Lawman Lion: BBW Lion Shifter Paranormal Romance

  Lawman Lion

  By Zoe Chant

  Copyright Zoe Chant 2016

  All Rights Reserved

  Chapter One: Charity

  Chapter Two: Mason

  Chapter Three: Charity

  Chapter Four: Mason

  Chapter Five: Charity

  Chapter Six: Charity

  Chapter Seven: Mason

  Chapter Eight: Charity

  Chapter Nine: Mason

  Chapter Ten: Charity

  Chapter Eleven: Mason

  Chapter Twelve: Charity

  Chapter Thirteen: Charity

  Chapter Fourteen: Mason

  Chapter Fifteen: Charity

  Chapter One

  Charity

  Charity Crawford groaned as she heard the roar of motorcycle engines coming down the highway. Every day for the last three months, her diner had been inundated with them: bikers from the local chapter of the Reapers Motorcycle Club.

  Owning a diner in the middle of nowhere on Route 66 meant Charity had all kinds of people show up from time to time – road trippers, tourists, runaways, truckers and bikers – but none of them had ever been like this.

  She didn’t know why, but it seemed the Reapers had decided to make her place their regular haunt, and this evening would be no different from every other for the past three months. The bikers would be here again, drinking heavily, scaring her customers, harassing her staff and tipping terribly.

  It was already starting to happen – Maude and John Smith, a nice, middle-aged couple who made up two of her few regulars – were already getting up to leave before they’d even ordered, shooting an apologetic look in Charity’s direction as they went. More customers lost in what should have been her busiest time – the dinner rush. It hadn’t been a rush lately, so much as a trickle.

  Charity did her best smile-and-wave at them as they left, indicating that she understood. The bikers scared the hell out of her, and the only reason she didn’t leave was because she had no choice in the matter. Not if she wanted to continue to eke out her meager living here, running the diner her father had left her after he retired.

  Maybe she was just being stubborn, but she refused to close up or run away whenever the bikers came in. Her father had never closed the diner a day in his life, and neither would she. She knew it was kind of a dump – there was no way she could afford to replace the scuffed linoleum on the floor, update the '70s lampshades, or fix the cracks in the brown leather booths – but dammit, she’d grown up in this diner.

  She’d played in the red dirt and brown grass out back after school, until she was old enough to help by taking orders. And then, when she was a little bit older again, she’d done the accounting while her dad snoozed on the bald velveteen couch in the den after a long day behind the fryer.

  And Charity was damned if she was going to let some overgrown schoolboys take her home away from her.

  Nonetheless, she gulped as some of these overgrown schoolboys trooped inside, all laughing raucously and slapping each other on the back. Overgrown schoolboys with guns, she reminded herself hastily. And tattoos and leathers and beards down to their waists. Any of whom could probably swat her like a fly if they chose to.

  It wasn’t the way they looked, however, that was the problem – Charity had regulars who looked just like them who were sweet as pie. It was the air of menace they carried with them: staring people down, brushing against them as they went by, and the raucous swearing and shouting.

  Half her regulars never even showed up anymore – people whose business she’d come to count on to get her through slow times. The families who spent the most money here – on appetizers, four or five meals, drinks and desserts – would usually either leave before ordering, or simply turn around and walk out before even giving Charity or her staff a chance to seat them.

  Charity couldn’t say she blamed them – if she’d had kids, she wouldn’t really want them hearing the kind of language that the bikers regularly, and drunkenly, shouted across the room.

  And then there had been the incident where all her customers one night had come back out to their cars to find their tires slashed. That had been the last straw. Word got around, and Charity had found business barely limped along after that.

  Sometimes she ran into former customers at the supermarket, and they’d always seemed to be apologizing to her with their eyes as they chatted, the conversation awkward. But she understood. They couldn’t bring their kids somewhere they felt wasn’t safe.

  Sherri, one of the waitresses on duty this evening, was looking at the men as they took their seats in a booth, dragging tables and chairs over from other parts of the diner so they could all fit. Charity could already smell booze on them – they’d clearly been drinking before they all decided to pile onto their hogs and come roaring out here to make Charity’s life even more difficult than it was already.

  “Charity, you want me to get this?” Sherri asked, and Charity could hear the slight quaver in her voice. Sherri had started working at the diner to try to make ends meet after her husband had passed on, but she’d never gotten over her nerves, and Charity kept her on mainly as… well, as a charity. After all, her dad had told her they’d named her that as a reminder to always be kind to others.

  We’d all of us be dead if it weren’t for the charity of others, he’d told her more than once.

  Fixing a smile on her face as she looked over at Sherri, Charity shook her head. “Don’t worry about it, honey. I’ll get this one – you’re about due for your break, anyway, aren’t you?”

  Both Charity and Sherri knew good and well that Sherri had just been on a break – but the look of gratefulness on her face just before she scurried out back made it all worth it. Charity had grown up in this business. There wasn’t a customer alive who could scare her these days – not even these leather-wearing, overly-tattooed monsters.

  Flipping open her notepad, Charity made her way around the bar. The bikers were still too busy laughing and hollering amongst themselves to notice her until she came right up to them.

  “What’ll you have?” she asked, keeping her voice impersonal, only just this side of brusque. Not the way she’d usually talk to a customer, but for these guys, she’d make an exception.

  The bikers quieted down a little, a few of them sniggering amongst themselves.

  “Don’t suppose you’re on the menu now, are you, darlin’?” the man closest to her spoke up, barely holding back his laugh.

  Charity almost rolled her eyes.

  Yeah, sure, never heard that one before, she thought to herself.

  “Menus are on the table in front of you. If it’s not on the menu, it’s not available. Maybe I’ll give you boys a little more time.” Tucking her notepad into her pocket, Charity turned and walked away, only to be followed by a chorus of wolf-whistles.

  Yeah, yeah, she thought angrily. She knew she had plenty in the trunk. And honestly, she was kind of proud of her curves. She certainly wasn’t going to cover them up just because a few Neanderthals hooted at her backside.

  Sighing, she leaned on the bar and looked out the window as a car pulled up outside the diner, and then, evidently noticing the many, many motorcycles parked outside, abruptly about-faced and drove on, taillights disappearing into the darkness of the night.

  Maybe they would have been nice folk, Charity thought wistfully. Good tippers too, she bet. At the very least, they probably wouldn’t now be loudly discussing the quality of her breasts. Unlike her current batch of customers.

  “God, they make me sick.”

  Charity was startled out of her thoughts by the sound of Sherri’s voice
behind her. She turned, surprised by the vehemence in her voice, to find her standing at the doorway to the kitchen with the other two waitresses rostered on for the evening, Anita and Rosie.

  Sighing, she nodded in agreement. “Yeah. But I don’t see the situation changing anytime soon. We may as well get used to it.”

  Rosie shook her head, pressing her lips into a long, thin line. “It’s just not right,” she said, her voice cracking a little. “They shouldn’t be allowed to get their way just because people are scared. One day we’ll have real trouble with them, and we’ll all wish we did something sooner.”

  Charity grimaced. “I know, and you’re right. But what can we do? I’d tell them I won’t serve them, but I doubt they’d listen. I guess we just assumed they’d move on after a week or so, but…” She trailed off, before throwing up her hands. “And who’re we going to call, anyway? We’ve tried the police, and fat lot of good that did. Sheriff Atwood never lifts a finger. I don’t see what else we can do but wait it out.”

  “Well now, don’t be too sure things won’t change now that there’s a new sheriff in town.”

  Charity turned as the voice rang out from the bar. It was Billy Ray Taylor, a regular from her dad’s days, who was practically part of the furniture now. He came in every Friday after his shift at the gas station down the road, always ordering steak, fries and two beers, first one on the house, and had done for as long as Charity could remember. He was smiling a little like the cat who got the canary.

  “George Atwood lost the election?” Charity asked, more than a little shocked.

  She’d known the elections were coming, but she hadn’t bothered to find out any more than that: Atwood always won, because he always ran unopposed. Atwood was so entrenched in the group of good ol’ boys who ran things around here that she thought the only time they’d see the back of him was when he retired. The county was so spread out over the few tiny towns and ranches out this way that Charity hadn’t taken the time off to drive out to vote, and had avoided all news about the election. She’d thought it would only depress her.

  Usually she would have had a stable of regulars in here shooting the shit and talking politics whether she wanted to hear it or not, but with business being how it’d been lately, news of the new sheriff had passed her by.

  “Are you joking?” she asked, turning back to her wait staff. “Did you know about this?”

  Anita nodded. “Yeah – it’s all Jason’s been talking about. You know how wound up he gets in these things.”

  Charity still couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. “Well, who won? Is it someone we know?”

  Billy Ray shook his head. “His name’s Mason Whittaker, as far as I know. But that’s literally all I know.”

  Mason Whittaker.

  The name echoed in Charity’s head for some reason. She felt like she should know it, but she had no idea how or where she would have heard it before. She just felt like she knew it somehow.

  As the bikers’ loud laughter rang out through the diner, she clenched her fists, her flash of hope suddenly dampened. The exhaustion she’d been keeping at bay caught up with her all at once – she’d opened the diner’s doors at midday as she always did, but her days felt three times as long now that the Reapers had made her place their new hangout. The urge to just go upstairs and curl up in bed was near-overwhelming.

  “How do we know he won’t be just the same as Sheriff Atwood?” she asked, rubbing tiredly at her eyes. “I’m sorry if I seem pessimistic, but my faith in these things has taken a bit of a beating lately. I don’t want to get my hopes up only for them to be wrecked. It’s almost worse than carrying on just as before. Better the devil you know.”

  Billy Ray shrugged, while Rosie nodded cynically. “You’re probably right about that. Even if he wants to, there’s so much dead wood out at that sheriff’s office, it’ll take time.”

  “I suppose so,” Sherri agreed reluctantly after a moment. “I guess we just have to wait and see. But I do hope that –”

  Charity never got to find out what Sherri hoped for, because at that moment one of the bikers – the one who’d leeringly asked Charity if she was on the menu – bellowed across the room.

  “Hey, can we get some service over here or what?”

  Charity rolled her eyes, trying to smile at Sherri, whose good mood had apparently been completely extinguished by the biker’s yell.

  “Don’t worry,” Charity whispered to her as she took her pad and pencil out of her apron. “Quicker they order, the quicker they’ll leave, right?”

  She didn’t truly believe it herself even as she said it. The bikers usually stayed late into the evening, well past the diner’s 1am closing time.

  “Well, what’ll it be?” she asked as she crossed the floor to them, tapping her pencil against her pad.

  “Me and my boys’ll have burgers and beer all round – and keep the beer comin’. I don’t want to see an empty glass in front of me for the rest of the night.”

  Charity only nodded, pursing her lips. Sure enough, it was going to be one of those nights again.

  “Anything else?” she asked.

  When she didn’t immediately get an answer, she glanced up, only to find herself looking down into the leering gaze of the man she assumed was the leader of tonight’s posse. Graying three-day growth, foul breath, a stained bandana and a frizzy gray ponytail.

  “Well, sweetheart,” he said, as the men behind him sniggered. “We can’t help but notice there ain’t no wedding ring on that pretty little finger of yours. And so, we got to wondering – how is it that a sweet thing like yourself don’t have no man to take care of her?”

  Charity swallowed. “I have a man, we’re just not married,” she lied, feeling annoyed that she’d even have to lie. It should be enough for her to tell him to just back off and that she didn’t need a man – but she’d been down this road before, and she knew the only way out was to say she was off the market. If he didn’t respect her, he’d respect another man’s claim to her.

  She could see the bikers exchanging amused glances between themselves.

  “Well, shit, honey.” The leader spoke up again. “He doesn’t sound like any good man – I mean, what kind of man won’t make an honest woman out of you? And, if you’ll pardon the expression, ain’t no way he’s going to buy the cow now that he knows he can get the milk for free.”

  Charity smiled, thin and tight, before tossing her head a little, sending her russet-brown curls cascading over her shoulder.

  “Well, that’s my business, isn’t it?” she said, her smile turning razor-edged. “And anyway, why would I buy the pig when I can get the sausage for nothing?”

  Hoots of laughter erupted from the table, some of the bikers going so far as to slap their thighs in amusement. Even the leader threw his head back and laughed. Charity, deciding she’d got them licked for the moment in any case, started to turn away, before feeling the leader’s calloused hand wrap itself around her arm.

  “Girl, I like you,” he said, pulling her down so they were face-to-face.

  Charity did her best to stare defiantly into his eyes, trying not to let him see the fear that had suddenly made her heart beat faster.

  From here, the smell of alcohol on his breath was even stronger than before, and she could see his gaze was bleary with drink. “I like a girl with a bit of sass in her – what do you say you forget about this no-good man of yours and come for a ride with me?”

  Charity collected herself enough to pull back slightly. “No thanks,” she said, trying to sound flippant. “Even if my boyfriend wasn’t the insanely jealous type, it’s nowhere near the end of my shift.”

  “So close up,” the biker persisted, trying to draw her back to him, his grip firm on her upper arm. “There’s no one here but us – and my boys won’t mind going elsewhere for a bit of fun.”

  Charity shook her head firmly. “Like I said, I have a boyfriend, and –”

  “Well, I don’t see him
anywhere around here.” The man’s eyes started to take on a mean glint. Charity stared at him, refusing to flinch as his fingers dug into her arm. “Maybe you and I ought to teach him a lesson about not keeping a closer eye on what’s his –”

  “I think the lady’s made it perfectly clear she’s not interested in your offer.”

  Charity almost jumped out of her skin at the sound of the deep, masculine voice behind her.

  She’d vaguely noticed someone else entering during her conversation, but she’d been too busy trying to extricate herself to take much note – and, judging by the look on his face, her admirer hadn’t noticed him before now either. With his grip on her arm finally loosened, Charity slipped away from him, before turning to see –

  – a chest. An extremely muscular chest, which was straining against the checked fabric of the shirt that covered it. Blinking, Charity raised her eyes up – and up – to look into the mystery man’s face.

  She had to suppress a gasp as her eyes met his – they were a strange kind of gray-green she’d never seen before, flecked with black. Something about them sent a bolt of heat straight through her as they locked onto hers.

  Charity swallowed heavily.

  Goddamn, the guy’s good-looking, she thought, as she sidled away from the table, out of reach of the biker.

  Tall, rugged and hot as hell, he had tousled, rust-colored hair, streaked with yellow from the sun. He had the kind of outdoorsy good looks that put her in mind of old-time movie stars: square-jawed, straight-nosed and full-lipped. But even so, that couldn’t account for the way his eyes had sent that lightning strike straight to her stomach when she’d looked at him.

  But then again, Charity thought, taking a second to run her eyes up and down his long, muscular form, maybe it did.

  “You the boyfriend, then?” The biker’s harsh voice cut into the strange reverie she’d drifted into.

  Charity held her breath, wondering what the tall stranger would say. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything, before he finally tore his eyes away from hers to look down at the man who’d been hassling her.