Page 28 of Devil's Due: Sarge

The only other option is for me to hold the large, cumbersome bag on my lap until we reach Halfway.

To my surprise, Sarge comes around to my side after closing the trunk and plucks the bag from my hands.

“You can’t exactly drive with that on your lap,” I say with a flip of my hand in the direction of the bag. “Seeing is sort of a requirement.”

He snickers.

Forgetting myself for a moment, or rather, forgetting my heartbreak, I snicker along with him. “Does this mean you’re giving up the keys?”

“Bite your tongue, woman.” Except for the small twinkle in the corner of his eye, he almost sounds sincere in his shock.

That only serves to make me laugh harder. But Sarge flips a latch on the top of the backseat cushion and folds the whole seat forward, opening up a shallow, flat compartment below it. He lays the bag inside and it just fits without curling the edges. Then he flips the whole seat back into place and relocks the latch.

“Well… I suppose that’ll work,” I say cheekily while climbing into my seat, and I click the belt into place.

Like a gentleman—can bikers even be gentlemen? —he shuts my door for me before jogging around the front of the truck to reach his side.

He starts the engine and shifts into gear, dropping his arm along the back of my seat with his hand coming to rest on my opposite shoulder. Then he steers us one handed out of the long-term parking.

We stop by the guard booth and Sarge rolls down his window to hand the guard his ticket. The guard raises his eyebrow reading the ticket, because we’ve only been here maybe fifteen minutes. “Two-seventy-five,” the guard says.

Sarge doesn’t even bother to offer an excuse as I would’ve felt forced to do if he weren’t in the truck with me. Though he does have to remove his arm from my shoulders to reach into his pocket to pull out his wallet to retrieve a couple of bills. Then he reaches into the cupholder closest to the steering wheel, where he keeps his spare change, plucking up three shiny quarters and handing them off. The guard glances down at the paltry sum in his hand before withdrawing back inside the booth to deposit the money, waving us through.

“Halfway or bust,” I tease and this time Sarge shoots me one of his wry smiles. The man seems to have a million different smiles and he’s letting me see each one of them today. I guess getting thoroughly laid will do that to a person, whose heart isn’t breaking. No matter what’s gone down between us, I can’t deny both he and I were thoroughly laid last night.

“You seem in better spirits now.”

That almost wipes the smile frommyface, but as I don’t want him to know how he hurt me, the thought helps me catch myself. “I’m just relieved to have the artwork back.”

There. That’s a plausible excuse and it’s even true. Iamrelieved. But mostly, I momentarily forgot to be hurt. Sarge being wry and flashing those smiles—they alone are enough to make a girl forget.

And speaking of flashing, we’ve only driven about a mile down the road when I hear Sarge mumble, “Shit.”

I look over to him and see his eyes fixed on something behind us in the rearview mirror, and I crane my neck to look. Blue flashing lights.

“Shit,” I mumble, too.

He used his blinker turning out of the airport. He hasn’t been speeding. For the life of me, I have no clue as to why we’re being pulled over. And as been the way all along, Sarge clicks on his blinker before easing us over to the shoulder, shutting off the engine.

The officer approaches the truck with that cocky swagger they’re most likely taught in police school. One of his hands rests precariously close to his hip, where he obviously keeps his gun holstered.

As he moves closer, I notice from his uniform that he’s not an officer but a sheriff’s deputy. I press my face against my window to confirm. The first few letters of Sheriff in Sheriff's Department are noticeable, written across the side of the cruiser.

Sarge has his window rolled down by the time the deputy reaches us.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?” the deputy asks.

“Not one idea,” Sarge answers. “I used my blinker, wasn’t speeding, didn’t turn on red, made complete stops…”

The deputy apparently doesn’t care for Sarge listing all the things he’s done correctly by the way his face mottles red as his lips turn down and flat in a scowl. “You bein’ smart with me?” he asks.

“Not at all.” Then Sarge rubs his chin as if already tired of the conversation. “I’m simply answering your question. Since I didn’t break any traffic laws that I can see, I have no idea why you’ve pulled me over.”

The deputy smiles, the cunning type, as if trying to convey that Sarge has just given him his opening. “Well… funny you mention traffic laws…” He leans forward enough for half of his head to push inside the cab. Most people would move to avoid the uncomfortable closeness. Not Sarge. He doesn’t move an inch. Not even a sway. The deputy doesn’t appear to appreciate that his intimidation tactic hasn’t worked. It shows in the way his jaw clenches and his eyes narrow. I have to bite my lips to stop myself from laughing. This is so far from a humorous situation, but the only thing I can think about Mr. Angry-Face isbecareful, it’ll stick that way.Sarge cuts me a look, urging me to knock it off.

To get myself under control, I turn my face away from Sarge and the deputy, taking in sharp breaths until I’ve got a handle on things.

“You okay over there, miss?” the deputy asks me.

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