Porter (Dick Dynasty #1) by David Michael

mode. My face was flushed, my clothes felt too tight, and I was positive that my vagina would explode at any moment.
    It wasn’t until the red and blue lights flashed behind me and I heard the short quip of the police siren that my body came crashing down from the endorphin high I had been riding. I glanced down at the speedometer and swore as I put on my turn signal, let my foot off the gas pedal, and made my way over to the right hand shoulder of Wilshire Boulevard.
    “Any idea how fast you were going, Miss?”
    Sixty-eight.
    “I’m not sure officer. I was just keeping up with the flow of traffic.”
    He raised an eyebrow at me and held out his hands for my license and registration. “What’s the rush?”
    My seventy-two year old grandmother fell down three flights of stairs and broke both hips.
    “I’m running a bit late for a meeting downtown and let myself get carried away I guess.”
    “Stay put and turn off your car.”
    Fuck.
    I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel and watched him as he climbed back into the driver’s seat of his patrol car to run my registration.
    With today’s technology, I still can’t figure out why the hell that part of the ticketing process always takes so damn long.
    There’s nothing worse than sitting on the side of the road with police lights flashing behind you and the rest of the world gawking like you’re in a zoo. I always have the overwhelming urge to flip off the passers-by as they slow down to rubberneck. Not every arrest in Beverly Hills is an Olsen twin DUI, after all.
    A massive black Land Rover pulled up along side me, travelling even slower than the rest of the cars that had passed, before pulling up against the curb in front of me.
    “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I couldn’t believe someone had actually stopped. If it was a paparazzi looking for his next breaking story I was going to lose my shit.
    Then Porter Hale stepped out of the SUV and started toward my car.
    There was a brief moment that I considered turning my car back on and gunning it. Vehicular Manslaughter is only a misdemeanor in most cases and, with a good lawyer, I probably wouldn’t even get the maximum sentence of one year.
    He walked right past my door and up to the police cruiser.
    I watched the two of them in my side-view mirror as I crushed the steering wheel in an iron grip.
    What the hell does he think he’s doing?
    I waited for the cop to just pull out his gun and shoot him, but it never happened. Instead, he got out of the cruiser laughing and shook the son-of-a-bitch’s hand!
    It took every ounce of my willpower to stay seated in my vehicle. I wanted to storm back there in punch Porter right in his big, dumb mouth.
    The two of them walked back toward my car like old friends and I tried my best to school my features back into the late-but-innocent look of panic I had managed to pull off when handing over my paperwork.
    The officer handed me my license and registration with barely a glance in my direction.
    “You make sure to keep her behind you the rest of the way to that meeting, Mister Ruff. Try to keep it under the speed limit.”
    They shook hands and Porter thanked him with a megawatt smile that would have set my panties on fire in any other setting.
    “I just saved you a five hundred dollar ticket,” he said from the side of his mouth as he waved to the officer, “You’re buying dinner next time.”
    Porter turned and walked back to his Land Rover without so much as a backward glance.
    He waited for the cop to drive off before pulling away from the curb and accelerating through the intersection. He made a left two blocks down the road and disappeared from my sight.
    I sat there in shocked silence and stared into the distance after him.
    Not only had he managed to smooth talk his way into getting me out of a ticket, but he’d also managed to nail down a second date, if I wasn’t mistaken.
    That bastard was smooth.
    I shot off a text message to Becks and