I was early for my nondate drinks with Nolan. It was more in an effort to avoid Nash when he and Piper came home from work than any actual enthusiasm. But after a long day of sitting in a car watching a low-level henchman hit the gym, the Chinese buffet, and the strip club, I was actually looking forward to talking shop with the marshal.
The crowd was mostly female in Honky Tonk, and the tables had little signs on them that said Warning: Shark Week. I smirked. Leave it to Nolan to pick a night when the female bar staff’s menstruation cycles synced.
Knowing the drill, I grabbed an empty two-top and did not attempt to flag down Max, the server, who was busy adjusting the peel-and-stick heating pad on her abdomen with one hand while stuffing a chocolate cupcake into her mouth with the other.
Max would take my order when she was good and ready, and I would get my drink when Silver the bartender was done shocking the shit out of the burly biker dude’s abs with the mini electrotherapy machine.
It was a new addition to Shark Week’s Crappy Hour. Electrical impulses from the electrodes simulated period pain. Knockemout’s residents weren’t ones to back down from a challenge, and I had to admit, it was pretty entertaining to watch tatted bikers and buff farmer types line up for their turn to try to walk with level 10 period cramps.
It took a hot minute or five, but Max finally ambled over and flopped down in the chair across from me. She had icing on her chin. “Lina.”
“Max.”
“Your eye looks better.”
“Thanks.”
“Heard you got it wrestling two murderers who tried to attack Sloane and Naomi while filming the pilot of a bounty hunter TV show.”
So much for my professional anonymity…and pesky things like the truth.
“Nothing that exciting,” I assured her.
“What’ll it be? Feel like tryin’ a Crappy Hour special? We got half-priced Bloody Marys and a cocktail Silver came up with called Red Death. It tastes like shit and it’ll fuck you up.”
“I think I’ll stick with bourbon.” It was one and done for me until I was sure I’d gotten my stress level under control.
“Suit yourself.” Max sighed and heaved herself to her feet. “I’ll be back after the Midol kicks in.”
She shuffled back to the bar and I used the opportunity to wade through some work emails on my phone until raucous male laughter erupted in the corner.
I’d spent a lot of time in a lot of bars watching people interact. I knew when the vibe wasn’t right. And there was no doubt in my mind something ugly was brewing from the four men. Their table was littered with empty beer bottles and shot glasses. Their body language was rowdy and borderline aggressive, like sharks deciding whether to attack.
Max arrived at their table and started stacking empties on her tray. One of the men, an older guy with a beer gut and a white, bushy mustache nowhere near as nice as Vernon’s, said something that Max didn’t like. It caused the table to burst into laughter again.
Max tipped her tray, rolling the empties back on to the table, and—with a parting middle finger—stomped back to the bar.
I recognized one of the younger troublemakers as the man who’d stared at me when I was leaving Waylay’s soccer game. “Come on, Maxi Pad, don’t be so sensitive. We’re just teasin’,” he yelled after her.
The foursome put their heads together for what was most likely an off-color joke and busted up laughing again.
“Keep it down, Tate,” warned Tallulah from the next table. She was sitting with three other regulars who didn’t look any more entertained by the men’s shenanigans than I was.
So that was Tate Dilton, disgraced bad cop and good ol’ boy.
“It’s awful hard to keep it down around you, pretty,” one of Dilton’s pals said, gesturing lewdly at his crotch.
The men around the table erupted once again and the tension in the room rose.
I stared hard at Dilton from across the room and waited. It didn’t take long. As long as they were sober enough, people could usually sense a threat.
He took a long look back and then said something to the rest of his cronies. They all turned to look at me. I kicked my legs out and crossed them at the ankles.
He stood and headed in my direction, using his best intimidation glare. He walked with the confidence of a man who had peaked in high school and didn’t realize the glory days were over.
When he got to my table, he stopped and stared some more. “You got a problem, sweetheart? Maybe an itch I can scratch for you?”
He had a short, Hitler-esque mustache that twitched every time his jaw opened and closed on a piece of gum.
“I doubt there’s anything you could do for me.”
“You’re Morgan’s bitch, ain’t ya?” He was wearing a Knockemout PD shirt and that pissed me off even more than the insult.
“No. Are you?” I asked sweetly.
His eyes narrowed, nearly disappearing behind his ruddy cheeks as he pulled out the chair opposite me. He spun it around backward in a move that should never impress a woman of any age and sat uninvited. “Saw you at the soccer fields fighting. You tell your cop boyfriend there are plenty of us round here who don’t like the shit he’s forcing down our throats. Maybe let him know that if he ain’t careful, we might just have to take him down a peg or two.”
“Have you considered taking your aversion to the social requirement of regular bathing up the chain of command?”
“Huh?” He blinked, then chewed furiously for a few seconds.
“Oh. Maybe your cause is more public affairs related. Let me guess. You don’t think you should have to wear pants inside the Piggly Wiggly when you buy your six-pack of cheap-ass beer.”
He leaned in and I could smell the liquor on his breath. “That’s some smart mouth you’re runnin’.”
“Are all these multisyllabic words making it hard for you to keep up?”
“Keep it up and your bitch ass will be leaving here with serious regrets.” His gaze flicked to my eye. “Looks like someone already taught you some manners.”
“They tried. Now, why don’t you and your friends go on home before one of you does something stupider than usual?”
“You want me to take you down to the station for runnin’ that pretty mouth at a cop?” He popped the p on cop and I nearly rolled my eyes.
“Does Chief Morgan know you’re running around impersonating a police officer? Because I’m fairly certain in order for you to be a cop, you gotta have a badge. And I heard a rumor that your badge is locked up in a drawer in Nash’s desk.”
He jumped to his feet and slammed meaty palms on the table in front of me. I didn’t move a muscle as he leaned into my space, filling my nostrils with the smell of cheap liquor.
Fi, Max, and Silver were heading in our direction looking like they were ready to go to war. But they didn’t need to make themselves targets. Not when I was the one who was only in town for the short term.
I held up a hand. “I got this,” I assured them and slowly got to my feet to face the bloated bully.
“Go home, Tate,” Fi said, taking the lollipop out of her mouth to use her scary mom voice.
Silver’s jaw flexed as she kept one hand clamped over her uterus and the other curled into a fist. Max was holding her tray on her shoulder like it was a baseball bat.
“You wanna take a swing at me, Dilton?” I whispered softly.
He bared his teeth…and his chewing gum.
I gave him a mean little smile. “I dare you. Because you do and you’re not making it out of here intact. Not only am I itching to add ‘broken nose’ to your physical catalog of ‘beer belly’ and ‘receding hairline,’ but the entire female population of Knockemout is riding the crimson tide right now, and I’m betting there’re more than a few local ladies you did wrong over the years.”
He sneered, his face turning harder and uglier with the effort.
“So go ahead, asshole. Take your free shot, but it’s the only one you’re gonna get. Once we’re done with you, there won’t be anything left to pin a badge on,” I said.
He straightened and balled both hands into fists at his sides. I could see him weighing the options in his tiny, inebriated brain. But before he could make my day by making the wrong move, a large hand landed on his shoulder.
“Think it’s time you went home, pal.”
I looked up and then up some more at the man who’d stepped in. Cereal Aisle Guy to the rescue.
Dilton turned to face him. “Why don’t you mind your own damn…”
The rest of his sentence disappeared a split second after Dilton realized he was talking to the man’s Adam’s apple, not his face.
I smirked, and a twitter of nervous laughter rose up around us.
“You wanna finish that thought?” Cereal Aisle Guy asked.
Dilton glowered at him. “Fuck you,” he spat.
“I were you, I wouldn’t want to be making a spectacle of myself. It draws unnecessary attention,” Cereal Aisle Guy said.
Dilton looked like he wanted to say something else, but he was interrupted by his asshole posse.
“Let’s hit up another bar. One with less bitches,” one of his idiot friends suggested.
I kid you not, the women at the tables closest to us started hissing.
Someone threw the remains of their fry basket, hitting Dilton square in the chest.
“Now ain’t the time, Tate,” the older man with the mustache called. “Be smart.”
There was something ominous about the way he said it.
“If you don’t get him out of here, Wylie, I’m callin’ the cops. The real ones,” Fi snarled.
“Already here.” The entire bar turned to see U.S. Marshal Nolan Graham at my back, his badge and gun on full display. “We got a problem here?”
“I think that’s your cue to leave, sweetheart,” I said to the ketchup-covered Dilton.
“Why don’t we step outside?” Nolan suggested. His tone was almost amicable, but his eyes were cold steel.
“I’ll be seein’ you again,” Dilton promised me as his friends each took an arm and followed Nolan out the door. The older man with the mustache stopped in front of me, looked me over from head to toe, snorted, and then strolled outside with a smirk.
The ladies who weren’t too busy pressing both hands to their cramped abdomens erupted in cheers as the door swung shut behind them.
I produced my credit card and held it aloft. “Fi, this round’s on me.”
The pandemonium reached hysteria levels and then someone plugged Shania Twain’s “Man! I Feel Like a Woman!” into the jukebox.
I turned back to the man who had white knighted me twice now. “Cereal aisle guy,” I said.
His lips curved in an almost smile. “Unmarried friend of the old lady.”
“Your nickname is better.”
“I could call you Trouble.”
“You wouldn’t be the first.”
He nodded toward the door. “You shouldn’t go around antagonizing men like that.”
Even Cereal Aisle Guy had an opinion on my life choices.
“He started it.”
“Sounded like he’s got an issue with the local cops. Wasn’t the chief of police here shot a couple weeks back?” he asked.
“He was.”
The guy shook his head ruefully. “And I thought small-town life would be quiet.”
“If you want quiet, Knockemout probably isn’t the place to find it.”
“Guess not. They find the guy who shot the cop? Cause the one they just hauled out of here looks like he wouldn’t mind putting a bullet or two in someone,” he said.
“The FBI is investigating but they haven’t made any arrests. I’m sure the guy who did it is long gone. At least, he is if he has half a brain.”
“I heard the chief doesn’t even remember what happened. That’s gotta be weird.”
I didn’t really feel like talking about Nash to anyone. Especially not a stranger, so I simply raised my eyebrow.
He flashed an embarrassed smile. “Sorry. The gossip here runs fast and deep. Back home, I didn’t even know my neighbors’ first names. Here everybody seems like they already know your social security number and great-grandmother’s maiden name.”
“Welcome to Knockemout. Can I buy you a drink for your heroics?” I offered.
He shook his head. “I’ve gotta get going.”
“Well, thanks for stepping in. Even if I totally had the situation handled.”
“No problem. But maybe be more careful next time. You don’t wanna go making yourself a target.”
“I’m sure that creep has bigger problems than worrying about me. For instance, he’ll probably be having nightmares about you tonight.”
The grin was back. “Rain check on that drink.”
“You got it,” I said and watched him leave.
“On the house,” Max said, appearing next to me with the bourbon I’d ordered.
“Thanks. And thanks for not telling me I should have minded my own business.”
Max snorted. “Please. You’re the shero of Honky Tonk. Tate has no idea how lucky he is. We woulda tore his ass up tonight. Then Knox woulda been pissed at all the property damage. And Studly Do-Right woulda been mad about the blood and paperwork.”
“The Morgan brothers owe us one,” I agreed.
Nolan came back inside, stroking his finger and thumb over his mustache and frowning.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I think I might have to shave.”
My lips twitched. “I think you should keep it. Reclaim the ’stache.”
He took the chair Dilton had vacated and waved Fi over.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I warned, pointing to the Shark Week signage.
“Shark Week’s in the summer, isn’t it?”
“Not that kind of Shark Week. This one’s scarier.”
Fi appeared with a fresh lollipop. She tossed my credit card on the table in front of me and then dug the heels of her hands into her lower back. “God. It feels like my kidneys are trying to tunnel their way out of my flesh. Why is nature such a bitch?”
“Oh, that kind of Shark Week,” Nolan said, catching on.
“Yeah. So whatever you’re about to say better be worth my time and suffering coming over here,” Fi said.
“I just wanted to politely and respectfully suggest that you pull the security footage from tonight and save it somewhere.”
“Any particular reason?”
“I don’t know what’s public knowledge and what’s not,” Nolan hedged.
“You mean Nash firing Tate for being a bad cop and a shitty human being?” Fi prompted.
“Word travels fast around here. Sometimes it’s even the truth,” I said.
“Just in case things escalate, it wouldn’t hurt to be able to prove a pattern,” Nolan said.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he escalated the shit out of things,” Fi said on a groan. “He’s got a whole lot of artificial self-worth wrapped around that badge. Without it, who knows what he’ll do to feel like top dog?”
“Keep an eye out,” Nolan advised.
“Will do. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go lie down in the back seat of my minivan for ten minutes. I’ll send Max over with a drink for you, Marshal.”
We watched her limp away.
“I can’t imagine going through something like that every damn month,” Nolan said, shaking his head.
“You don’t think we’re like that with our jobs, do you?” I asked.
“Like what?”
“Like we get our self-worth, our purpose from our careers.”
“Oh, you want me to lie to you. Okay. No, we’re not at all like that, Solavita.”
“Come on.”
“Babe, I lost my marriage over this job and I don’t even like what I do.”
“So why don’t you quit?”
“And do what?”
“I don’t know. Win back the girl?”
“Right. Because the only thing more attractive than a man married to his job is an unemployed ex-husband begging for a second chance,” he said dryly. “Nope. Some of us are just destined to live for the job.”
“You don’t think there’s anything better out there than this?” I asked.
“Of course there’s something fucking better out there. Just maybe not for you and me. At least me. If you think for a second I wouldn’t quit my job and spend the rest of my life rubbing my ex’s feet and packing her lunches if she said she’d take me back, you’re dead wrong. But there’s only so many times you can shut somebody out before they stop trying to get in.”
“But is it worth it? Letting someone in when you know you just made it that much easier for them to rip you apart? I mean, seriously, what could be that good to make that kind of risk worth it?”
“You’re asking the wrong guy. I don’t know what’s on the other side, but I’d sure as hell be willing to risk finding out if I got a second chance.”
Nolan’s words made me feel just a little bit cowardly. I had no problem confronting a drunken bully, but the idea of opening myself up to someone had my knees knocking together.
“So how did dinner with Sloane go?”
“Good. She’s a great girl. Smart. Fucking adorable. A little wild.”
“But?” I prompted, reading his face.
“But will I sound like a big girl if I say I might not be over my ex?”
“Yes,” I teased. “If it makes you feel better, I think our little librarian is just looking for a good time. Not wedding bells.”
“I don’t like to kiss and tell, but after I told her about my ex, she told me she’s just in it for after-third-date sex.”
I choked on my bourbon. “Well, as long as you’re both on the same page.”
“Here you go, Marshal. It’s a Red Death,” Max said, dropping a rocks glass filled with a murky red beverage.
“Actually, can I get a—”
I kicked him under the table and shook my head as Max’s eyes narrowed threateningly.
“I beg your pardon?” she said frostily.
“I mean, this looks great. Thank you very much. Here’s twenty dollars for your trouble,” Nolan said, quickly shoving a bill at her.
Max nodded regally and snatched up the cash. “That’s what I thought you meant.”
Nolan took a sip and immediately winced. “Jesus, God. It tastes like a hangover.”
“How do you feel about trying period cramps on for size?” I asked.
Later that night, I was curled up on the couch with another murdery library book trying not to think about what Nolan had said when I heard a thump against my front door. It was late, after eleven, which was usually when bad things happened.
I slipped off the couch and quietly made my way to the door.
You needed a key to get into the building, but in my line of work, I knew that even a sturdy exterior door and living next to the chief of police wouldn’t deter a drunk, determined idiot who’d had his ego dented.
I held my breath and peered through the peephole. There was no one there. Across the hall, Mrs. Tweedy’s door was closed. I was debating whether to grab my trusty baseball bat to go investigate when I heard a faint scratching sound coming from the bottom of my door. It was accompanied by a familiar jingle.
Opening the door, I found Piper prancing in place looking anxious. Next to her, slumped against the wall was Nash. He was shirtless, sweating, and shivering.
The guy sure knew how to take a girl on a roller coaster of emotion.
“Hey,” he panted, tilting his head to look up at me. “Mind taking…Piper…for a bit?”
I said nothing as I helped haul him to his feet. There was nothing to say. We’d hurt each other, but he’d come to me when he needed help. And I wasn’t quite mean enough to turn him away. Wordlessly, he looped one arm over my shoulders while I slid mine around his waist.
It felt familiar. But I wasn’t supposed to have a routine with anyone, let alone him.
Tremors racked his body as we shuffled inside with Piper dancing nervously at our feet.
“Bed or couch?” I asked. His skin was hot and sticky against mine.
“Bed.”
I guided us into my bedroom and, knowing his preference, pushed him down on the side closest to the door. Piper heroically vaulted onto the mattress and marched back and forth, surveying Nash from head to bare feet.
“I’ll get some ice,” I said. I didn’t have any frozen vegetables in my freezer, and I didn’t think cold takeout would do the trick.
Nash’s hand clamped over my wrist. “No. Stay.” Those blue eyes pulled me in. There were no walls or old wounds in them. There was only an honest plea and I was helpless against it. “Please.”
“Fine. But this doesn’t mean I’m not still furious with you.”
“Same goes.”
“Don’t be an ass.”
I tried to round the foot of the bed, but he stopped me and pulled me back. He jackknifed into a seated position, hooked me under the arms, and pulled me on top of him.
“Nash.”
“Just need you close,” he whispered.
When he collapsed back against the pillows, he settled me into his side, my thigh draping over his hips, my head resting on his chest just below the scar on his shoulder.
I could hear the thunder of his heartbeat, and I splayed my palm across his chest. He shuddered once and then his muscles seemed to lose some of the tension they held so rigidly.
He let out a tremulous sigh, then wrapped both arms around me, pressed his face to my hair, and held on tight.
Piper claimed her space at Nash’s feet, resting her head on his ankle and shooting sorrowful glances up at us.
With nothing left to do, I breathed with him.
Four. Seven. Eight.
Four. Seven. Eight.
Over and over again until the tension left his body. “Better now,” Nash whispered into my hair. We lay there, breathing together, being together until sleep drifted over us both.
