Monday into a fucking tailspin.

But you know what they say, drunk words are sober thoughts. When my alarm sounded, I opened my eyes to find my hand wrapped around my cock and like a fool, I turned, expecting to see Antonia beside me.

Dreams, man, they’ll fuck you up.

I dragged myself out of bed, took a shower and the whole fucking time I struggled to keep her out of my mind and my hands off my junk. By the time I got to the precinct, thoughts of her resurfaced. This time she wasn’t naked and sweaty from having been fucked six ways to Sunday, she was with that sleazy biker, Hound, and my mind kept replaying the same words over and over.

“Hound thinks he has some type of claim on me, that I’m his responsibility.”

That’s a pretty big stand for a man to take when he’s not her boyfriend. I didn’t like it and instead of typing up my reports, I found myself digging into the database for information on this Hound character. I didn’t have a real name for the asshole, so I did a search on the Corrupt Hellraisers, but before the system could pull any hits, I got called out on a domestic dispute.

Prying into Antonia’s life would have to wait.

My partner, Richie, and I hit the patrol car and sped to the location dispatched over the radio. There we found a disgruntled wife setting her husband’s clothes on fire because he forgot to pay the cable bill. Reason seven-hundred and thirty-six not to get married.

Women are fucking nuts, they flip on a dime and still, as Richie got on the radio with the fire department, I couldn’t help but think of Antonia. She’s definitely the type to set a man’s boxers on fire along with the begonias.

Once the fire department came and put the fire out, we took the husband’s statement.

“Ten bucks says he’s back in the house tomorrow,” Richie says as we finally pull away from the house.

“Twenty says we’re here next week,” I counter.

He shakes his head as he turns the corner.

“If Tina ever lit my shit on fire, I’d run for the hills.”

Raising an eyebrow, I turn to him. He’s full of shit. If Richie’s wife set his clothes on fire, he’d fuck her into next week. Like me, the guy gets off on crazy. It’s the reason he’s on his fourth wife. The first three were too timid. Tina keeps things interesting and Marco prefers a woman who raises hell from time to time.

We’re alike in that regard.

I like a woman who isn’t afraid to express herself. Someone who will challenge me and keep me on my toes. I’d prefer she not light my shit on fire, but if I deserved it, if I played her dirty—well, I’d expect nothing less.

Again, my mind drifts to Antonia. The fact that I can’t shake her alarms me, but I ignore it as I begin to wonder if that dickhead, Hound, did her dirty.

Muttering a curse, I divert my gaze away from Richie and swipe a hand over my face. The second my palm grazes the bruise on my jaw, I flinch, and Richie notices.

“You gonna tell me what happened, or should I take a guess?” he questions.

I really don’t want to get into it with him. The guy is relentless. If I tell him I went out of my way to bring a girl her license and got my ass handed to me, it will be all over the department. I’ll be hazed for weeks and I’m not looking to relive my days of being a rookie. No fucking thank you. I did my time.

“It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit. Who’d you piss off this time?”

“This time? You make it sound like this is a regular occurrence,” I grunt.

If I was having this conversation with my cousin, Tig, he’d say this is a regular occurrence and remind me I was Graham’s punching bag too.

That’s what you get for helping a friend.

No one lets you live it down.

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