Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99040 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99040 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
She couldn’t stand shit like this.
Jo had vowed she wouldn’t be one of those cops who looked up the record of anyone and everyone just to uncover what nonsense they’d done in the past. She refused to check the background of every man she found attractive because she could. She had to have some faith in the good of humanity. But, there she was, spending her lunch hour parked at her work computer with Tracker’s full name typed into the search bar.
The enter key called to her, but so far, she’d resisted pushing the button.
She should push it.
Her curiosity wasn’t personal. Not anymore. Not now that Fin, the smoking hot and surprisingly sweet tattoo artist she’d been sleeping with, turned out to be Tracker. A biker who hated the police and wanted nothing more than to use her. He belonged to the Hell’s Handlers Motorcycle Club, and they were men whose criminal records she had every right to be aware of. Keeping tabs on the players in town and what illicit activities they got up to only strengthened her ability to perform her job as an officer of the law.
So, running a check on him made sense. In fact, it was something she should do, and the decision had nothing to do with a morbid curiosity about the man or personal feelings of betrayal.
This was strictly business.
Police business.
Christ, the pathetic arguments sounded weak even to her own ears. Not a soul alive would believe she had professional motives if she couldn’t even convince herself.
“Oh, fuck it,” she muttered as she hit the enter key. Her heart galloped as she watched the hourglass spin on her monitor. A few minutes later—no one could accuse their department of spoiling them with the fastest of technology—the screen filled with the information the department had on Finlay ‘Fin’ Pruitt, road name Tracker.
He was thirty-five years old.
He owned a small home near the beach.
He had a lease on a commercial property. Had to be his tattoo shop.
He didn’t have a criminal record or active warrants.
“Look at that,” she whispered, unable to stop her lips from curling up in a smug grin. Lord knew why. Tracker’s clean record had no bearing on her life whatsoever. They weren’t seeing each other, and he’d played her for a fool. In fact, she could and should have him arrested for openly admitting he’d fucked her to get information from the police department. The only reason she hadn’t was because she’d have to admit she had been the idiot to fall for his sexy smile and even sexier ink.
Not because she liked the man in any way or wanted to help him out.
Nope.
Still, learning Andrew was wrong in his assessment of the Handlers’ criminality gave her a sense of satisfaction. They couldn’t be as bad as her biased partner proclaimed if Tracker didn’t have a single arrest.
She scrolled to the bottom of the screen and frowned. “I stand corrected,” she muttered as she stared at the words indicating a sealed juvenile record.
A snort from above nearly shot her off her chair into the ceiling. “Jesus,” she said as she pressed a hand over her chest to make sure her heart hadn’t leaped straight out of her body. With a shaky inhale, she stared up at her partner, who loomed over her. “What the hell, Andrew? You scared the shit outta me.”
Shrugging, he sat at his desk next to hers. “I said hello. You were just too engrossed in Fin Pruitt’s background to notice.”
Dammit. No one was supposed to catch her looking into Tracker. It was why she’d turned down Andrew’s offer to hit up a local deli for lunch. It was why she’d chosen a time for her clandestine snooping when the station was at its quietest.
“Just catching up on the local players,” she said as she exited the program.
Nodding, Andrew swiveled his chair in her direction. “Smart. But you won’t find out much about Tracker unless you have a court order to open his juvie record.” He grinned a toothy smile. “Lucky for you, your partner grew up in this town as did Tracker.” He chuckled. “Man, he was a shit growing up. Arrested at least a dozen times in his teens.” Andrew reclined back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head as though having a banal chat about the weather.
She clenched her fists. It was either that or shake him to get him to talk faster.
“No wonder he ended up the scumbag he is today.”
Jo frowned but let the comment slide. “What was he arrested for?”
“Theft,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “If it wasn’t nailed down, that little kleptomaniac stuffed it in his raggedy pockets.”
“Really?” She scrunched her nose. That simply didn’t make sense. Nothing about Tracker had given her the impression he’d reduce himself to thievery. The man owned a successful business and had the close-knit community of his club, which sure wasn’t exactly on the up and up, but theft didn’t fit. Rumor had it the MC had oodles of money thanks to Curly’s wrongful imprisonment settlement.