It was a miracle Rachel hadn’t drafted the guys to carry bowling balls for the grannies. Then again, today the boys weren’t supposed to be in Alden, and she probably preferred to leave a couple days between abuse and abuse.
Everything that before had annoyed the living shit out of him about Rachel had somehow begun to disappear. He wasn’t sure why; she was still the same loud and aggravating woman who didn’t hesitate to go head to head with him or question his authority when it came to the OGs. But now it didn’t irritate him. Maybe it was because he was giving up, tired of waging a losing battle. Rachel defended them out of love; there was no winning against that. Or maybe it had to do with the way she’d taken XL, Ash, and Monti under her wing. Be that as it may, he’d started finding her interesting and funny and even beautiful, in her own Grease Barbie kind of way. Which should totally horrify him, because he liked his women looking and smelling like women. And if that weren’t bad enough, since the stupid piggyback ride, he got hard whenever he saw Rachel or thought of her—which, as much as it pained him to admit, was quite often. He had to get his sorry ass back to Boston. Alden was fucking with his mind and his cock.
“Sheriff, I’m ready for you now,” the owner of the establishment said, interrupting Adrian’s thoughts.
“Please tell me the group on lane nine didn’t have anything to do with the vandalism,” Adrian said in a prayer.
The owner looked toward where Adrian was staring. “No, no. It was kids with their skates, bothering the clients. The ladies on lane nine did graffiti the wall one night.” Adrian tensed. There they went again. “But they’d asked permission beforehand,” the owner hurried to explain, probably reading the scowling expression Adrian had problems hiding. “And Wilma’s granddaughter and Mike were here the next morning with a big bucket of white paint, ready to cover it, which was good because, as artists go, Rebecca, Wilma, and Greta aren’t very talented.”
That was probably that pic he’d seen on the Facebook page, the weird graffiti he hadn’t been able to place.
“About the kids. I know them, so here’s a list of their names,” the owner offered, handing him a piece of paper. “If you could give them a warning, I’d be grateful. It will be more effective coming from you than me.”
As Adrian got ready to leave, Rachel spotted him and waved at him.
He thought about making a quick exit, but now the four women were waving and calling to him, so he decided to approach. The whole bowling alley was staring. Everyone knew of their… animosity for one another. He should be the bigger man.
“Ladies,” he greeted them, tipping his hat. At this proximity, he realized their names were bedazzled on the front of each of their tracksuits, with OGs Rock on the back. Nuts.
“We almost didn’t recognize you,” Wilma confessed. “This neon thing is playing tricks on my eyes.”
“Tell me about it,” Greta said. “Half the time I’m not sure what I’m seeing.”
“Is that why you wandered into lane one when you went to the bathroom?” Rebecca inquired.
Jesus. If Adrian had been the owner, these ladies would be banned. Then again, Rachel would stage a protest at the door.
“Do you want to play a game with us?” Rachel came to him, smiling brightly. Her lips were painted neon pink, and she had pulled her hair up into a high ponytail, which bounced with every movement. “We’ll go easy on you.”
Man, she looked so damn cute. He cleared his throat. “I’m on duty. Sorry.”
She winked. “We won’t tell.” Even dressed as she was, she did it for him and his cock started stirring. Damn, his condition was disturbingly serious. He had to get out of there.
He was already shaking his head, but Wilma grabbed him by the arm, bringing him closer. Rebecca passed a ball to Greta, who apparently didn’t have a strong enough hold on it, because the damn thing slipped from her fingers.
“Oops,” she let out as the humongous pink neon ball fell straight on Adrian’s left foot.
The music was loud, but he heard the sound of bones breaking. Oh, hell. Today of all days he had to forget his reinforced footwear.
His first instinct had been right; he should have run away. Fuck being the bigger man. On a positive note, getting his foot smashed did wonders for deflating his eager cock.
After that, mayhem ensued. Apologizing nonstop, Rachel helped him to sit down while he did his best to refrain from cursing. He tried calling his deputies through gritted teeth; Wilma screamed into the radio, “Officer down, officer down!”
His foot was hurting like a motherfucker, but that was nothing in comparison with the pain he felt when Rebecca attempted to get his shoe off. Fuck not cursing. They all grimaced at the string of loud obscenities—except for Greta, who seemed hypnotized, mumbling again and again that she’d broken the sheriff.
“A phone,” Rachel demanded from the OGs, seeing he wasn’t getting through to his deputies. “Let’s call an ambulance.”
Yeah, please.
Wilma reached inside her purse and produced something that looked like a cell, but it wasn’t. “Here,” she said. She probably pressed something, because two prongs flew at him, hitting him on his chest.
Shit, had she just tased him? Fuck, yeah, she had. As the full-body jerking began and he slipped onto the floor, his last thought before passing out was that at least he couldn’t feel his foot anymore.
“Come on, sleepyhead,” Wilma said, opening the curtains. “Max is having a barbecue because his dad is in town, and we’re invited.”
Rachel rubbed her eyes, then squinted. “What?”
“Barbecue at Max’s. Get ready.” Wilma left.
Right, barbecue. The second Rachel fully woke up, the events of the night before came rushing back to her. She covered her face, groaning. How many years would they get for assaulting an officer? They’d not only broken his foot, they’d tased him too. It had taken several minutes before Adrian came around, and thank fuck he did, because by then she thought the OGs had finally broken the sheriff for good. Neither Walter nor Jensen, his deputies, were free, and the ambulance was taking too long, so Rachel had helped Adrian to her car. The OGs had wanted to come along, but his hostile stare, for once, had derailed the old ladies. She’d driven him to the ER while he spat curses at Alden, himself, and everything under the sun. She’d chosen to stay silent; there really wasn’t anything that she could say that would have improved the situation. The OGs had apologized enough, and that had only seemed to piss him off more.
Once in the ER, the verdict came: metatarsal fracture, whatever the hell that was. No damage from the taser. Then Walter came and Adrian had curtly thanked Rachel for her assistance and all but kicked her out.
The only thing that could save them at this stage would be if the doctor had pumped enough painkillers into the sheriff’s body to keep him in la-la land for several days. That’d give them enough time to run to Canada.
She put on sweatpants and a shirt. After washing her face, brushing her teeth, and using a hair pin to make a knot on the back of her head, she walked to the kitchen, where sounds and voices were coming from. The three perpetrators were there, preparing salads and pies and God knew what else, chatting like everything was fine and they had not a worry in the world.