“I paid them! I’m turning over a new leaf. I only park legally now.”
“Excellent. Keep it up. And I will stop by later to buy the olives.”
As I turn the corner, Theresa Jansen pops out of the yarn store, grabs my arm, and whispers, “Got the new pink merino wool for you. Want it now?”
“Shh. Gotta maintain my street cred. I’ll grab it tomorrow.”
She gasps. “Oops. Sorry. I forgot. It’ll be our secret that you’re crafty.”
I mean, really. I can’t be the knitting cop. I’m already the face-painting one, and it’s enough of a challenge being one of the few ovary-owning police officers here.
I return to the town square, finding the bench couple still in the thick of it. The blonde in the sundress and her guy in pegged pants are on the cusp of a record—close to thirty minutes.
They’re on the cusp of something else too.
A ticket.
His hand rides up her thigh, slipping under the flowered skirt. I don’t page Vanessa because I don’t actually want this scene to escalate to the next level.
I march over to the lip-locked couple, clearing my throat.
But the ahem-ing doesn’t work.
They are two octopuses curled around each other, limbs circling every which way. His other hand—the one that’s not en route to the NSFW part of her—is threaded through her wavy hair. Her hands are . . . It’s like watching a game of Whac-A-Mole. One second, her hand is on his chest. The next second, his abs. Then it’s destination crotch.
I clear my throat infinitely louder. So loud I bet Trudy can hear it even over her usual four p.m. demonstration of picholines versus castelvetranos.
For a moment, I wonder what it would be like to want to kiss someone for this long, and in public. I furiously sift through my memory banks, trying to recall a kiss like this.
But I find zilch in the file of kisses past.
What would a man who could kiss me for hours even look like?
Out of nowhere, I picture dark scruff, chocolate-brown irises, hair that’s nearly black with a wild wave to it. Big hands, toned arms, and ink as far as the eye can see, caressing biceps and triceps and forearms, oh my.
Derek McBride.
The man I stopped the other day looked like he could kiss a woman senseless on a park bench.
Like he could kiss me senseless.
I blink away the thought since I have no time for relationships, nor any inclination to look him up. Plus, I have a job to do. Using my most serious voice, I say, “I’d say ‘Get a room,’ but what you really should do is tone down the level of tonsil hockey in the middle of the town square. Like, maybe go from the pros back to Triple A.”
She startles. He freezes. Miraculously, they detach their mouths from each other.
I expect twin spots of red on her cheeks, embarrassment in his eyes. Instead, all I see are two people tousled, frazzled, and turned the hell on.
Lucky fuckers.
“Oh, hey. Sorry.” She smooths her skirt, blinking back the haze in her eyes perhaps. “I guess we got carried away.”
“I’d say.”
“Sorry about that,” he breathes out heavily, shoveling a hand through his hair. “Uh. Wow.”
It’s like witnessing after-porn. “Just dial it down a notch. Or twelve.”
“Yeah, of course,” she says, her voice clearing as if she’s coming out of her fog. “We were just so into it.”
“Trouble is the whole town was about to see how into it you were.” I turn my glare on the guy. “Your hand was up her skirt in public. That’s on a fast track to lewd behavior.”
He cringes, but not as if he’s embarrassed. More like he’s surprised. He sits up straighter, rubs his palms on his jeans. “Are we going to be arrested?”
Nerves thread through the woman’s voice as she jumps in. “Because we were only practicing.”
I knit my brow and tilt my head. “Excuse me?”
“Are we getting a ticket for . . . whatever this is?”
“It’s called lewd behavior, and no, you’re not getting a ticket, because you didn’t cross the line. But when you’re getting too frisky, and there are schoolkids around, you really should consider your whereabouts.”
She sighs gratefully, pressing her palms together. “Thank you. We’ll practice in private from now on. We were just trying to win.”
“Win what? An award for PDA? A trophy for the public affection most likely to result in public copulation? Because that’s not something to aspire to.”
She smiles. “We’re entering a kissing contest.”
Things I’ve never heard of. “And this was practice?”
“Yes. We’re entering in the marathon category. The state record is seven hours. I think we made it to . . .”
I look at my watch. “Thirty-two minutes. Keep up the good work.” I stare at them, adding, “In private.”
“We will.” But she heaves a disappointed sigh then turns to the guy. “That was only thirty minutes. Babe, we need so much more practice.”
He drapes an arm around her. “I know, babe. We’ll keep trying.”
They stand and take off, presumably to suck each other’s faces some more. Call it a lucky guess.
At the end of my shift, I return to the police station and check in with the chief, Jeff Jansen, who puts the grizzled in grizzled old dude. He wears gruff like a second coat of paint, but he’s a teddy bear underneath. That’s what Theresa tells me—his wife runs the yarn shop and regularly knits for the man. She made him a fisherman’s sweater for Christmas last year, and he looked adorable when I bumped into them caroling.
“Keating,” he barks from the hallway door.
“Yes, sir?”
“Did you know that there’s a promotion opening up?”
My ears perk. My mouth waters. “You mean for Slattery’s job?” The patrol sergeant left for Sacramento last month. Rumor has it his spot is going to an outsider.
“That’s the one. I’d like to see you consider it.”
I maintain a straight face. He wants me to consider it? I’d like to be considered for it. “I’d love the opportunity, sir.”
He nods, the expression on his square, sturdy face barely budging. “Good. You’re a go-getter. I appreciate that you take on the traffic-duty shifts. I admire that you did the stint in the K-9 unit recently. You’re always willing to tackle whatever needs to be done, and your reports are top notch. Plus, you’ve done a fine job making the department friendlier, embracing the local community. Keep that up. Like the farmers market stuff you do, and any local fundraisers.”
I smile. That’s easy as pie. “Absolutely. I’ve lived here my whole life, and I love everything about Lucky Falls. I’ve told the local schools I’ll put my hand up if they’d like to do a Dunk-a-Cop booth at the summer festival to raise some money.”
“Perfect. My wife and I are entering the kissing contest for first responders in Whiskey Hollows. It’s held at the Windemere Inn.”
I blink. “You’re doing that?”
“What makes a cop seem friendlier than seeing him or her kiss someone special? It’s perfect for our image. Theresa says a lot of local business owners are entering, but man, would I love to see our precinct win.”
“Good luck, then, with the kissing, sir. Judging from what I saw in the town square, the competition is going to be fierce in the marathon category.”
He winks. “Good thing Theresa and I have been practicing for years.” He shifts gears. “Keep up the good work, Keating.”
I thank him and leave the station, a burst of excitement in my step.
This is the first advancement opportunity that’s opened up in years. A promotion is everything I’ve been working toward. It would mean more money, more seniority, more prestige.
It would mean everything, and I intend to maintain a laser focus on getting that job.
3
Derek
One hour to go, and I’ll have nailed my first week of shifts here in a new job, in a new town.
Yay me.
It’s been busy as hell, which surprised me, but busy impresses the boss man, and that’s what I’m here to do.
Henry Granger strides out from behind the metal desk he calls his office—tucked in the corner of the space EMS shares with the firehouse next door—and parks his big hands on his hips. “Last call of the night, and I’m going to need you to handle it, McBride.”
I stand, rising from the couch. “Yes, sir.”
My partner, Hunter, stands too. “What are the deets?”
Henry scrubs a hand over his jaw, badly in need of a shave. “It won’t be pretty. We’ve got a mighty serious situation.”
“We can handle it,” I say, grabbing my paramedic bag so we can head to the van right away. “Hell, I used to work in the city. It was crazy there on Friday nights.”
Granger shakes his head, the look in his dark eyes saying I haven’t seen anything yet. “Don’t get cocky, McBride.”
“Not cocky. Just ready.”
“Yeah, yeah, city boy. You think you’ve seen it all?”
I raise my chin. I know this drill. It’s all par for the course for new guys, and I get that I have to go through it. The key is to remain strong. “I did work in San Francisco for ten years. I’ve seen a ton of shit.”
“Like what?”
He really wants me to list the calls I went on? The things we saw in the Tenderloin section would make a monster-movie fan flinch. “Let’s see. There was the time we had to take in a homeless guy who hadn’t bathed in years and had duct-taped vegetables all over his body. Rotting vegetables. Then there was the time a woman drank too much Tide because she wanted to remove the demon baby from her belly. But she wasn’t pregnant.”
Yes, this is part of the initiation. Share the horror stories.
A new voice chimes in. “Demon baby. I’ve heard of those. Did it have hooves for feet and a forked tail?” It’s Shaw, one of the firemen. I met him at the gym a few days ago.