Sex in the Sticks

by Sawyer Bennett

  "But...but...that's so high schoolish," I stammer.

  Logan shrugs. "It is what it is. And it also doesn't help that you went out with Monte Plume last night. Darla's been sweet on him."

  "Oh shit," I mutter, and lean forward, letting my forehead thunk lightly on the tabletop. When I raise it and look back at Logan, I ask, "Do you think she's going to spit in my food?"

  "Probably," he says with a sympathetic look. "Want some of mine?"

  Logan pushes his plate across the table and I snag a piece of bacon.

  "I didn't mean to upset you," Logan says, and there's not a trace of humor in his voice now. "It's not that big of a deal."

  "I don't want people to dislike me," I say softly. "Especially when I've done nothing to earn that."

  "Honey," Logan drawls, and he does this while smiling kindly. "The mere fact you're a female is a strike against you in this town with other females, but add the fact that you're drop-dead gorgeous...well, I'm sorry. That's just the way it is here. Nothing to be done about it and you shouldn't worry."

  I heard nothing he said after drop-dead gorgeous because he most certainly didn't say that with the tone of someone discussing the weather. It came out in a low, rumbling appreciative way.

  I tip my head to the side and ask, "You think I'm gorgeous?"

  Logan grins at me with mischief and then says, "Let's change the subject. How was your date with Monte last night?"

  Ugh...my date with Monte. I'd rather not think about it, and I'm actually a little embarrassed to be talking about it with Logan. I'm not sure why that is, because in just a couple of days, he's proven to be a very nice friend indeed. But I also get the feeling--even though he swears he's not--that he's a little judgmental about me accepting so many dates in one night.

  Regardless, there's nothing to do but tell him the truth since he just asked me a very direct question.

  "He's a very nice man," I start off by saying.

  "Date was that bad, huh?" he guesses as he takes his coffee cup in hand.

  "No...it wasn't exactly bad, but...it wasn't what I was expecting."

  "What were you expecting?" Logan asks curiously.

  I lean in a little closer and lower my voice. "That night he asked me out, after you left...well, he told me he was a lumberjack."

  "That's technically correct, I guess," Logan says, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

  "And you know, I thought that was really interesting," I say by way of explanation. "I mean, this is Alaska, and if I'm going to go out with Alaskans, well, shouldn't one be a lumberjack at least?"

  "Indubitably," Logan agrees, humoring me. "But those that work in forestry, felling trees, the accurate term for their profession is a logger."

  "Yeah, I realized that," I snap in irritation. "When he brought me to work with him for our date."

  Logan's jaw drops slightly and his expression is blank for all of about two seconds, then he throws his head back and roars with laughter. When he tips his chin back down and makes eye contact with me, he at least has the grace to wind it down to some low-level chuckles as he sets his cup down on the table and leans in toward me a bit. "He took you to work with him?"

  "Yes," I grumble. "He took me to the America's Best Lumberjack Show over in Ketchikan."

  Logan snorts, then looks apologetic. "So you figured out that Monte doesn't actually cut down trees for a living."

  Yes, I found that out. Turns out Monte is actually sort of an actor-slash-lumberjack in a highly entertaining, slightly cheesy outdoor show that highlights a variety of athletic competitions based on the logging industry. And Monte didn't take me there on a date to watch it together. No, he was actually scheduled to work that night, so my date consisted of watching him from the stands while he threw axes at targets and rolled logs in water trying to throw his opponent off. I'll admit, the show was cute, but it was not fun to sit there by myself and watch Monte do these things.

  It was also not fun after the show to watch him posing for pictures with tourists, many of whom were women who wanted their pictures taken with the hot lumberjack. I mean, he was in a flannel shirt with the arms cut off to show impressively bulging biceps and tight jeans. Who wouldn't want their picture taken with him? I guess the thing that really bothered me was when I watched him give his number to a woman while I waited in the stands for him.

  "I'm guessing watching him perform in America's Best Lumberjack Show wasn't exactly your idea of a good time," Logan says.

  "He was working," I reiterate. "Now granted, he did take me to dinner after at The Wounded Caribou where I was treated to watching him take on the Grizzly Plate."

  Logan's face scrunches up in distaste. "He didn't try to do that while he was on a date with you, did he?"

  I nod, my stomach rolling just a bit at the memory.

  "What a fucking idiot," Logan says, shaking his head.

  And with that I'd agree. While Monte is a nice guy, he knows nothing about impressing a woman. I was already disappointed that I spent an hour and a half watching him flex his muscles followed by him giving his number to another woman. But the date really went south when he ordered the Grizzly Plate at The Wounded Caribou.

  Ted was there and had waited on us.

  He'd warned Monte not to do it.

  But Monte was pumped up on the adrenaline high of a good show and sitting across the table from "one hot tamale"--his words for me, not mine--that he insisted on it.

  He bragged to me about it, promising that I'd be very impressed.

  So Monte went for the Grizzly Plate, which was two pounds of caribou, a half pound of smoked ham, twelve strips of bacon, six ounces of Swiss cheese, six ounces of American cheese, and one pound of fries.

  Why would someone eat that in one sitting, you ask?

  Well, because he would win a free T-shirt that says I ATE THE GRIZZLY PLATE AND SURVIVED and he had intended to win that for me. Like we were at the carnival or something and he was trying to win me a stuffed animal.

  "How far did he make it?" Logan asks hesitantly, but I can see the laughter dancing in his eyes.

  My nose wrinkles up. "About three-quarters of the way through before he threw up."

  "Fucking idiot," Logan mutters again while shaking his head in disbelief.

  "It wasn't pretty," I admit mournfully, my first date with an Alaskan wild man a complete and utter failure. I wrote my blog article as soon as I got home and it was titled, "The Grizzly Plate Demolished the Orgasm and All I Got Was This Stupid T-Shirt." I'll have to admit, it was hilarious and the comments it started generating immediately had me laughing long into the night while Sassy lay curled into my side.

  "I'm sorry your date sucked," Logan says with a genuine smile. "Can't say as I know Rusty all that well, as I only talked to him a few times since he's fairly new around here, but he seems to be a little more levelheaded than Monte. I'm sure tonight will be better."

  I give a little laugh, appreciating Logan's attempts to make me feel better. And while it actually was easy to sit here and talk about my date with Monte last night because it was a hilarious disaster, there is a big part of me wondering what it would be like to go out with Logan. Sadly, I'm not sure that's going to happen, as he doesn't appear to be attracted to me in that way. We've been around each other for three meals now and two long car rides, and he's not given me a lot to go on. He's certainly not flirted with me or given me shameless compliments other than the "drop-dead gorgeous" comment, but then after that...nothing. He changed the subject.

  No, I don't think a date with the sexy chief of police is going to happen, and that will just have to be one adventure that Valentine's Couch will have to do without.

  Chapter 8

  Logan

  Static crackles from the two-way radio and I hear, "Chief...you there?"

  I lift my feet off my coffee table, lean to the left, and grab the mic. "What's up, Cheri?"

  There's a small pause, a burst of static, and then she says, "I just got a call in from The
Wounded Caribou about a domestic disturbance going on there. You need to go check it out."

  "If Tommy Hill and Brian Amundson are fighting again, I swear I'm going to put both of them in jail for a week," I grumble into the mic.

  "It's not them," Cheri says in an amused voice.

  "Then what is it?" I ask with exasperation.

  "It's that new girl in town...the redhead," Cheri says with a snicker. "Darla called it in; said she's dancing naked on the tabletops and the guys are getting rowdy."

  "Son of a bitch," I snarl as I lurch up from my couch, my eyes scanning my living room to see where I'd ditched my boots when I'd gotten home about an hour ago.

  Being the only full-time law enforcement officer has its perks because I get to call all the shots. But it also is a job that never stops. I have some part-time deputies I'll bring in on the weekends, and Cheri works as my dispatcher from her house. She's disabled and this gives her some income to help out with expenses.

  But times like this, where I have to leave behind what would have been a relaxing evening watching sports to go pull a naked Valentine French off a tabletop...Well, that just pisses me off.

  "I'm on my way," I growl into the mic before I slam it back in the cradle, and then hastily put on my boots. I strap on my gun belt and grab my suede and sheepskin coat, as the temperature dropped into the thirties tonight. As I head out the door, I clip my badge to the front breast pocket.

  The drive from my house--which sits up on the mountain--down to The Wounded Caribou only takes five minutes, but my mind has been running wild imagining what in the hell I could be walking into right now. It could be something harmless, or if the men inside are drunk enough, it could be ugly.

  Goddamn that Valentine French.

  There's not a parallel spot available so I park in the small back lot and head in through the service door in the rear. The minute I step inside I hear raucous catcalls, whistles, and what sounds like fists banging on tables. My gut tightens as I stride through the kitchen, which is strangely empty. Ted has at least a cook and a few servers on duty each night.

  When I step through the swinging door that opens into the bar area, I take in the scene with a calm eye so I can decide what to do.

  The most obvious thing that's going on is that Valentine is indeed on top of one of the rectangular tables, and she is indeed dancing. She is not, however, naked.

  The jukebox is cranked up loudly playing Whitesnake's "Here I Go Again," and all the men are singing it at the top of their lungs while surrounding the table upon which Valentine is dancing.

  It's a sexy dance.

  No, it's a fucking hot as hell dance, made even more sexy by the fact she's wearing a black dress that's practically painted onto her body, the hem of which comes to midthigh. She has on a pair of black high-heeled boots, but these are different from the ones she wore the other night as they come over her knee by a few inches. When she turns slightly away from me, I can see the back of her dress is practically nonexistent and cut so low in the back I don't see how she's wearing panties under that thing.

  "Jesus," I mutter to myself, but then I let my gaze sweep around the rest of the bar.

  Nothing seems out of order to me other than a smoking-hot woman dancing for some horny men. No one's touching her and none of the men are fighting, only enjoying the show she's putting on.

  But then I see her, and I know exactly why Darla called the police station. She's standing at the edge of the crowd of men, her arms crossed over her chest and her eyes focused on Valentine with malice. She doesn't keep them there, though, but cuts them over to Monte, who is one of the guys standing right at the edge of the table and looking up at Valentine with a dopey grin on his face and a hint of lust in his eyes.

  "Jesus," I mutter again. Then I mutter, "Women."

  Ted somehow ends up beside me and nudges his shoulder against mine. He nods toward Valentine and says, "She's a good dancer, huh?"

  "I can't believe you seriously let this go on," I snap at him.

  His eyes go all wide and innocent looking. "What? She's not hurting anything. It's all under control."

  "For now," I grumble as I head to the end of the bar, because Valentine really needs to step down off there before some trouble is started.

  Before I can even make my way out, the song dies down. The men cheer and whistle, and yell for more. But then there's a lull in the noise and a distinctly peeved and pissed-off female voice says, "You need to get off that table, tramp. No one wants to see you shaking your ass all around like that in your hooker costume."

  My eyes close briefly and I let out a pained sigh, because this is getting ready to get ugly. When I look back at the table, I see Darla has pushed her way to the edge and is glaring up at Valentine.

  Valentine is glaring right back down at Darla, as I'm sure she didn't appreciate being called a tramp and a hooker.

  Now I could see this playing out in a lot of ways, but I never would have guessed that Valentine would hold her hand out delicately in a silent plea for someone to help her down. Monte gallantly steps forward, which makes Darla's face flush red with anger, and Valentine somehow manages to elegantly step down from the table to the wooden bench to the pine floor.

  Once there, she pulls her hand from Monte's, takes two steps toward Darla, and snarls, "What did you just call me?"

  And that's when I notice it.

  Valentine's dismount off that table was just some lucky maneuvering, because now I notice her words come out slightly slurred and she's swaying slightly.

  Christ...she's drunk.

  I round the end of the bar as Darla leans into Valentine, punches a finger into the middle of Valentine's chest, and growls, "I called you a tramp and a hooker."

  Notably, not once single guy steps in to stop this, and I'd bet my badge if there was a vat of Jell-O nearby, the most the guys would do is throw both women in there and let them duke it out.

  I'm two paces from the women, pushing my way through the men, when Valentine slams her hands into Darla's chest and pushes her back so violently she'd have gone down if a few of the guys hadn't caught her.

  Darla issues a feral sort of snarl and tries to launch herself at Valentine. Valentine braces as best she can, still swaying a little, and even eggs her on a bit, "Come on, Darla. Let's see what you got."

  "You bitch," Darla screams while two of the guys hold her by her arms. "Think you can come to this town, dress like a whore, and sleep your way around? We don't tolerate that sort of stuff here, you low-life piece of trash."

  Fuck, that was harsh, and before I can get ahold of Valentine, she surges toward Darla again since no one is holding her back. She cocks an arm to hit Darla and I manage to nab her around the waist just as she starts to swing. I pull her away but not far enough, and the edge of her knuckles catch Darla across her chin.

  It was a glancing blow, didn't even rock Darla backward, but it was enough to have her screaming bloody murder. "She just assaulted me, Chief. Did you see that? I demand she be arrested. I want justice."

  Valentine struggles in my arms, trying to twist around to look back at Darla. "Yeah...well, I've got more of that for you if you want some."

  Someone yells out from the back of the room, "Let 'em go at it, Chief. Most excitement we've had in ages."

  "Hear, hear," someone else yells, and then all the men are cheering and whistling.

  I drag Valentine back behind the bar with my arm still around her waist, all the while she's twisting to get out of my hold and cursing at Darla. Ted meets me at the kitchen door with a shit-eating grin on his face. I glare at him and jerk my head over my shoulder. "Get someone sober to take Darla home, will you?"

  "Sure thing, Logan," he says, still smirking.

  "And next time," I add, nodding my head down to the squirming Valentine in my arms, "don't let her dance on the tables."

  "But she's so good at it," Ted murmurs.

  "Damn right I am," Valentine adds in a slurred voice. "I took pole lessons o
nce with a bunch of girlfriends."

  Jesus, I do not need that image burned in my brain when I've already got that sexy dance taking up residence there.

  I release my hold around Valentine's waist and take her by the elbow. "Come on, let's go."

  "I don't want to," she says as she pulls herself away from me, stumbles back two paces, and then catches herself on the back bar. "I'm having fun."

  "You're drunk," I say, pointing out the obvious.

  "That's totally Rusty's fault," she pouts, and fuck...do her lips have to look that spectacular? "I think it was part of his plan to get me up on that table dancing. He dared me to and at first I refused, but then about seven shots of tequila later, and I was ready to rock and roll."

  Well, that proves Rusty is a pecker head. He only wanted to get her drunk to get in her pants I'm sure, but I'm not about to tell her that now.

  "Let's go, Valentine," I say firmly. "You've had enough fun tonight. I'm taking you home."

  "I'm not going," she says as she lifts her chin and crosses her arms under her breasts, which of course pushes them up.

  Christ, I don't need this shit in my life.

  "Let's go," I say again, harsher this time, and take her elbow.

  She jerks away, then gives me a tiny shove. "Leave me alone."

  "Okay, that's it," I say, my patience already worn thin and pissed that I'm even here having to deal with this. Pissed I was pulled out of my warm house, and pissed that Valentine was drunk and dancing for the entire town of East Merritt to see, and now super pissed that she just won't let me take her home. It's time to teach her a lesson.

  I bend forward and easily toss her over my shoulder. I immediately walk through the swinging kitchen door. To help balance her, I put one hand to the back of her thighs, tugging the bottom of her dress down, as I don't want anyone to get a peek of that.

  "Put me down," she yells, and then beats her tiny fists against my back.

  "Two choices," I tell her as I walk through the kitchen. "I'll take you home to Sarah's or to jail. Which do you want?"

  Valentine snarls in outrage--which I get is fueled by the alcohol coursing through her system--and continues to pound on my back.

  "Jail it is," I say as I push my way through the back door and out into the chilly night.

  When I reach my truck, I bend over and carefully set Valentine down. She wobbles but I hold her arms to keep her upright. Her eyes are seething at me and she lifts that stubborn chin again. "You wouldn't dare take me to jail," she says defiantly.