CHAPTER 5 QUINN
QUINN
Three days since the mountain road. Three days of taking the long way around town, switching shifts with Deputy Roberts, eating lunch in my cruiser instead of at Bea's Diner where I might see him.
Pike Creek was too small for this kind of avoidance.
At the grocery store, Elmer Simmons mentioned seeing Wolf help Mrs. Patterson with her flat tire yesterday—while I'd been deliberately patrolling the opposite side of town.
At the gas station, Kevin kept giving me those knowing looks that said the whole town already knew about our midnight encounter, department backup call or not.
But it was dinner with Dad that really drove it home.
"Heard you had car trouble up on Mountain Road," he said, cutting into his steak with precise movements. Mom had been gone five years, and he still set the table the same way, still cooked her pot roast recipe every Sunday even though it never tasted quite right.
"Alternator died. Like McCarthy said it would." The admission tasted bitter.
Dad's jaw tightened at the name. "Should've listened when I told you to stay away from them. That whole MC is trouble brewing. Just because Viper's playing house with that waitress and her kid doesn't mean they've gone soft."
I pushed mashed potatoes around my plate, appetite gone. "They seem to help a lot of people in town."
"Help." He snorted. "That's what they want you to think.
But I've seen their type before. Violence dressed up as brotherhood.
Criminals hiding behind leather and chrome.
" He pointed his fork at me. "That Wolf especially.
Cocky bastard thinks his smile can get him out of anything.
Probably has a different woman every night. "
The words hit wrong, making me think of how Wolf's face had looked when I'd called our encounter a mistake. Not cocky. Hurt.
"You don't actually know him," I said quietly.
"I know enough. And so should you." His stare turned sharp, suspicious. "You haven't had any other run-ins with him, have you?"
"No." The lie came out smooth, but my throat burned with it.
"Good. Because I'd hate to think my daughter, a deputy sheriff, would be foolish enough to get mixed up with MC trash."
Trash. The word echoed in my head through the rest of dinner, through washing dishes, through the drive home to my apartment. Is that what Dad really thought? That anyone outside his narrow definition of respectable was trash?
The next morning's shift brought a call I couldn't avoid. Minor accident on Main Street, right in front of Bea's. No injuries, but traffic direction needed.
I arrived to find Wolf's bike parked at the curb, him crouched beside Mrs. Cook’s ancient Buick where she'd backed into a light pole. The elderly woman sat on the curb, shaking, while Wolf held her hand and spoke in low, soothing tones.
"It's just metal and plastic," he was saying. "Nothing that can't be fixed. The important thing is you're not hurt."
"But Harold saved for months to buy me this car," Mrs. Cook said, tears streaming down her weathered face. "He'll be so disappointed."
"Harold loves you, not the car." Wolf squeezed her frail hand gently. "And any man who'd be disappointed about a dented bumper instead of grateful his wife is safe isn't worth crying over."
That's when he saw me. The warmth in his expression vanished like someone had flipped a switch. He stood, all business, stepping back from Mrs. Cook.
"Deputy Jenkins. Good. You can take over now." His tone was professional, distant, exactly what I'd asked for. "I'm sure you don't need me."
The emphasis on 'need' sliced through me like a blade.
He walked past without another word, without even looking at me. The absence of his attention felt wrong, like sudden cold after standing in sunlight.
"Such a lovely young man," Mrs. Cook said, watching him stride toward his bike. "So patient and kind. Stayed with me the whole time, made sure I was alright. We need more men like him in this town."
I helped Mrs. Cook with her statement, directed traffic around the minor damage, waited for the tow truck.
Through it all, I kept replaying the transformation in Wolf's expression.
From gentle warmth to icy professionalism in a heartbeat.
He'd given me exactly what I'd demanded—pretending nothing had happened between us.
It felt like punishment. Worse, it felt like loss.
The rest of my shift crawled by. Every motorcycle engine made me look up.
Every leather jacket in my peripheral vision made my pulse spike.
But it was never him. He was respecting my boundaries, staying away, being exactly who I'd insisted we had to be—deputy and biker who meant nothing to each other.
By the time I got home that evening, I was exhausted from pretending not to care.
I stood in my apartment, still in uniform, staring at myself in the hall mirror. Deputy Quinn Jenkins. Sheriff's daughter. Rule follower. The woman who always did the right thing, even when the right thing felt completely wrong.
When had I become this person? This careful, controlled version of myself who lived entirely within the lines my father had drawn?
In college, I'd dated a philosophy major who played guitar in terrible punk bands. I'd gotten a tiny tattoo on my hip that Dad still didn't know about. I'd been Quinn—not Deputy Jenkins, not the sheriff's daughter. Just Quinn.
Somewhere along the way, I'd lost her.
I changed into jeans and a soft sweater, nothing special, nothing that looked like I was trying. But I brushed my hair out until it shone, added the cherry lip gloss I never wore on duty. Small rebellions.
The drive to Wolf's apartment took five minutes. Should have taken longer for a decision this big, but I was tired of overthinking. Tired of being careful. Tired of living in my father's shadow.
The exterior stairs up to his apartment felt steeper than they should. My knock sounded too loud in the quiet evening. For a moment, I considered running, but then the door opened.
Wolf stood there in worn jeans and nothing else, chest bare, still with beads of water on him like he'd just showered. The sight of him—all that ink over muscle, the surprised vulnerability in his expression—made my carefully planned words evaporate.
"I overreacted," I blurted out.
He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. The gesture made his biceps flex, and I had to force myself to maintain eye contact. "Did you?"
"Yes. That night, after... I panicked. Said things I didn't mean."
"Which things?" His voice was carefully neutral. "The part where it was a mistake? Or where it could never happen again?"
"All of it." I took a breath, forcing myself to be brave. "I've spent my whole life being who my father expects me to be. The perfect daughter. The by-the-book deputy. But that's not... that's not all I am."
"No?"
"No." I met his gaze, letting him see the truth. "I'm also the woman who's been thinking about you for three weeks. Who can't sleep because she keeps remembering how you felt. Who saw you with Mrs. Cook today and wanted to—" I stopped, heat flooding my face.
"Wanted to what?"
"Kiss you. Right there on Main Street. In uniform. In front of everyone." The admission came out in a rush. "I wanted to thank you for being kind to her. I wanted to apologize for being cold. I wanted... you. I just wanted you."
Something shifted in his expression, walls coming down inch by inch. "And now?"
"Now I'm here." I gestured between us. "Standing at your door, asking if you'll let me in. Not for one night. Not to get you out of my system. But because I'm tired of being careful. Tired of following rules that don't make sense. Tired of pretending I don't feel this."
"Feel what?"
I took a step closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his bare chest. "Like I can't breathe right when you're not around. Like the past three days have been the longest of my life. Like maybe being reckless with you is worth more than being safe without you."
His hand came up to cup my face, thumb stroking across my cheekbone with devastating gentleness. "You sure about this? Because I can't do the back and forth, Quinn. I can't have you then lose you again."
"I'm sure." I leaned into his touch, my own hand coming up to cover his. "I'm choosing this. Choosing you. Even if it's complicated. Even if my father loses his mind. Even if the whole town talks."
"They will talk."
"Let them."
He studied me for a long moment, those blue eyes searching mine. Whatever he found there must have satisfied him because he stepped back, pulling me inside with him.
His apartment was exactly what I'd expected—sparse but clean, motorcycle parts on a workbench in the corner, leather jacket thrown over a chair.
"Want a drink?" he asked, moving toward the kitchen area.
"No."
He turned back, eyebrow raised.
"I didn't come here for a drink, Wolf."
"Then what did you come for?"
I crossed to him, stopping just out of reach. "To be reckless. To stop thinking. To let myself want something my father would hate." I paused, then admitted the deeper truth. "To be with the only person who makes me feel like myself again."
His control snapped. His mouth crashed into mine, but it was different from the desperate heat in the cruiser.
This was deliberate, thorough, like he was memorizing the taste of me.
His hands tangled in my hair, angling my head for better access, tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm that made me weak.
I pressed closer, needing to feel him against me, and he groaned into my mouth. His hands slid down to my waist, lifting me easily, and I wrapped my legs around him on instinct.
"Bedroom," I managed between kisses.
He carried me down the short hallway, lips never leaving mine. The bedroom was dark, just streetlight filtering through blinds, but it was enough to see his face when he set me on my feet beside the bed.
pulled my sweater over my head, standing there in jeans and a simple black bra. His gaze traveled over me, hot and appreciative, making me feel powerful instead of exposed.
"Your turn," I said, fingers going to his belt.
He caught my wrists gently. "Slow this time. Want to savor you."
The words sent warmth spreading through me. This wasn't the frantic coupling in the cruiser. This was something else. Something more.
He undressed me like I was a gift, fingers reverent as they found buttons and zippers. Each new expanse of skin revealed earned a kiss, a touch, a murmured appreciation that made me shake. By the time I was naked, I was already trembling with need.
I reached for him, needing to touch, to reciprocate, but he caught my hands again.
"Let me," he said, walking me backward until my legs hit the bed. "Let me worship you properly this time."
He laid me out on his sheets—they smelled like him, surrounded me with him—and proceeded to map every inch of me with his mouth. Each touch deliberate, designed to build rather than satisfy.
By the time his mouth found where I needed him most, I was already wound tight as a spring. The first swipe of his tongue made me arch off the bed, hands fisting in his hair.
"That's it," he encouraged, the vibration of his words making me gasp. "Let go for me."
He took his time, learning what made me shake, what made me beg, building me up steadily until I shattered. The orgasm rolled through me in waves, leaving me boneless and panting.
He kissed his way back up my body, and when he finally slid inside me, we both groaned. This was different from the cruiser—slower, deeper, eyes locked on each other.
We moved together, finding our rhythm, hands exploring, mouths meeting and parting. When he shifted angles, hitting that perfect spot inside me, I cried out.
"There?" he asked, doing it again.
"Yes, God, yes."
He kept that angle, that pressure, building me up again. One hand slipped between us, thumb circling, and I flew apart for the second time. He followed immediately, my name rough on his lips as he buried his face in my neck.
We lay tangled together afterward, sweat cooling, breathing gradually returning to normal. His fingers traced lazy patterns on my bare shoulder, and I felt something I hadn't experienced in years.
Peace.
"Stay," he said, not a question but not quite a demand either.
"Okay."
He pulled me closer, my back to his chest, arm heavy around my waist. Safe. Protected. Chosen.
"Your father's going to lose his shit," he said against my hair.
"Probably."
"Regrets?"
I turned in his arms to face him, seeing uncertainty in those usually confident eyes.
"No," I said firmly. "No regrets. Not about this. Not about you."
He kissed me then, soft and sweet, and I knew I'd made the right choice. The complicated choice, the dangerous choice, but the right one.
For the first time in years, I'd chosen what I wanted over what was expected.
And what I wanted was Wolf McCarthy.
Tomorrow would bring consequences—my father's anger, the town's gossip, the complexity of being a deputy dating the MC's VP. But tonight, wrapped in Wolf's arms with his heartbeat steady under my palm, none of that mattered.
Tonight, I was just Quinn. Not the sheriff's daughter, not the perfect deputy.
Just Quinn, exactly where she belonged.