The Feel Good Factor

by Blakely, Lauren

  I stare at the sky as if deep in thought then nod. “You’re right. I will never not.”

  She turns on her heel, her cute polka-dot swing dress swishing as she heads off to the bowling alley. I resume my patrol around the center of Lucky Falls, strolling past the olive-tasting room where a peppy Trudy Lafferty waves and asks if I want to try the new kalamatas. “When I’m off duty, I’ll be buying a whole bucket,” I tell her, since I have a savory tooth the likes of which can rival any sweet one.

  “You know your money’s no good here, Perri.”

  “And you know I don’t take payola, even in the delectable form of kalamatas. You’re still going to have to pay your parking tickets.”

  “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.

  “It might have spoken in tongues, too, had it actually existed,” I say.

  He shudders. “I don’t scare easily, but demon babies scare the fuck out of me.”

  “Question,” Hunter chimes in, raising a hand as if he’s in school. “What happens when the fuck is scared out of you? Does that mean you can’t, I dunno, fuck anymore?”

  Shaw pumps his hips. “I can always fuck.”

  Are these guys for real? There’s a call to go on, and they’re trash-talking.

  Granger knows it too, and with two fingers in his mouth, he issues a powerfully shrill whistle. “Children, shut the hell up. We have serious matters to tend to. Got a guy out on Vintage Oaks Road. Says he has a bug in his penis.”

  I cringe but school my expression. It can’t be worse than the vegetable wearer or the Tide swallower. But God, I fucking hate dick calls. “We just need to take him to the ER, right?” I ask, nodding toward the ambulance so we can get the hell out of here.

  Shaw shoots me an are you kidding look. “Dude, you’re a paramedic. Don’t you think you should try to fix the problem, stat?”

  Yeah, I’m going to need to revise my stance on staying stoic. “That’s why doctors get the big bucks. To remove shit like that.”

  Granger claps my shoulder. “You use the forceps to get it out.”

  I die inside. This is the worst. Give me the unbathed masses needing transport, any day. “Okay,” I choke out.

  He lifts his chin, studying me. “What? Is this hard for you, city boy?”

  I swallow harshly, squaring my shoulders. “We’re on it.” With my gear in tow, I head to the passenger side of the ambulance, Hunter to the driver side.

  “No sirens needed for this call,” Hunter says. “It’s only a mile away.”

  Granger calls out as I get into the vehicle, “Don’t you guys want to know what kind of bug it is?”

  Not really. “Sure.”

  Granger and Shaw join us in the garage. The boss man’s face turns graver than I’ve ever seen him. Shaw looks at Granger, almost as if he’s saying take it away.

  Granger clears his throat. “It’s a . . . cockroach.”

  They both spill into laughter, doubled over, hands on their bellies, faces contorted. Hunter joins in too.

  I couldn’t be happier to be the butt of a first-week prank. I get out of the van, laughing too. “You fuckers.”

  Shaw points at me. “You passed, man. You passed the initiation.”

  As I head home that night on my bike, I ride past the spot where Officer Sexy As Sin stopped me. I’ve ridden this road every damn day since I’ve been in town, actually, wishing for her siren.

  But one of these days, I’m going to bump into her again, and I’m going to get her number and then some.

  Because that insta-lust is strong, and I don’t think even a demon baby could scare it the fuck out of me.

  4

  Perri

  “Let me get this straight—you’re saying for a full half hour they were just kissing?”

  The question comes from Arden as we gather at the bowling alley on Friday evening. Vanessa’s joined us for a quick game while one of her employees mans the check-in.

  I grab my neon-pink ball from the return. “Like they were in seventh grade, making out after sixth-period science class behind the shed on the dirt path behind the school.”

  Vanessa raises one skeptical brow. “That’s very specific. Oh, wait. That’s where you kissed David Bruno for the first time.”

  “How could you forget? She called us over to her house and made us listen to the story ten times,” Arden chimes in.

  I bask in the memory of when I first experienced the glory of French kissing. David and I had been dating for two weeks, which translated into going to Starbucks after school for Frappuccinos. One fine Wednesday after a particularly yummy mocha, we stole behind the shed and he planted his lips on mine, and we didn’t stop for the longest time. “And it was the most epic first kiss ever.”

  Vanessa sticks out her tongue. “Only you would have an epic first kiss. You do realize most first kisses suck?”

  I wiggle my eyebrows. “I do, but mine didn’t. And I’ve been a devotee of epic first kisses ever since.”

  Arden raises a hand like she’s in church. “Preach, sister. No other kind allowed.”

  I take the ball, start at the end of the lane, and let it fly, knocking down five pins. When I turn around, I resume the report. “So today, it was a full-on make-out sesh on the bench in the town square. Which made me think . . . when was the last time you did that? The kind of endless kissing and groping that is only that—endless kissing and groping?”

  Arden lowers her blonde head, a guilty-as-charged look strolling across her face. “Last night.”

  I roll my eyes as I wait for the ball. “You don’t count. I know you do that all the time with Gabe.” She is ridiculously happy and in love with Gabe Harrison, a local fireman.

  “We like making out. What’s the big deal?”

  “But it always leads to sex, doesn’t it?” I grab the ball and send it down the lane again, knocking over two more pins, since my bowling game is incredibly, ridiculously average.

  Arden scoffs as she grabs a bright-green ball from the return. “Isn’t that sort of the
point? We don’t have to make out behind sheds anymore, or stop above the waist. We can go . . . wait for it . . . all the way.”

  Vanessa sighs happily. “Sex is seriously one of the best parts of being an adult.” She heads to the ball return. “Or so I’m told. It’s been ages since I’ve done it. The penis still goes into the vagina, right?”

  Arden nods, her face serious. “Yes. I can draw you a diagram if it would help. It’s basically insert-this-tab-into-this-slot, and you’re good to go.”

  Vanessa taps her temple. “Good to know it all still works the same way it did circa 2017, should the opportunity arise again. But for now, I’ll live vicariously through your Kissing Bandits.”

  “Me too,” I say as Vanessa takes her turn. “They were into each other, the kind of into that leads to tabs going into slots. But it turns out they were simply practicing for this kissing contest fundraiser in Whiskey Hollows, in the marathon division, they said. My boss is entering the contest too.”

  “Ooh, the chief of police will be competing,” Vanessa quips.

  “And he wants our precinct to win. Don’t get me wrong—I love how the wine-country towns have banded together since the fires to raise money for those on the front lines, but I can’t imagine wanting to make out with somebody for that long. Eventually you’ll run out of spit.”

  “Or interest.” Vanessa snags her phone and taps the screen. “But there are other categories. My sister and I were talking about it the other night. You can enter the marathon one, you can do sweetest kiss, or even the most passionate kiss category. And attendees bid on who they think will win each category—that’s where the money comes from. If you bid correctly, you win prizes donated by local businesses. But all the money raised goes to first responders.” Her eyes light up as she scans her phone. “Ooh, they have a category for the best reenactment of a movie kiss or book kiss. I’ll have to mention the book kiss to Ella.” Vanessa’s sister is the town librarian.

  Arden pumps a fist. “Book kisses for the win.”

  I peer over Vanessa’s shoulder at the phone, reading the details. “That’s a good reason to make out, come to think of it.”