Chaser_A Jinx Ballou Novel Page 3

  I lowered the Glock, catching my breath as my heart thundered in my chest. “Jesus, Conor. What the hell? I thought you were on a stakeout.”

  “The bloke showed up. We grabbed him and took him to Glendale lockup.” His grin deepened. “Shite! Look at ya! All naked and deadly.”

  I rolled my eyes, a little embarrassed, then marched back to the bathroom to put away the Glock and grab my robe.

  Conor hugged me from behind, whispering, “Now that we’re both excited, how about a ride, eh, love?” He kissed my ear. I could feel him getting hard against my hip.

  “After you scared me half to death? Fat chance, buddy boy!” I said with a chuckle. I slipped out of his grip, pulled on my robe, and tied the sash in a loose bow.

  He sat on the toilet, looking up at me. “Scared you? I was the one staring down the business end of a Glock. Almost shat myself.”

  “Serves you right for sneaking in.” I sat in his lap. Damn, he smelled good. My body literally ached to feel him inside me.

  “Can ya blame me, love? You’re gonna be spending all weekend half naked with your geeky mates wantin’ to cop a feel of Superwoman.”

  I playfully swatted him. “First off, it’s Wonder Woman, not Superwoman. And second, I won’t be half naked. Just showing a little cleavage. I can try on the costume for you if you don’t believe me.”

  “That’s all right. I saw it when you first made it. And it’s brilliant. But right now, I’m in the mood for more than a little cleavage.” His deft fingers untied the bow on my robe’s sash.

  We made our way to the bedroom and spent the next hour loosening all the knots that a day pursuing fugitives can put into a body. It always amazed me that a man as strong as Conor could be so gentle. His fingers and lips played my body with the skill of a jazz musician, leaving me gasping with pleasure. When he slid into me, I grabbed his butt cheeks and pulled him in even deeper, rocking into a rhythm that sent my mind shooting into the stratosphere.

  By the time we were done, I lay next to him, floating on the lingering buzz of two orgasms, my hand resting on the ginger curls of hair covering his belly.

  “You hungry?” I asked, gazing absently at the scars on his chest caused years earlier by an IED explosion overseas.

  He took a deep sigh. “What? Ya want to go again?”

  “Not for me, silly. For food. I could make us some stir-fry or something.”

  He opened his eyes. “That sounds brilliant.”

  I threw on a worn gray tank top and matching yoga pants, made my way to the kitchen, and chopped up some vegetables and a chicken breast. As I fired up the gas stove and added some peanut oil to the wok, Conor wandered in wearing my robe.

  “Don’t you look cute.” I tossed the chicken into the hot oil and stirred it as it sizzled. “Though the pink kinda clashes with your red hair.”

  “I suppose it does.” He shrugged.

  “You know that article comes out tomorrow. The one in Phoenix Living Thom Hensley interviewed me for. I’m excited to see what he wrote.”

  His smile faded ever so slightly. “Oh yeah? That’s great, love.”

  “Something wrong?”

  “Naw, nothing’s wrong.” Conor shrugged and snatched a piece of broccoli from the cutting board. “I’m glad you’re excited.”

  A slight hesitation in his voice told me he was hiding something. I set down the spatula and faced him, hands on my hips. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing, love. Swear to Christ.”

  “Don’t lie to me, mister. You’re so full of shit your emerald eyes are turning brown. Now spill!”

  “It’s just . . . in the bail enforcement biz, it’s a good idea to maintain a low profile, especially with the press. Those dodgy blokes’ll do a number on ya, sure as shoot ya. You in particular don’t need guys like Thom Hensley digging up your past.”

  “Good grief, you think I told him I was trans? Not a chance. All we talked about was how I got into bounty hunting and what it’s like being a woman in a male-dominated business. Period.”

  He kissed me on the forehead. “It’s just I’ve read this guy’s work. He doesn’t write fluff stories, Jinxie. He writes hit pieces. Exposés about bad cops, corrupt politicians, and evil corporations. He did that series on Sheriff Joe last year. Wrote one last month about a strip club owner who’s running a human trafficking ring.”

  “This isn’t a hit piece, Conor. Thom’s a nice guy. You’ll see.” I tossed in the veggies and my secret combination of sauces, though I was starting to lose my appetite.

  “Don’t be cross, love. I’m just worried about ya is all.”

  “I’d rather you be excited for me.”

  He hugged me from behind and gently kissed my ear. “Then excited I am.”

  I dished up two plates and handed him one. “Let’s eat.”

  “How’d your night go?” he asked between bites. “D’ya get your guy?”

  “Rodeo and I did.” I picked at my food. “Fiddler was on the back door. But when the shit went down, he was MIA. Rodeo thinks he’s working that Holly Schwartz case.”

  “That bloody prick! Don’t know what’s gotten into him lately. Ya want I should kick his arse?”

  “Naw, I got it handled.”

  “That’s my girl!” He grabbed my hand and squeezed gently, making it impossible to stay mad at him.

  “After I turn in the body receipt to Liberty in the morning, I’m grabbing a bunch of copies of Phoenix Living. Want me to get you one?”

  Conor paused mid-chew, shrugged, and shook his head a little too vigorously. “Naw, I’ll just read yours.”

  “You really think he’s going to out me, don’t you? Why would you think that? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “Just me being paranoid is all.”

  “Paranoid and overprotective.”

  “What can I say? Ya mean the world to me, love.” A smile bloomed across his face, but it had no effect on me.

  “Well, cut it out. It’s getting on my nerves. I’m not a child. I’m a grown woman.” I pushed my plate aside. Conor’s paranoia and a day of chasing down fugitives in the heat were taking their toll on my body as well as my mood.

  He winked at me. “On that we can definitely agree.”

  “I’m tired. I think I’ll turn in early. You coming?”

  “I’d love to, but there’s some paperwork I have to finish up at my place. Deez and the boys’ll be pissed if I don’t have their checks ready for them in the morning.” He walked over and kissed me. “Don’t worry. I’m sure the article will be brilliant.”

  “Thanks.” I hugged him. “I love you.”

  “Love ya too. Get some rest. I’ll clean up the kitchen before I go.”

  5

  There were so many things I loved about being a bounty hunter. I set my own hours, though sometimes that involved spending long nights sitting in a car, bored out of my skull and hoping I didn’t have to pee. Also, I didn’t have to wear a uniform or worry about warrants or writing up arrest reports. And there was nothing like the thrill of slapping the cuffs on a fugitive and bringing him in. The only thing better was getting paid to do it.

  The next morning, I showed up at Liberty Bail Bonds on Jackson Street in downtown Phoenix. Big Bobby Mills, the owner, had run the agency there since Biblical times, or so he told people. The office always reminded me of a cross between a man cave and a barbershop, wrapped in wood paneling, circa 1975.

  A half dozen wooden folding chairs formed a small lobby at the front of the office. Autographed photos of Big Bobby posing with various celebrities hung on one wall, his favorite showing him arm in arm with members of Lynyrd Skynyrd after he’d bailed them out for disorderly conduct and possession of a controlled substance.

  Big Bobby’s wife, Sara Jean, sat at an antique walnut desk separating the lobby from the rest of the office. She worked as the office manager, providing me with files for defendants who’d missed their court dates—and paychecks, after I’d deliver
ed them back to jail.

  Sara Jean was a sizable woman with a smile that could fill a room with warm fuzzies, and a Southern drawl as sweet as fresh-picked peaches. Whenever I stopped by, she’d fill me in on the latest about her grandkids, whose photos surrounded her workstation. As the only two women affiliated with the agency, we had formed a bond.

  Above her desk hung a constellation of plaques and framed certificates recognizing the agency’s contributions to local nonprofits including Valley Big Brothers Big Sisters, Phoenix Children’s Hospital, and St. Mary’s Food Bank.

  When Sara Jean didn’t smile at me as I walked in with Freddie Colton’s body receipt, I knew something was bothering her.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked as I sat in the chair in front of her desk. “One of your grandkids sick again?”

  “No.” She kept her eyes on her computer monitor, typing away.

  I set the body receipt on the desk. She glanced at it and kept typing.

  “You and Big Bobby have a fight?”

  “No.”

  I started to worry. Had I said or done something wrong? Last time we spoke a few days earlier, she’d been telling me about having lost three pounds. I’d joked that soon she’d be beating off the boys with a stick. Maybe she’d thought I was mocking her.

  “You upset with me about something?”

  Her fingers froze above the computer keys. Her eyes locked with mine, and I saw a self-righteous anger that made me scooch my chair back a few inches. Without a word, she pulled the new issue of Phoenix Living out of a desk drawer and slapped it down. My goofy mug was on the cover, though to be honest, I thought the photo made me look better than I did in real life.

  “Okay. Was there something in the article that bothered you?” Had I said something negative about Liberty Bail Bonds? I didn’t think so.

  Sara Jean looked away. “All this time I thought you were a girl.”

  I glanced at the cover again and felt as if I’d been punched in the gut. The teaser headline read “Tranny Bounty Hunter Cleans Up the Town.” Aw, shit!

  “Sara Jean, I am a girl.” I stood up, arms spread wide. “I mean, look at me. Do I look like a boy? Do I sound like a boy?”

  “No, but according to this . . . ” She pounded the magazine with her finger so hard, I thought she’d break one of her manicured nails. “You got one of them sex changes.”

  I sighed, even as my heart revved in my chest like a race car engine. “I’ve always been a girl, Sara Jean. It’s just that through some crazy mix-up of biochemistry or genetics, I was born with a boy’s body. It’s hard to explain.”

  She fixed her gaze on me once again. “Ain’t nothing to explain. Boys is boys, and girls is girls. God made you what you are. Ain’t no changing it.”

  “I wish it were that simple, Sara Jean, but it’s not. I’m—”

  “Perverts like you’s what’s wrong with this world. Making it dangerous for God-fearing folks to use public restrooms.”

  “A pervert? Seriously, Sara Jean, is that what you think I am?” I rolled my eyes. “Wanna know what trans people do in public restrooms? We pee. We poop. And we wash our hands, which is more than I can say for some people.”

  Her hands disappeared under her desk. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “What we don’t do, Miss Dirty Hands, is obsess about what’s between someone else’s legs because trans people are smart enough to know it’s none of our goddamned business.”

  Her face colored with indignation. “Ha! That’s what the fake liberal media wants people to think. Like y’all are just poor innocent victims. But I see y’all for what you are—wolves in sheep’s clothing. Or women’s clothing.”

  I pressed my palm against my forehead. I wasn’t going to win this argument. As much as I liked Sara Jean, I’d known people like her my whole life—mindless drones who’d been fed a steady diet of hate-filled bullshit and self-righteous hypocrisy so long they refused to hear anything close to the truth.

  “Fine. You want to think I’m some deviant out to destroy Western civilization, so be it. I just want to get paid, okay? Can we at least keep this professional?” I slid the body receipt closer to her.

  She glanced at the paper, then at me, her mouth a thin line of bitterness. She snorted, pulled out the company checkbook, and wrote out a check with such ferocious pen strokes I thought she’d set the paper on fire. With a snap, she ripped the check loose and handed it to me. “Here’s your check, sir. Don’t come back.”

  My jaw tensed. If there was one thing that pissed me off, it was being intentionally misgendered, especially by friends. Or former friends. “I’d like to talk to Big Bobby.”

  “Bobby don’t wanna talk to you. He gave me explicit instructions. He ain’t hiring you no more. We are good Christians and don’t take kindly to deceivers and perverts coming in here acting all unnatural. All these years I trusted you. I shared things with you. Intimate things with you, you . . . you thing.”

  Okay, that did it. Gloves were off.

  I stood up and glared at her. “Look here, you ignorant transphobic bitch! Maybe if you pulled your holier-than-thou head out of your ass once in a while, you’d see not everyone is as privileged as you, that the rest of us are just doing our best to survive.”

  My rant was apparently loud enough to draw Big Bobby charging out of his office looking like a bull. He pointed a thick finger at me. “Get outta my office, you degenerate! Don’t you never come back.”

  “I’m still working some of your cases, Bobby. So I will be—”

  “We can handle them without you. Don’t you worry your pretty, little, uh . . .”

  I smirked. “Aw, Big Bobby. You called me pretty. Are you sweet on me?”

  His face resembled a blood blister about to pop. “Get out!”

  I’d said my piece, and I’d been paid. “Fine.” I kicked open the door, stormed out into the heat, and sat in the Gray Ghost, wrestling with a combination of anger, humiliation, and hurt.

  I had dirt on both of them. Maybe it would get me my job back, maybe it wouldn’t. But even if it did, did I want to work with such bigoted assholes? I really didn’t.

  Bile rose in my throat as the salacious headline on the Phoenix Living cover flashed back into my mind. How had I not seen this coming? Was I not allowed to leave that part of my past behind? Would it haunt me for the rest of my life? I pounded the dash until the throbbing in my hand pulled me from that spiral of endless, unanswerable questions.

  I took a deep breath. I focused on my mantra—WWWWD. What Would Wonder Woman Do? She’d let it go. She’d focus on the task at hand, which in my case meant finding a job. While I’d freelanced for several bail bond agencies over the years, the majority of my revenue had been coming from Liberty. With Big Bobby and Sara Jean giving me the heave-ho, I’d have to hustle up new business with my old contacts to make up the loss.

  But first, I needed to get a copy of Phoenix Living and find out what in hell Thom Hensley had written about me.

  6

  I picked up a copy of Phoenix Living at a QT convenience store on McDowell. The clerk smiled, glanced at the cover, then back at me with a surprised look on his face. “Is that you?”

  I nodded, impatient to read the article. “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “So you’re—”

  “Really in a hurry. Thanks!” I hustled out the door for the sanctuary of the Gray Ghost.

  I frantically flipped to the article. My heart thundered in my chest. My gaze danced erratically across the page. Goddammit, girl, just chill out and focus. I took a deep breath and started reading.

  Most of what Thom Hensley had written came from our interviews. But then I came across the sentence: “Not only is Jinx Ballou among the few female bounty hunters in Arizona, she is also the only one openly transgender.”

  Openly transgender? What the hell? I pounded the dashboard so hard it sent a jolt of pain through my arm to my shoulder.

  I’d met with Hensley three times, once a
t an upscale restaurant in Scottsdale, then twice more at his office for follow-up questions. He’d been charming and respectful, displaying a critical yet open mind and an attention to details.

  “I find the idea of a female bounty hunter intriguing and encouraging,” he told me over blue corn taquitos at our first meeting, setting a digital recorder between us. “We need more people like you breaking glass ceilings.”

  “Everybody’s got to earn a paycheck somehow,” I joked. “Besides, it’s not like I’m the only woman in the business.”

  “You ever meet Domino Harvey?”

  “No. She died a few years before I became a bounty hunter.”

  “What about that gal up in New Jersey? God, what’s her name?”

  “I know who you mean. Met her once when one of my fugitives fled to Trenton.” I chuckled sardonically. “Not the most professional bounty hunter I’ve worked with, but she gets the job done.”

  “What inspired you to become a bounty hunter?”

  My face warmed with embarrassment. “I was a nerdy kid reading comic books, dreaming of becoming a real-life Wonder Woman. When I realized at age six that wouldn’t happen, I set my sights on becoming a homicide detective. I earned a bachelor’s in criminology from Arizona State, then joined Phoenix PD.”

  “You were a cop?” He cocked an eyebrow. “Why’d you leave?”

  “Funny thing about police departments. They don’t let you go straight from the academy to being a plainclothes detective.”

  “You don’t say,” he replied with a chuckle.

  “I knew this, obviously. But what I didn’t realize was how miserable I’d be as a patrol officer. Me and uniforms? Not so much. Then there’re all the rules and regs I had to follow. Wonder Woman never bothered with probable cause or arrest reports.”

  I stared blankly across the room, the memories replaying vividly in my mind. “The turning point came when my partner, Officer Luis Garza, and I responded to a violent confrontation between two rival gang members at Grumpy’s Bar and Grill on the 300 block of West McDowell. By the time we arrived on scene, the suspects had been subdued by a couple of patrons—Conor Doyle and Robert ‘Fiddler’ Dixon.