Jacked Up (Bowen Boys #4)(96)

Man, she was so freaking funny. He had no clue how he’d managed to get her to fall in love with him but he was going to work his butt off every f*cking day to make this work.

“Where are we going?” she asked as he lifted her and headed for the kitchen counter where he’d left his duffle bag.

“To get a dildo. I want to see how you use it.”

“On me or on you?”

Jack barked a laugh. “Dream on, pet.” Then he kissed her and added, “But never lose your kind of pushy. It makes me want to f*ck you harder.”

“I won’t. You know, though, you won’t be able to f*ck me into submission, right?”

“That doesn’t mean I’m ever going to stop trying.”

She cupped his face and brushed her lips over his. “That’s my Borg.”



James and Cole stepped out of the car, followed by Max.

They stood in the suburban cul-de-sac, in front of the pink house, not really believing their eyes.

“Are you sure this is the right address?” Cole asked, looking around.

James nodded. “I double-checked. This is where she lives.”

Jack’s information hadn’t been too detailed, but the tracking was sound. The baby who Rachel Bowen had given up for adoption was living there and her name was Morgana.

“Can’t be. This is so…”

Max seemed at lost for words. James too.

“Martha f*cking Stewart,” Cole offered.

True. Matching welcome mat and drapes. Flowers on every windowsill. Cute, perfectly tended garden with a couple of gnomes watching over.

“She’s supposed to be a parole officer, not Miss Peggy Sue.” James was already half expecting someone dressed like Lucy opening the front door.

“It’s the California sun,” Max offered, walking toward the porch. “It makes people do weird things.”

They knocked but no one answered, so they decided to check the backyard.

The kitchen door was ajar.

“Hello?” Cole said, poking his head in.

The door fell open.

The kitchen was creamy pink, very fifties, but no Lucy was there greeting them. More like an angry version of Lara Croft.

A man who looked rather the worse for wear was lying on the floor, whimpering, badly beaten up, and Lara Croft, aka their lost sister, was standing over him, holding a frigging chainsaw.

“This is not what it looks like,” she said, turning to them.