Street Justice by: Holly S. Roberts

Street JusticeHolly Roberts COVER

Street Justice combines a sexy alpha cop, a bohemian woman with a heart of gold, and a half-Shepard half-Poodle mix with a leg-humping need to prove who’s top dog in the neighborhood. With suspense, humor, and steamy romance Street Justice will have your alpha-cop fantasies on full alert.

HR 3

 

Excerpt

There are two community holding cells—one is the drunk tank, the other is the tail talk. I hear the soft crying before I turn the corner. There are two types of tail—the criers and the crabs. I have no idea what mine will be, but I expect crying. I don’t expect the bold brown eyes of the woman standing in the cage holding the bars. She’s my sexy as sin, nutcase next door neighbor.

Her glare is one hundred megawatts of anger. I know the feeling. “What the hell?” slips from my lips before I stop myself. Fuck, I’ve been having sexual fantasies about a prostitute.

“It took you long enough to poopadoodle over here,” she responds snidely. No embarrassment or remorse anywhere in the statement and her imaginative words drive me crazy.

I think about turning around and walking away. She’s the last woman I’d peg as a hooker. She has the goods to be a high-class escort but walking the streets for money stumps me.

“Come to momma,” says an older prostitute standing behind Shelby.

I ignore the older woman, back away, and hold up my hands in classic I give up style. “Nothing I can do about this. You’ll see the judge in the morning for your arraignment.”

Her eyes roll. “You think I asked you here to get me out Marshal Puckerbutt?” she bitches in the voice I remember from our prior run-ins. Each and every interaction with her has been a disaster, so why is she at the top of my fantasy list? She crosses her arms and taps her dainty little foot. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m asking you to let Daisy outside when you get home.”

My legs freeze. I hate that damn dog and she knows it. Who in their right mind names a male dog Daisy? I lower my hands. “You’re on your own, honey,” I say unsympathetically and turn to leave. The long, loud sigh behind me makes me grit my teeth.

“Fine, if you want me to beg, Lincoln, I’ll beg.” Her voice hasn’t softened in the slightest, and wow, a prostitute begging, what a concept.

I pivot and give her the famous Street stare down. It’s a family trait and usually leaves men shaking in their boots. Of course it could be more than the stare. I’m six foot four with plenty of muscle to back it up. I’m one of five strapping boys, as my mother likes to say, and all of us gifted with great genes. “I want nothing to do with that beast from hell you call a dog.” Shivers run down my spine remembering every contact I’ve had with the mutt. Daisy on his hind legs can rest his front paws on my shoulders. He has no training to speak of and enjoys jumping. I could handle the jumping if the dog didn’t latch onto me and hump my fucking body every time. Not a gentle humping. We’re talking grab hold of my upper body with his front paws, put his entire pelvis into it, and try his damnedest to create puppies.

My stare down appears to have no effect on Shelby. However, her brown eyes have turned pathetically pleading and she bats her lashes for good measure. She’s the queen of manipulation. It irks me that the look affects my dick and it swells slightly beneath my pants. Buck up, Street, she’s a fucking prostitute, a professional. She probably uses those eyes to squeeze extra money from her johns. No way am I helping her with that damn dog.

She bats her lashes again. “Look,” I run my hand over my face. I’m so fucking tired and can barely keep my eyes open. I can’t believe I’m doing this. “I’ll call the judge and see if he’ll come in tonight. Can you post bail?”

Her sigh is half strangled cat. “I don’t want bail,” she grinds out with the stubborn set to her jaw returning. “I’m not leaving this delightful Disneyesque establishment.” She gestures around with a sweep of her arms. “I just need you to let Daisy out and feed him. If you do, I’ll owe you a favor.”

A favor. That’s priceless. I look at her. She’s dressed in jean shorts more conservative than any prostitute wears and a rainbow tank top that shows off her well-endowed breasts. White deck shoes do nothing to detract from her long legs. This outfit does not scream sex for hire but maybe some men have a thing for the yuppie look. Hell, I’m aging myself. She’s one of the gen Ys and thinks a quick smile and large eye blinks will make me fall in line. I disregard how strange it is to see her without crazy scarves and crazier hats. Booking removes those items during processing. Right now she looks almost normal instead of a hippy reject. “Sorry, honey, I don’t need one of your favors.”

 

 


About the Author

holly 500Holly S. Roberts is a retired homicide and sex crimes detective who loves long walks on the beach and sweet music. Not really… she hikes mountains with her Rottweiler and listens to hard rock with heavy bass and bad words. She’s the USA TODAY Best-Selling author of the Completion, Club El Diablo, and Hotter Than Hell series. If a book doesn’t have enticing romance, sex, and hot alpha men she doesn’t read or write it.
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