Rookie’s Conflict (Savage Riders MC #9)

Chapter 3 - Amanda

This must be a fucking joke.

I stand in the police station parking lot, watching Rookie's motorcycle disappear down the road with another biker beside him, and all I can think about is how wet I am. How my panties are soaked through, clinging to my pussy, rubbing against my clit with every step I take toward the station doors.

I was betrayed by a cop. Rescued by a fucking biker. And now my body is betraying me too.

The ride on his motorcycle… Jesus Christ, the ride.

His body between my thighs, hard muscle and leather, the vibration of the engine thrumming through my core.

My tits pressed against his back, feeling every flex of his shoulders, every breath he took.

My arms wrapped around his waist, my hands so close to the bulge I definitely felt pressing against his jeans.

He was hard. Hard for me. A biker who clearly hates everything my badge represents was hard as stone from having me on his bike.

And I'm soaking wet from it.

I've never felt like this before. Never.

Not with the handful of awkward kisses I had in college, not with the brief fumbling in the backseat of someone's car that I stopped before it went too far.

I've never had sex. Never gotten close enough to even consider it.

Too focused on my career, on proving myself, on being the kind of cop who actually makes a difference.

But Rookie, even his road name makes me clench, Rookie made me feel things in fifteen minutes that no one else has managed in twenty-five years.

His blue eyes raking over my body like he wanted to devour me.

The way his jaw clenched when I got close.

Those bruised knuckles that just punched a cop for me.

The hardness of his cock pressing against his zipper, impossible to miss, making my mouth water even though I have no idea what I'd do with it.

I've heard girls talk about hate-fucks. About how the best sex comes from that razor edge between wanting someone and wanting to destroy them.

But I have no frame of reference. No idea what normal sex is like, let alone fucking someone who despises everything about you while your pussy throbs for him anyway.

I adjust my utility belt, trying to create some space between the fabric and my sensitive flesh, but it just makes it worse. Every step sends friction against my swollen clit, makes my pussy clench around nothing, reminds me of how empty I am.

Reminds me of how Rookie's cock would feel filling that emptiness.

Fuck. I need to stop thinking about him.

I push through the station doors, my face burning. Can everyone see it? Can they tell I'm walking around soaked, my virgin pussy aching for a criminal who hates cops? Can they smell the arousal on me?

"Collins!" Chief Morrison's voice booms across the bullpen. "My office. Now."

Officer Hayes stands next to the chief's office door, his lip split where Rookie punched him, a smug expression on his face. He's already told his version. Already poisoned the well.

I square my shoulders and walk toward them, my thighs rubbing together, my panties a wet mess. Hayes's eyes track my movement, and I see satisfaction in them. He thinks he's won.

"Close the door," Chief Morrison says once I'm inside.

I do, then turn to face both men. Morrison is in his late fifties, gray hair, permanent scowl, the kind of cop who's seen everything and believes nothing. Hayes leans against the wall, arms crossed, playing the victim.

"Officer Hayes has made some serious allegations about your conduct today," Morrison begins, settling into his chair. "Want to tell me your side?"

I glance at Hayes, who smirks.

"Officer Hayes made unwanted advances during our patrol," I say, keeping my voice steady. "He put his hand on my leg. When I refused and exited the vehicle, he followed me and grabbed me. That's when a civilian intervened."

"That's bullshit," Hayes interrupts. "She freaked out for no reason, ran off like a scared little girl—"

"I'm not finished." I cut him off, meeting Morrison's eyes. "Officer Hayes grabbed both my arms and threatened me. He said no one would believe me because I'm new and he has twenty years of service."

Morrison's expression doesn't change. "And this civilian who intervened?"

"A biker. One of the Savage Riders."

Hayes scoffs. "She's lying, Chief. Probably fucking one of them and trying to cover it up by accusing me—"

"I've never met him before today." My voice rises despite my efforts to stay calm. My pussy clenches again, traitor that it is, at the memory of Rookie's body against mine. "He saw Officer Hayes assaulting me and stopped it."

"By assaulting a police officer," Morrison says flatly. "Hayes says this biker punched him in the face."

"After Officer Hayes reached for his weapon while threatening the civilian." It's a stretch of the truth, but not technically a lie.

"She's making this shit up!" Hayes pushes off the wall. "Chief, you know me. Twenty years I've served this department. This little bitch shows up for one week and suddenly I'm the bad guy?"

Morrison holds up a hand. "That's enough, Hayes."

But I can see it in his eyes. The calculation. The weighing of options. Hayes has seniority, connections, history with this department. I have one week and a story about unwanted advances that happens to coincide with a biker assault.

"Here's what's going to happen," Morrison says, leaning back in his chair. "Collins, you're on administrative duty until we sort this out. Desk work only. Hayes, you're back on patrol with a different partner."

"Chief—" I start to protest.

"That's not fair!" Hayes explodes at the same time. "She should be suspended!"

"I said that's enough." Morrison's voice cuts through the office like a whip. "Both of you, listen. Collins, if what you're saying is true, you'll need proof. Witnesses. Something more than your word against his."

"The biker," I say desperately. "He saw everything."

Morrison's eyebrows rise. "You want me to take the word of a Savage Rider? A known criminal organization?"

"They're not—" I stop myself. I don't actually know what they are. All I know is that Rookie stopped Hayes from assaulting me, and now I'm the one being punished for it.

"Bring him in," Morrison says suddenly. "This Rookie character. If he's willing to give a statement corroborating your version of events, we'll investigate further."

Hayes laughs. "He's not going to come in. Bikers don't talk to cops."

"Then Collins is out of options." Morrison looks at me. "You have forty-eight hours to bring him in. If you can't, or won't, then I have to assume Hayes's version is more accurate."

My throat tightens. "You're asking me to bring in someone who helped me?"

"I'm asking you to prove your allegations." Morrison's tone softens slightly. "Look, Collins, I know you're new. I know this job isn't what you expected. But if Hayes really did what you say, then we need evidence. Otherwise, it's he-said-she-said, and in that scenario, seniority wins."

"This is such bullshit," I mutter.

"Watch your mouth," Morrison warns. "You're already on thin ice. Don't make it worse."

Hayes is practically gloating now. "Forty-eight hours. Good luck finding a biker who'll help a cop."

He's right. Rookie made his position crystal clear. He hates cops. Hates the badge. Hates everything I represent. There's no way he'll voluntarily walk into a police station to give a statement defending me.

But I have no other choice.

"Fine," I say, straightening my spine. "I'll bring him in."

Morrison nods. "Dismissed. Both of you."

I walk out of the office, my face burning with humiliation and anger. Hayes follows, leaning in close as we exit.

"You're done," he whispers. "No biker is going to save your fat ass twice."

I whirl on him. "Call me fat again and see what happens."

"What? You'll run to another criminal for help?" He smirks. "Face it, Collins. You don't belong here. You should've stayed wherever you came from, kept your chubby little body out of uniform where it belongs."

Every insecurity I've ever had about my appearance crashes over me again. The way the uniform doesn't fit right. The curves that should be hard lines. The softness that should be muscle. Men don't notice me because a chubby cop isn't anyone's fantasy.

Except Rookie noticed. Rookie got hard.

The thought steadies me. I lean closer to Hayes, dropping my voice. "At least criminals have standards. You're just a predator with a badge."

I walk away before he can respond, heading for the locker room. I need to change out of this uniform, need to get these soaked panties off before someone notices, need to figure out how the hell I'm going to convince a biker who hates cops to walk into a police station.

The locker room is empty, thankfully. I strip quickly, peeling off the uniform that clings to my curves. My panties are soaked through, and I touch myself briefly, just to confirm what I already know. I'm swollen, sensitive, aching.

One brush of my fingers against my clit and I nearly whimper.

I've never been this turned on. Never. And it's for someone who despises me, who made it clear we're not friends, who probably only helped because he hates Hayes more than he hates me.

I clean up quickly and change into jeans and a t-shirt, stuffing my uniform into my locker. The jeans are tight on my thighs, emphasizing the curves I hate, but at least they're not a uniform broadcasting my failure to everyone who sees me.

My phone buzzes. Mom.

*Just checking in, sweetie! How's the new job?*

I stare at the message, my eyes burning. I call my parents every two days, maintaining our close relationship even after moving to Blackwater Falls. They're so proud of me for becoming a cop, for following through on my promise after they were mugged and no one helped them.

What do I tell them? That my partner sexually harassed me? That I'm on administrative duty after one week? That my only hope is convincing a criminal to help me?

*Good,* I text back. *Settling in. Talk soon. Love you.*

I pocket my phone and grab my bag from the locker, heading out to the parking lot. My car sits where I left it this morning: a lifetime ago, before Hayes put his hand on my leg, before Rookie punched a cop for me, before my pussy started throbbing for a man who hates everything I stand for.

The drive home is short, just ten minutes through downtown Blackwater Falls. I barely register the Victorian houses or the small shops. All I can think about is the impossible task ahead of me: convincing Rookie to walk into a police station.

My apartment is still half-unpacked, boxes stacked in corners, pictures leaning against walls waiting to be hung. I drop my bag by the door and head straight for the bathroom, stripping as I go. The jeans hit the floor, then my t-shirt, then my bra.

I catch my reflection in the mirror and pause. This is what Rookie saw—endless curves, thick thighs, full breasts, the stomach that's never been flat no matter how much I exercise. The body that makes uniforms fit wrong and men look away.

Except he didn't look away. He stared. His eyes devoured every curve, and his cock got hard enough that I felt it through his jeans.

My pussy clenches at the memory.

I turn on the shower, letting the water heat up while I peel off my panties. They're still damp, still clinging to my swollen lips. I drop them in the hamper and step under the spray, gasping as hot water hits my sensitive skin.

I need to calm down. Need to think clearly. Need to figure out my next move.

But my hand has other ideas. It slides down my stomach, over my mound, finding my clit already hard and aching.

I bite my lip as I touch myself, slow circles that make my knees weak.

I've touched myself before, obviously. But never like this.

Never this desperate, this needy. Never imagining someone specific while I do it.

I imagine Rookie's hands instead of mine. Those bruised knuckles rough against my soft skin. His blue eyes watching me come apart. That hard cock pressing inside me, stretching my virgin pussy, making me scream.

I rub faster, my other hand bracing against the shower wall. The water cascades over my breasts, my nipples tight and sensitive. I'm close already, wound so tight from hours of arousal that it takes barely any time.

"Fuck," I whimper, thinking of his leather vest, his tattooed arms, the way he said *fuck the police* like it was a prayer.

My orgasm hits hard, making my legs shake, my pussy clenching around nothing. I ride it out against my fingers, gasping and moaning, wishing it was his cock filling me instead of this empty ache.

When I finally catch my breath, the reality of my situation crashes back down.

I need Rookie to give a statement. It's my only shot at keeping my job, at proving Hayes assaulted me, at not letting a predator win. Which means I need to go to the Savage Riders clubhouse and ask a man who hates cops to help a cop.

I finish my shower quickly, washing away the evidence of my desperation.

When I step out, I feel clearer. More focused.

The orgasm took the edge off, let me think past the throbbing need.

I dry off and get dressed—jeans, a tank top, nothing that screams cop.

I need to look approachable, not authoritative.

Need to convince him I'm just Amanda, not Officer Collins.

My phone sits on the counter, tempting me to call my parents for advice. But what would I say? They'd tell me to report it through official channels, to trust the system. They don't understand that the system is broken, that badges protect predators more often than victims.

No. This is on me.

I grab my keys and head back to my car. I have no idea where the Savage Riders clubhouse is, but this is a small town. Someone will know.

Or I'll drive around until I find motorcycles.

Either way, I'm doing this. I'm going to find Rookie and convince him to help me, even if he hates every second of it.

Even if I have to beg.

Even if my pussy throbs the entire time, reminding me that I want more than just his statement.

I want his hands on me. His mouth. His cock.

But first, I need to save my career.

I start the car and pull out of the parking lot, heading toward the industrial district where this whole mess started. That's where Rookie appeared. Maybe that's where I'll find him again.

It's a long shot.

But it's the only shot I have.