Ride Rough - Tessa Layne Page 0,14

Trace the ticket. Trace glanced down, then scraped a hand across his mouth to keep from smiling. What he held was no ticket, but a note from Weston. Smooth move dumbass. Stop by the station tomorrow and I'll have a new ID for you. Trace cleared his throat and jammed the ticket into his pocket. He'd been to enough Sunday dinners with Travis and Sterling to understand that Weston still had deep connections with off-grid organizations. If he thought about it too hard, it was a little freaky, but right now he was too relieved to be anything but grateful.

"But what about my car?" CiCi interjected.

"Want me to have it towed down to the body shop?" Weston offered. "I can make the call."

"I'll pay for it," Trace offered quickly. "The repairs, too. No harm, no foul?" Although her car looked so old it probably wasn't worth fixing. Hell, he could buy her a new Volvo and not miss the money.

CiCi's eyes narrowed. "So now you want to help? What gives?" Her eyes darted between the two men and her mouth pulled down. "You're all bluster until Weston shows up and writes you a ticket. What's he have on you?"

Shit. He looked over to Weston for guidance. What was he supposed to say now? Weston barely shook his head. "Take it easy on Trace, CiCi. He's new to town and still learning how we do things here. Let him help you."

CiCi crossed her arms, eyes still flicking between them, toe of her right foot tapping like a machine gun. She clearly wasn't having it. "Why?"

"Because he's volunteering out at Resolution Ranch, that's why," Weston shot back. "You know the vetting our volunteers go through. He's not trying to yank your chain."

Well, maybe he was a little. Okay, a lot. But not to be mean or because he wanted to get out of paying for something that might be his fault. Yanking her chain was hella entertaining. There was something about her when she was riled, something wild and slightly out of control that he found damned irresistible. It made him want to keep poking at her.

CiCi's nose flared as she huffed out a breath. "Fine. I'll let you call the tow."

Weston clapped Trace on the shoulder. "If you can wait ten minutes while I walk Trace over to the station to have a little chat about safe driving, I can come back with the patrol car and give you a ride someplace."

"No, thank you," she said primly. "I'll walk."

Weston raised an eyebrow and glanced down at her shoes. "It's a long walk out to your place if that's where you're headed. Trace can give you a ride. He's headed back to Resolution Ranch."

He swore he heard her mutter oh hell, no under her breath. She shook her head firmly. "I'll be fine."

"Suit yourself, then. I'll have Tyler over at the body shop give you a call when your car's ready to be picked up."

Weston cocked his head the direction of the police station. "Let's go have that chat, shall we?"

Trace fell into step and walked with Weston through the lot to the next block. As soon as they were around the corner and out of sight, Weston spoke. "What in the hell was that back there?"

"What do you mean? She hit me, we got into it. It didn't occur to me I'd need to change my driver's license."

"I mean, CiCi is an investigative journalist. She works for one of the big papers in Chicago. I don't know what she's doing here, but she's sharp, and like a terrier when she gets something into that hard head of hers. Steer clear of her."

Trace didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. At least Weston hadn't noticed their almost-kiss. As for staying away? Weston was right, especially if CiCi was a reporter. But that didn't mean he liked it. What would happen if he said no?

For the span of a breath, he let himself go down that path. He wasn't used to denying himself, and he'd been on excellent behavior for the two months he'd been in Prairie. Why not let go a little? Until it ended with paparazzi swarming Prairie and his career over for good. No Oscar, no more movies, no more "sexiest man alive" titles or screaming fans when he showed up on the red carpet. No more parties where he held court until four a.m. Just him, Trace Walker McBride, out-of-control-has-been who threw away his career.

"You bet, Chief." He