I didn't bother fixing my makeup or cleaning myself up before heading to the village tavern, The Galley. It didn't matter tonight. If they weren't already, the people of this town would be abuzz with news of Owen's beau soon enough. They'd have something to say about him shacking up with a man and then they'd have something to say about me chasing after him since shortly after high school. Then they'd share knowing glances about me being thirty-three years old and having only this bookstore to call my own. Around here, there was always something to say.
I could almost hear it now. "Poor Annette," they'd coo. "My heart just breaks for her. All those years she spent pining over Owen and come to find out, he's gay. What will she do now?"
"Vodka will solve this," I said to myself. "Vodka always comes to the rescue."
I pushed The Galley's heavy wooden door open and headed for the bar. The tavern was packed with people but I ignored all of them.
"JJ," I called, catching the bartender's attention as I settled onto a stool. "I need something strong."
"What d'you mean?" he asked, not looking up while he towel-dried a glass. "Like, a hammer? I don't got a hammer, honey."
"No, not a hammer." I sucked in a breath and blinked furiously to keep my tears from spilling over. Why was I crying? No need for that. I was a big girl with big panties and big vodka. "Some shots."
"Only shots I do are Jäger and whiskey. That whatcha want?"
The tears were flowing now, and I didn't care. I was furious with myself and hurt by my own hand, and I couldn't hold it all in anymore. "What about a German Chocolate Cake shot?" I asked, thinking back to my last foray into shots. Bachelorette party, Portland, blinking penis necklaces. "Or a Wet Pussy? Or a Slippery Nipple? Rim Job?"
He cracked the towel against the bar like a whip. "Try again, honey. None of that shit here."
I sniffled, and said, "A drink. I want a strong drink."
"Do I look like a mind reader?" He spared me a quick glance. "You're going to need to be more specific."
He was trying to break me, right here in front of everyone. I was sure of it. "Um, I don't know. Can you make me a cosmo?"
JJ went on rubbing his dishrag around the rim of a pilsner glass. "I can," he started, "but I don't want to. I don't do girly shit."
"For fuck's sake, JJ," I snapped. If I wasn't brimming with frustration at his refusal to give me the one thing I wanted right now—when nothing else in my world was working—I would've cried a river and floated away. Instead, I wiped my face and shot him an exasperated glare. "Shake up some vodka and some juice and keep them coming. If you can't deliver on that simple request, I'll hop behind the bar and do it for you."
JJ inclined his head, studying me with a surprised smirk for a second, and then shrugged. "Vodka and juice. All right." He set the pilsner down and reached for a martini glass. "Where are your girls tonight? Shouldn't you be mixing wine spritzers with Mitzi and Titzi? Where's Carley and Barley?"
"I don't have friends named after grains," I said. "You know that."
"But you do mix wine spritzers." He snickered as he filled a shaker with vodka and ice. "Where's Bam Bam?"
I reached for a cocktail napkin to manage the excessive tears-and-snot situation. It was woefully inadequate. "Brooke-Ashley doesn't like that nickname," I replied, reaching over the bar for more napkins. "I don't know where she is, but she told me this morning she was busy tonight."
He snickered again. "I bet she is," he said. He set the martini glass in front of me and stabbed a finger in my direction. "If your drunk ass gives me any trouble, I'll toss you out."
I rolled my eyes and scowled as hard as I could, which wasn't saying much. I didn't scowl too often. "You've known me your entire life, JJ," I said. "You know I have zero-point-zero trouble in me."
That earned me another snicker. "Famous last words."
3
Docking
v. The process of slashing or making incisions in the surface of bread or rolls for proper expansion before baking.
Jackson
* * *
The call came in a few minutes shy of midnight, while I was checking out the high schoolers' usual late-night drinking-and-hookup haunts, and the request was quick.
"Could use your help down here, sheriff," JJ Harniczek barked, his Down East drawl as thick as always.
"Be there in five," I replied, pulling a U-turn as I spoke.
The barkeep grunted in response before ending the call. It was polite by Harniczek's standards.
When I arrived in town three months ago, Harniczek made quick work of introducing himself and setting expectations. The man made it clear he was the unofficial law in these parts, and he kept the people—the drunks and everyone else—in line. He kept tabs on everything above board, under the table, and anywhere in between. He could handle most issues but if ever he called upon me or one of my deputies for assistance, he expected a prompt response. For a man in his early thirties, Harniczek knew his business and everyone else's too.
That made this call—direct to my mobile phone, no less—alarming.
Three months in a small town like this was nothing. I was a tourist as far as the natives were concerned. A few of them were doing their damnedest to test the boundaries, not unlike a rowdy group of tenth graders conspiring against the substitute teacher. They wanted to see what I'd put up with but the real test was whether I'd last. Others were more welcoming. Many paid calls to the station, offering their well-wishes on my new post or inviting me to their homes for supper. All in all, the people of Talbott's Cove were kind and gracious, if not a touch suspicious of the New Yorker taking up residence in their tight-knit community.
I'd only been summoned to the tavern on two other occasions, and one of them was to help trap a posse of raccoons out back. I trusted Harniczek, and I had no quarrel with his role around here. If anything, I was thankful for it.
The barkeep was an institution in small, insular communities like this one. I wasn't about to challenge that, or any of the other institutions. They needed me but I needed them just as much. Their approval and acceptance were critical, and not only because my job depended on securing the majority of the town council's votes each election year.
There was the harbormaster who doubled as the gossipmonger, old Judge Markham who puttered in his garden and yelled at seagulls, and the antisocial lobsterman who headed up the town council.
Another institution: Annette Cortassi, the beautiful book mistress busy twisting a long curl around her finger while she mouthed the words to Stevie Nicks's "Edge of Seventeen."
I made my way through the empty restaurant and toward the bar, my thumbs hooked under my tactical belt and my gaze on Annette. Her hair was a mess, half of it spilling out of the bun on the top of her head. Her eyes were shiny and red, with dark makeup was smudged on her cheeks. She'd been crying. I didn't like that. I didn't like any of this.
Something was wrong and I wanted to make it better for her. It wasn't my job, not the one I was sworn to carry out, but the one I desired more than I dared to understand.
I glanced at JJ Harniczek, taking in his ever salty scowl. "What seems to be the issue here?"
"It's not a mystery, sheriff," he replied. "The girl's blitzed."
Turning my head to stare at the woman who drew me in like a force field, I watched as she propped her head on her hand. She mumbled the song's chorus while her eyes drifted shut for a long moment. She was a wreck and drunk as a skunk—probably twice the legal limit—and a minute away from sliding off the barstool.
"I can see that," I said, stepping behind Annette. I held my hand a few inches from the small of her back, prepared to catch her if she took a dive. "You don't call me up every time you overserve a patron, JJ."
"I don't overserve anyone," he snapped. "They don't know their limits."
I pinned him with a sharp look. "That's not my interpretation of the law."
Impatient, he shook his head and waved me off. "Just get her outta here. I got things to d
o tonight. I don't have the time to hustle her home or spend another hour listening to her cry over spilt milk."
I cut a glance toward Annette and then back to JJ. "Mind telling me more about this spilt milk?"
"Dammit, sheriff," he grumbled. "I said I don't got time tonight."
Nodding, I replied, "Understood. I'll have time to fine you for overserving, but you get where you need to be going."
He pivoted to shelve a glass, muttering under his breath. I didn't catch the entirety of the comment but it wasn't complimentary. Something about wishing my mother had swallowed me when she had the chance.
When he turned back, he said, "Best I can tell, Bartlett let her down easy and she didn't see it comin'."
"Um, no, I did not." Annette snorted out a laugh and reached for the martini glass in front of her. "Bring me the alcohols, JJ. All the alcohols."
I snatched the nearly empty martini away and handed it to JJ. "Let's get the lady some water."
JJ gave me a wan look while he shoveled ice from a bin under the bar top into a cup. "Yes, let's. There's nothin' I'd enjoy more than gettin' the lady another beverage."
"What's this about Captain Bartlett?" I asked, glancing between the bookseller and the barkeep.
Owen Bartlett lived on the far end of Talbott's Cove, made his living as a lobsterman, and was a powerful member of the town council. He'd asked hours of tough questions when I interviewed with the council for this job, and he was one of my biggest supporters now that I was sheriff. He led with his principles and believed in contributing to his community, and I admired those qualities.
But I couldn't square the idea of Bartlett and Annette. Not when I knew Bartlett was gay and living with internet billionaire Cole McClish. Mr. McClish seemed to be keeping a low profile this summer, and not splashing his fame or wealth around the Cove. I was thankful for that small gift. The last thing I needed was the media storming my beaches or news helicopters circling the harbor.
"He doesn't want me. No one ever wants me," Annette wailed. She tipped the glass of water back but grimaced when the liquid hit her tongue. "This isn't liquor and that is a problem."
"The sheriff is cuttin' you off," JJ announced. "Adios, honey."
With one hand low on Annette's back, I leaned across the bar toward JJ. "Kindly explain to me what the fuck is going on here."
He glanced at the wall clock and then back at me. "Are you payin' this girl's bar bill? If not, it's closing time."
I reached into my back pocket and thumbed out two twenties. "This should cover it for tonight."
"Barely," he muttered.
"Tomorrow we'll have an official visit to talk about overserving," I continued, tossing the cash on the bar, "and shaking down law enforcement. Good?"
JJ scooped up the bills and nodded. "Great," he said. "As far as I know, our girl here wasn't going with Bartlett but she wanted to be. They had words this evening. He told her it wasn't happening." He paced the length of the bar and switched off the overhead lights. "End of story, time to go, farewell and good night."
As the bar descended into near darkness, Annette wobbled on the stool and spilled the glass of water down my tan uniform trousers. "Oh, shit," she yelled.
I hissed as the icy cold seeped into my clothes and shocked my skin.
She lost her grip on the glass and it rolled down the bar, a wobbly, ominous echo in the dusk while she patted my crotch with a wad of cocktail napkins. Between the ice bath and the surprise fondling, my cock had no idea what to do. It was a true "Should I stay or should I go?" conundrum in my pants, and I was helpless to stop her. She had one hand braced on my thigh while the other worked me over, and the only reasonable response to this was sliding my palm up her spine to the back of her neck. Without conscious thought, my fingertips pressed into her soft skin, my thumb stroking the graceful column of her neck. A rush of newfound intimacy washed over me, hot and welcoming, and it was almost enough to forget everything else in the world save for Annette.
Almost.
In the distance, I registered a quick whistling sound. At the same time, I realized I couldn't hear the glass rolling down the bar anymore and—crash. It hit the floor and shattered, and JJ let out a string of curses laced with complaints about having better things to do with his night.
The crunch and clatter of glass shook me from my momentary paralysis. "Annette," I barked, reaching for her hands. The ones with enough knowledge of my anatomy to sculpt a perfect replica. Jesus Christ. This was wrong. I was in uniform and on the clock, and she was past the point of making informed decisions. So fucking wrong. Regret pulsed through me as I pulled her away from my crotch. Regret that I had to end this. Regret that I'd let it get this far. "It's good, it's fine. You can stop."
"You can both stop," JJ called. "Like I've said, it's closing time."
My fingers were still wrapped around her wrist and I wasn't inclined to change that. "Let's get you home," I said, peering down at her bright, wide eyes. "Are you steady enough to walk?"
She met my stare with a studious one of her own, dragging her gaze from head to toe and then up again. She paused on my face and I knew she was working to make sense of my features. It was a flicker, nothing more than a half second. Almost everyone did it, even people I'd known for years. My tanned skin and blond hair ran contrary to my most typically Chinese feature, my eyes. I didn't take offense. To the mind's eye, I was a curiosity.
And I didn't mind Annette's close study.
"Of course I can walk," she replied, hopping off the stool.
If I didn't have a hold on her wrist, she would've hit the floor when she swayed on unsteady feet. I yanked her closer to me and locked an arm around her waist. "Are you sure about that?" I asked.
"Right now," she started, her words punctuated by a hiccup, "I'm not sure about anything."
"Believe me," I murmured as I steered her toward the door, "neither am I."
Getting Annette out of The Galley was a challenge. She was a stumbling, bumbling disaster, all incoherent rambling and singing, and moments of weepiness that edged dangerously into full-on crying. Couldn't have that. I wouldn't be able to stand it.
It was dark, the empty streets illuminated only by the harbor lights. With my arm tight around her waist and my fingers splayed over her belly, I steered her toward Harborside Books. She lived in the apartment over the shop. "Sounds like you're having a rough night," I said. "Is that right, Miss Cortassi?"
"Owen and I have more in common than I thought," she announced. She leaned into me, her hand on my chest. I hated myself for reveling in her closeness. It was unprofessional and it was irresponsible to carry on with these thoughts while she was under the influence. I knew better and I had to do better. "We both like dick."
I let out a surprised laugh. I liked the way "dick" sounded on her tongue. It was bold and unashamed, and I was falling under this woman's spell. I couldn't help myself and I couldn't stop smiling down at her. "Do you now?"
"Oh, yeah," she drawled, pushing away from me. The second she was gone, I wanted her back by my side. She stood on the sidewalk, motioning both hands toward her mouth. I wasn't sure what she was doing but it loosely resembled her jerking off two guys. Or shaking a set of tambourines. Couldn't be sure. "I love dick. The bigger the better. All the dicks. I should call Owen and talk to him about dick. We can compare notes. And techniques! That will be fabulous. Dick, dick, dick."
I stepped toward Annette, not trusting her to stand on her own. That, and I was enjoying this more than I should. "Let's save that for another day. Okay?" She didn't respond. "How about we get you upstairs? Where are your keys, ma'am?"
"Oh, Lord," she said, groaning. "Don't ma'am me. My day's been bad enough."
I shook my head once. "I don't understand the objection," I said under my breath. "How would you prefer I address you?"
"Annette would be fine," she said. "Book Lady if you can't remember."
"How could I forget?" I asked. I gazed down at her, meeting her humor-fill
ed smile with my serious stare. "I mean that sincerely, Annette. How could I forget?"
"I don't know," she said with a shrug. "It happens, or whatever."
She pushed away from me to study her reflection in a storefront window. Her hands lifted as she shook out her loose curls and I had to exert real energy to keep myself from walking up and smelling her hair.
"I wouldn't forget," I said. She wasn't listening. She was shoving her hands down the front of her dress and adjusting her cleavage. Scooping one breast up, plumping it in the cup of her bra, then delivering the same service to its twin. God help me. "I won't forget any of this."
"That's funny," she said, her voice flat. "I'm trying to forget."
"About that," I said, stepping to her side. "Time to go home. Lead the way and I'll follow."
She couldn't produce her wallet or keys, or any idea where she left them. The choices available to me weren't good. Either I was picking the lock to her apartment above the bookshop or I was taking her home with me. Neither situation was conduct becoming a sheriff.
On the off chance she'd left her door open—not uncommon in this town but worrisome nonetheless—I tried helping her up the back stairs without allowing my touch to turn into anything more than supportive. It would've been easier to throw her over my shoulder or cradle her in my arms, and I would've enjoyed it a lot more. But my hands hovered at her waist, barely there.
But the door wasn't open, and there were no potted plants or decorative bullfrogs hiding a key. Now we were faced with a trip down the stairs.
"I'll go first," I said, gesturing down the steep incline. "You stay right behind me. I don't want you falling."
"Yay," she grumbled. "The indignities of this day won't quit."
With my torso twisted toward her, I took several steps, my hand outstretched if she required assistance. "Are you doing all right?" I asked when she wobbled onto the next riser.
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