Suckered Read online

  Suckered

  A Rylie Cooper Mystery

  Stella Bixby

  Ferry Tail Publishing LLC

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Jennifer Zemanek, Copyright © Jennifer Zemanek/Seedlings Design Studio

  Copyright © 2018 by Crystal S. Ferry

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system presently available or yet to be invented without permission in writing from the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  For my sweet Lily. Happy Birthday, beautiful! I love you!

  1

  Rattlesnake wrangling was not on my bucket list.

  When Brock radioed that he needed my assistance on the swim beach, I thought it would be for a found child, a fish hook injury, or even another dead body. I never imagined I’d end up face to face with a venomous monster.

  The snake’s stare mirrored my determination. I would not—could not—make a fool of myself.

  The snake coiled its long brown and tan body, its head up, ready to strike. It shook its tail in the sand, the rattling sound muffled by gasps and whispers of the beachgoers with their smartphone cameras pointed at me.

  I brandished my snake stick—a golf club with a hook welded onto the end—and tried to hook it under the belly of the beast like we’d practiced in training. I glanced back at the five-gallon snake bucket. The lid was off and ready to be quickly replaced trapping the snake safely inside.

  How was I the only ranger at the reservoir right now who wasn’t afraid of snakes? My heart thumped in my throat where the rope burns from my brush with death a couple of months ago had finally healed into small, angry red scars. Thankfully, the man responsible was no longer my supervisor, but that was another story.

  The snake opened its mouth and hissed at the snake stick. I took a startled step backward, but instead of finding solid ground, my foot landed in what felt like a pile of quicksand.

  The world slowed as my ankle twisted and I landed flat on my ass.

  A high-pitched scream from behind me drew my attention away from the snake. The searing pain in my hand indicated what my diverted eyes didn’t see—the snake sinking its fangs into my flesh.

  A gasp stole through the crowd.

  My mind blanked, and the world spun as the snake opened its mouth to attempt another bite.

  Without thinking, I grabbed the snake with my left hand and threw it away from me—right at the feet of one of the trail rangers, Seamus.

  “Bloody hell,” Seamus said in his Irish brogue that practically made ladies beg him to write them tickets if only for the few extra minutes they’d have with him. “Yeh can’t be throwin’ snakes at people.” He yanked the snake stick from my hand.

  The snake coiled into position ready to strike, but it didn’t faze Seamus. Like a pro, he hooked the stick under the snake’s belly, deposited it into the bucket, and snapped the lid on top.

  The crowd erupted in cheers, and Seamus shot them a cheeky grin.

  “Don’t worry about me.” My vision blurred. “I’m only dying over here,” I reminded them as panic flooded my chest.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and grasped my wrist as hard as possible with my other hand trying to prevent the venom from spreading through my body. If I moved too much, I’d be dead in minutes. Bile crept up my throat.

  “Yeh ain’t dyin’,” Seamus laughed, and the crowd roared along with him. “It’s just a measly bullsnake. Not venomous.”

  I opened one eye and let it focus on the scruffy man looking down at me with one eyebrow raised. I released my wrist allowing blood flow back to my purpling hand and choked down the vomit.

  “Hey lady,” an angry-looking little girl walked over and stood right next to Seamus, her hands on her hips and her big blue eyes red from crying, “you sat on my sand castle.”

  So much for not making a fool of myself.

  In a matter of minutes, I’d managed to discredit myself as a ranger, humiliate myself in front of a hundred park guests, get myself bitten by a non-venomous snake, and wreck a little girl’s sand castle. There was no way I would get the full-time position.

  “I—I’m sorry.” I tried to stand, but my butt stayed cemented to the ground.

  Brock, one of my fellow summer rangers or summies, as we’re more affectionately known, offered a hand and yanked me to my feet.

  “Thanks, Rylie. I would have helped, but I’m scared shitless of snakes.” An embarrassed blush hid Brock’s usual testosterone-fueled façade. “At least I won’t have to deal with them once I’m a cop.”

  Brock as a cop might have been scarier than being bitten by a rattlesnake, or bullshit snake, or whatever the hell it was called.

  “Yeh both should have been able to handle it yourselves,” Seamus said. “That’s why we went through a week-long course on snake handling.”

  “I thought I could but . . .” I felt my cheeks blossoming into crimson circles. Thankfully the park guests had long forgotten about me and were returning to their weekend activities.

  “Don’t make the same mistake twice,” Seamus said. He was only about five years older than my almost-thirty, but he acted like the wise old ranger wizard.

  “Why are you even here?” I asked him. “Aren’t you supposed to be patrolling the trails?”

  He shrugged one broad shoulder. “I thought I’d come and check on yeh since the reservoir is so busy. And it’s a good thing I did.” He grabbed my hand in his examining the bloody puncture wounds. “We should probably get this cleaned up so it doesn’t get infected.”

  Seamus poured hydrogen peroxide over the bite marks, and I did my best not to wince. Between the chemical smell and the physical sting, my eyes watered.

  The shop office was basically a closet with a desk, a chair, and a first aid kit inside the shop where the trucks stayed when the park was closed. It wasn’t the first time I’d been in there, but it was the first time I’d been in there with another person and it was pretty tight.

  “Tricky little buggars, bullsnakes. Make themselves look like rattlers,” he said as he wrapped my hand with gauze.

  “How do you tell them apart then?” I asked. The air-conditioned shop was cool on one of the last warm days of fall.

  “We went through all of this in training.” He sighed.

  We had gone through so much in training it made my head spin. I’d taken notes and even looked over them once I’d gotten home, but apparently it hadn’t been enough.

  “Bullsnakes don’t have a rattle, so they keep their tails down. Rattlers hold their tails high and proud and shake those bastards like their lives depend on it.” He ripped a strip of tape from the roll with his slightly crooked and coffee-stained teeth. “Rattlesnakes also have white borders around their spots and a triangular shaped head.” A couple more pieces of tape and he was done. “Should heal in no time.”

  “Hey there,” Shayla walked into the shop office where I examined my wrapped hand. “Everything okay?”

  Seamus stepped away from me as if embarrassed. “No—yes—nothing happened.”

  “I think she can see that.” I laughed. “Seamus wrapped my hand after a snake bit me.”

  “Oh my goodness, are you okay?” Shayla’s blue eyes widened to the size of a Disney Princess’.

  “It was just a bullsnake,” Seamus said.

  “I bet it still hurt.” Shayla smi
led.

  “From the way she was complaining, yeh’d have thought it bit her arm off,” Seamus said. “I should probably get back out to the trails. Yeh closin’ up?” He asked Shayla.

  “Yep, me and Antonio.”

  “Try to stay out of trouble.” He winked, and her pale skin turned an innocent shade of pink. Antonio was a massive player and loved flirting with the summies, even though he was married, albeit unhappily.

  “Antonio’s harmless. Especially after what happened to Kyle. He just hasn’t gotten his spunk back,” Shayla said.

  “His best friend was a murderous lunatic,” Seamus said. “Served him right for what he got.”

  Anxiety welled in my chest. The mention of Kyle still brought back haunting memories of almost dying.

  “Antonio will come around. He needs time,” Shayla said. “But he only has eyes for one summie.”

  Both of their gazes turned to me. I smirked. “Whatever. Weren’t you going to get back to the trails?”

  “I’m going. I’m going.”

  Once Seamus had gone, Shayla looked at me. “Are you and Seamus—”

  “No.” I laughed. “No way. He winked at you, not me.”

  “He was just being Irish.” She smiled. “Are we still going to work out or are you taking today off?”

  We had been utilizing the untouched portion of the shop—the loft—to exercise. The full-timers didn’t use it because the higher-ups had cameras to keep an eye on us, but Shayla and I didn’t mind. Part of me even hoped they were watching so they knew how hard I was working out to be the best full-time ranger applicant.

  “I’ll just use my other hand,” I said.

  Shayla let out a breath. “Great. Thanks. You know I don’t like to work out on my own.”

  “At least you’d have the place to yourself.” I hopped off the table and followed her up the spiral metal staircase. The loft was brightly lit with a couch and TV, some nice new workout equipment, and lockers on one wall.

  “I like the company.” She stepped up onto the treadmill and started to walk. Her bright pink tank top showed off her farmers tan from working in the sun all summer in our signature short sleeve button down uniform shirts.

  “I bet you’d like it more if it were Seamus . . .”

  “Rylie!” She giggled.

  “He was totally flirting with you,” I poked.

  “He’d never go for a girl like me.”

  “What do you mean a girl like you?” I yanked off my boots and uniform shirt and shoved them into the tiny locker that held my workout duffel bag.

  “Slightly chunky.” She looked down where her belly had been at the beginning of the summer.

  “You’re not chunky. You’ve lost how much now?”

  “Almost thirty pounds,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. “But I don’t want him to like me just because I’ve lost weight.”

  “I don’t think your weight has any bearing on his affections. Your personality and heart are what make you beautiful.”

  “That’s what everyone says about fat people.”

  I gasped. “You’re not fat!” We both dissolved into laughter.

  When we regained our composures, she asked, “Are you going to work out or just stand there?”

  I looked around before dropping my uniform cargo pants, shoving them into the locker and replacing them with a pair of black yoga pants.

  From behind me, I heard a low whistle. I spun around to find none other than Antonio staring at my backside.

  “You cannot help but disrobe in my presence.” His Italian accent almost made me melt. The tight cotton t-shirt and expensive jeans covered with a pair of black leather chaps accentuated his rock-hard body. He held a helmet under one arm meaning he rode his Ducati to work.

  “I had no idea you were there.” I silently thanked the heavens it was laundry day, and the only underwear I had clean were full-coverage boy shorts rather than my usual thong. “What are you doing up here anyway?” I pointed up. “The cameras are still on.”

  Antonio lifted an eyebrow but didn’t smile. “I am not the one changing in front of them.”

  He had a point.

  “I am here to speak with Shayla about our upcoming shift.”

  I looked at the clock. “An hour early?”

  He shrugged slightly. “It was a nice day for a ride.”

  “The Broncos game starts in five minutes. Don’t you and your wife usually have a party for games?”

  “The party was . . . canceled.”

  Perfect. He probably wanted to watch it on the loft’s big screen. With us.

  “Don’t worry. You won’t even know I’m here.” He winked, and I silently chided my knees for going soft.

  2

  First and goal.

  Broncos down by four.

  My left fist hit its target. Hard.

  Second and goal.

  Fifteen seconds left in the game.

  I swung my leg in a roundhouse kick. The impact of the bag sent shockwaves through my body.

  Third and inches.

  I paused. Held my breath.

  Hudson threw, the ball spiraled, Navaro was there, arms outstretched—

  “We interrupt this program to bring you breaking news.” A red screen replaced the make or break moment in the game.

  “What?” I shrieked at the screen.

  “Oh come on!” Antonio yelled. After they’d done some patrolling, Antonio and Shayla returned to the loft to watch the last part of the game.

  “Shhhh,” Shayla waved her hand at our protests, “Listen.”

  “Prairie City High graduate and notorious drug trafficker Alex, Boy Boy, Johnson has escaped from an Arizona prison today and is believed to be in the area.”

  The newscaster showed a picture of a large man with a huge head of curly red hair and a single tear tattoo beneath his left eye.

  “I went to school with Alex,” Antonio said. “He was scary even as a teenager.”

  “Prairie City police would like its residents to be vigilant and keep their doors locked.”

  “Super”—I threw my hands in the air—“If that’s it, can we see what happened at the end of the game?” I was practically shouting at the television.

  “Boy Boy is thought to be armed and dangerous. If you spot him or have any information, please contact Prairie City PD.”

  They listed off a phone number before saying, “Now we’ll head back to the Broncos-Raiders game where the Broncos have just caught the winning touchdown.”

  The screen flashed to a sea of orange and blue flooding the field where a pretty blonde sportscaster interviewed the players.

  “Of course they won, and I missed it.” I snapped the TV off.

  “I’m sure we can catch a replay at the bar tonight,” Shayla said apologetically.

  “Ooh, the bar. Would you like some company?” Antonio asked.

  “No,” I said more harshly than I had intended. “I mean, I think it’s a girls’ night. Sorry.”

  Antonio looked genuinely hurt.

  “Maybe next time?” Shayla offered, and he smiled a bit. “I’ll be there right after my shift,” she said to me.

  I nodded. “I’ll see you there after a bit.”

  I wore a pair of casual jeans, a white ribbed tank, and a Denver Broncos hoodie. I swiped several coats of mascara over my lashes, pulled my towel-dried hair into a messy bun, and re-wrapped my hand though the bite marks were already starting to heal.

  It wasn’t perfect, but I wasn’t looking to impress anyone . . . especially at the local wing joint.

  It wasn’t as if the perfect man would appear out of nowhere and whisk me off my feet. That was the stuff of my childhood dreams. Okay, and maybe my teenage dreams too. But I was an adult now. I didn’t believe in that stuff. Much.

  “Rylie?” Mom called down the stairs. “Are you about ready for dinner?” I could already hear the commotion of my sister’s four young boys running laps through the kitchen, the living room, and the d
ining room overhead.

  “Yep,” I called back and yanked on my Adidas.

  Fizzy, my pit bull Lab mix, bounded up the stairs ahead of me and crashed into a tall and breathtakingly gorgeous man.

  Luke.

  That explained the smell of cookies and lasagna. I should have known.

  “Fizzy, get down,” I said, my voice barely audible over Luke’s deep laugh and the boys’ squeals of delight.

  “Rylie, can you please get control of your dog?” Megan yelled, as if my dog was any more of a problem than her four little tornadoes.

  “Fizzy, off.” He obeyed and came to sit at my side.

  Mom patted Fizzy on the head and then smoothed the collar of Luke’s blue button down shirt while she batted her eyelashes shamelessly. “I’m glad you were able to join us, Luke. Rylie was so excited when I told her you were coming.”

  That little liar. She never told me he was coming. If she had, I wouldn’t be here. I shot daggers from my eyes hoping she’d feel my wrath.

  “She was, was she?” Luke asked not looking at me. I hadn’t seen him in more than a month, and yet he managed to look a hundred times better than he did in my dreams. Not that I dreamed about him . . .

  “It’s six o’clock, let’s eat.” My father stood from his leather recliner in the living room and made his way to the formal dining room—the only room with a table large enough to cater to our entire family plus Luke.

  “What happened to your hand?” Luke asked me as Mom dished us each up large helpings of deliciously thick noodles, gooey cheese, and homemade marinara sauce.

  I looked down. “Snake bite.”

  Mom dropped my father’s plate in front of him with a loud thud. “A snake bite?” she shrieked as Dad wiped off the sauce that had flown from the plate onto his green golf shirt. “Do you go out of your way to try and get yourself killed?”

  “It was only a bullsnake. Not venomous.” I assured her.

  “Good thing it wasn’t a rattler,” Dad said with a smile. “When I was a boy we had a dog, Angus, who would kill rattlers out on the family farm. He could tell the difference between the rattlers and the bullsnakes. He wouldn’t get suckered by the bullsnakes’ antics or into thinking the rattlers were harmless.”