Semi-Tough Luck

By Jackie Barbosa

Sylvia

Tonight, I lost my home, most of my possessions, and my livelihood when my semi rig was stolen from a truck stop parking lot in Middle-of-Nowhere, Nebraska. Yeah, everything’s insured, but that still leaves me with nowhere to sleep, one change of clothing, no way to get home, and only the paltry credit line on my Visa to cover my expenses until the insurance company settles.

So it’s not like I can easily refuse when the local sheriff suggests that I hitch a ride with his younger brother, Ivan Carlson, who’s headed to San Diego to play pro hockey. There’s no reason to think Ivan will be anything but a perfect gentleman. Which is a shame, because he’s sex on skates, but it would be wrong for me to take advantage of him. Wouldn’t it?

Ivan

When I met Sylvia Figueres, she was having the worst day of her life. The last thing a woman in her shoes needs is some stranger hitting on her. But man, I want to. Then my brother points out that she needs a ride to the west coast and I just happen to be going that way. I can’t say no, and since my big brother, the goddamn sheriff, is trusting me to behave like the gentleman I’m not, I’m going to have to keep my feelings to myself. And drive fast.

Or that’s the plan, until we wind up having to share a motel room.

Whoops?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Publishing
• Release date: Aug 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9781094423500

Jackie Barbosa

I can’t remember a time when I didn’t want to be a writer when I grew up, but there were plenty of times when I wasn’t sure I ever would be. As it turns out, it just took me about twenty years longer to grow up than I expected! On the road to publication, I took a few detours, including a stint in academia (I hold an MA in Classics from the University of Chicago and was a recipient of a Mellon Fellowship in the Humanities) and many years as a technical writer/instructional designer for a data processing company. I still hold my day job, but my true vocation has always been writing fiction and romance in particular. To stay informed of my release schedule, you can sign up for my newsletter (which I only send out when I actually release a book) or follow me on Twitter or Facebook. As a matter of public record, I tend to be a lot more active on Twitter, but also a lot more political. I am represented by Kevan Lyon of the Marsal Lyon Literary Agency. I’m a firm believer that love is the most powerful force in the world, which that makes romance the most powerful genre in the world. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise!

Book preview

One

Sylvia

I reckon that’s all we can do for tonight, Ms. Figueres.

I nearly groan with relief at this announcement. I’m so exhausted, I’d be swaying on my feet if I weren’t sitting in an extremely uncomfortable chair in the shabby but brightly lit office of Lucas Carlson, sheriff of Keel County, Nebraska. Of course, I have no idea where I’m going to sleep tonight, let alone how I’m going to pay for breakfast tomorrow morning or get home to L.A.

It’s been a little more than five hours since I got out of the shower at the nearby truck stop to find that someone had cut the combination lock off my locker, stolen my purse, and then used my keys to drive off with my semi-tractor and the trailer I was supposed to deliver to a warehouse in Minneapolis tomorrow afternoon. A little more than five hours that I’ve spent reporting the crime, canceling my credit card, ATM card, checking account, and cell phone service, contacting my employer to let them know their shipment won’t be arriving tomorrow, opening a claim with my insurance company, and trying to figure out what the hell I’m going to do now. The credit card company has promised to overnight a new card to the sheriff’s office, but I’m not sure how useful it’s going to be.

Before you castigate me for bad financial planning, I have savings. They’re just not liquid. Especially not when I’m in the middle of nowhere with no identification and all my transactional accounts locked down to prevent someone from stealing even more from me. And since I use my Visa, with its generous rewards plan, to cover my expenses while I’m on the road and I was only one day from finishing a job and getting paid, I’m nearly at the top of my credit limit. But now, I’m not going to get paid for this delivery or for the load I was supposed to pick up for the return trip.

Fucked does not begin to describe my situation.

Maybe the sheriff has an empty cell I can sleep in. Otherwise, it’s going to be a long night on the floor.

Carlson pushes back his rolling chair and stands up. He’s a tall man—about an inch over six feet—with a full head of curly brown hair that’s graying a little at the temples and a square-jawed solidity that promises either reassurance or retribution, depending on which one you deserve.

Now, I’ve been pulled over by one too many cops who thought I might be willing to screw my way out of a traffic ticket, so I don’t trust a man has good intentions just because he’s wearing a uniform. But in the past few hours, Carlson has earned my hope, if not my trust by treating me with a combination of kindness and respect that’s not typical of men in general, especially men in positions of power. That and the fact that he wears his wedding ring and displays photos of his wife, a mop-haired son, and sweet-faced baby girl prominently on his desk has instilled a certain degree of confidence in me that he’s actually a good cop.

We might as well go on home, he says, reaching for his broad-brimmed, khaki duty hat, which hangs on a peg on a coat rack in the back corner of the room.

I blink in complete astonishment. I’m sorry. What?

Stuffing the hat on top of his head, he gives me a perfectly chaste once-over and grimaces in obvious sympathy. You’re falling asleep on your feet, you’ve got no place to stay, and no way to pay for a hotel room. Did you really think I’d leave you to fend for yourself overnight? I called my wife two hours ago and asked her to make up the spare bedroom for you and keep dinner warm until we get there. He extends his hand to help me up from my chair. And you’re in luck. Our sixteen-month-old daughter just started sleeping through the night.

Carlson’s house is a two-story bungalow-style affair with a large porch and a detached garage. It’s situated on a large lot in the middle of the block on a pretty, tree-lined street. If the house was almost anywhere in Los Angeles County, I’d estimate its value at a million plus. Here in Middle-of-Nowhere, Nebraska, it probably counts as a starter home.

A frown crosses the sheriff’s features as he pulls his black-and-white into the driveway next to a sleek white BMW coupe that looks nearly brand new. It strikes me as a pricey car for a family living on a law enforcement officer’s salary, but then again, for all I know, his wife has a career that pulls in the big bucks. Even mothers with small children can have high-powered jobs, after all.

Something wrong? I ask as he puts the car in park and pulls the handbrake.

Carlson grunts what could either be an affirmative or a negative, and then gestures at the Lexus. Looks like my brother is here. We weren’t expecting him until the day after tomorrow. I wonder why Megan didn’t call to let me know.

Understanding dawns on me. If my staying here is going to be a problem— I begin, even though I have no idea how to finish the sentence.

Fortunately, Carlson interrupts me before I have to think of an alternative. No, it’s fine. We’ve got plenty of room. I’m just surprised is all.

I’m pretty sure from the tone of his voice that surprised equals worried, and I wonder why, but it’s really none of my business.

We get out of the car, and I carry my meager armful of possessions—one dirty change of clothing, a damp towel, and my toiletries—to the front door. Light trickles out from between the curtains drawn across the large front window, indicating someone’s probably still awake even though it’s past midnight. Carlson turns the knob without bothering to insert his key and swings the door inward, beckoning me to follow.

My first impression of the interior is of comfortable hominess. To the left of the front door is the dining room and kitchen, and to the right is the living room, while directly in front of us is a stairwell leading to the second floor. I’d bet at some point in the past, the entry was a narrow hallway with doors on either side, but the house has been remodeled to have the cherished open-concept floor plan—hey, just because I’m on the road a lot doesn’t mean I don’t watch HGTV—and the walls have been knocked out to provide sightlines in both directions. The floor is hardwood or possibly laminate, although a carpet runner covers the stairs, possibly to prevent the small children currently confined upstairs by a closed childproof gate at the top of the stairwell from slipping on the way down.

The dining room and kitchen area are too dark to make out anything but the shadow of a rectangular table and the looming bulk of what must be a kitchen island. By contrast, the living room glows with soft, warm light. A huge, overstuffed sectional dominates the space, dwarfing everything but the man occupying the reclining seat at one end of the gigantic piece of furniture. I can tell he’s several inches over six feet tall and probably weighs more than two hundred pounds. Also? None of those pounds are fat.

As he rises to his feet, his lightweight gray T-shirt clings to his chest and abdomen, briefly revealing the chiseled musculature beneath. His bared biceps are large and well-defined, and the sweatpants he’s wearing do nothing to hide the thick contours of his heavily muscled thighs. As big as he is everywhere else, those thighs are particularly immense, and I wonder what activity has led to that. Maybe he’s a dead-lifter

Reviews for Semi-Tough Luck

[Kate · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Sylvia is such a great character - she rocks!
Great series.