Page 1 of Breeding Her: The Red Flag Edition
Rogue Stop
Chapter 1
Kade
The problem with small towns was that everyone knew everything.
I knew Jimmy Barnes brewed his own moonshine and sold it to the Golden Girls Club. Everyone else knew I’d never shut him down—not unless I wanted Grammy’s cane on my ass. Those old women were mean enough sober. But whatever Jimmy dumped in that brew, it kept them mellow.
The last real excitement around here had been a couple of outsiders trying to grow marijuana. Two years ago, and people still talked about it like it was headline news.
A knock rattled my office door.
“Boss.” Carlton’s voice came before his knuckles even left the wood.
“What?” I didn’t bother looking up. “Tell me someone’s committed a gruesome crime, or should I just turn my gun on myself?”
“Whoa. Bad time?”
I sighed. “What is it?”
“Did you hear about the new teacher?”
“Everyone’s heard about the new teacher.” I grumbled and set my pen down. “Mrs. Morris must’ve been ninety when she finally let go. She sure hung onto that job.”
Carlton leaned against the frame, all grin and trouble. “Maybe you need to get laid.”
My head snapped up. The laugh died in his throat. He knew better—everyone did. My high school sweetheart had left me for the big-city lights, and the whole damn town had watched it happen. Some scars never healed; others just got passed around as gossip.
“So this new teacher—”
“Get out, Carlton.”
He chuckled, because of course he did, and shut the door before I found something to throw.
The door clicked shut, and quiet settled back over the office. The clock ticked loud enough to count the seconds I was wasting. Another day, another empty report. Outside, Farrows End yawned and carried on pretending nothing ever changed.
?? ?? ??
I checked my pocket for my phone before locking up.
Bureaucratic paperwork—that’s what most of this job had turned into. I spent more time filing forms than chasing anything worth catching. Another night spent contemplating my life choices.
I could hit the home gym. Go for a run. Pretend I wasn’t restless.
Headlights cut across the station lot as I slid behind the wheel. Then a small yellow rust bucket shot past the window, engine whining like a mosquito with a death wish.
Aw, hell no. Not on my watch.
I checked for traffic and pulled out after it, siren dark, just the hum of the cruiser eating up distance.
Brake lights flared at the bend—hesitation—then the driver floored it again.
I flipped the lights on.
Finally, some action.
It was a woman.
