Best Jerk

by Lulu Pratt

  “Dada?” he gurgled. Right now that was the only word in his vocabulary, but we were working on it. When I got home from my job, which was usually just minutes before his bedtime, we practiced making animal sounds and naming colors. I was pretty sure he was ready to say ‘blue’ and ‘moo.’

  “Good kid,” I said, patting his fine blond hair. “Yeah, it’s Dada. And Dada has to go to work now, so be good to your Gran, okay?”

  He lolled his head back and stared up at the ceiling. Fourteen months was too young understand the concept of capitalism and etiquette, I guess.

  “What have you got planned for the day?” I asked my mom.

  “You know, the usual,” she replied with the wave of her hand. “Clean the house, take Danny to sing-along group, watch my soap.”

  “You don’t have to clean the house.” It pained me to imagine her scrubbing my floors with rubber gloves. She was well into retirement age, at which point I figure you should never have to scrub another floor in your life. Besides, a man was meant to provide for his mother in her golden years, to make sure she got the same wonderful treatment she’d given him as a boy. It twisted my heart that I couldn’t give her such comfort.

  “I know that, kiddo,” she replied. “But you’re pulling extra shifts for this ball of joy.” She jostled Danny, craning her head in his direction. “And that’s an honorable cause if I’ve ever heard one. So, I’ll manage. You do what you have to do. Get home safe.”

  I thought fleetingly of putting up a fight, and gave in. She was a tough old broad, and when she set her mind to something, it was as good as done.

  “Thanks for everything, Ma. You’re my rock. It hasn’t been easy since, well, y’know.”

  “I know.”

  “So… thank you. For looking after Danny and everything else. Love you.”

  She reached in and gave me a big kiss on the cheek, leaving a mark in her signature bubblegum pink, a branding I used to rub off every day before school.

  “Love you too,” she replied.

  An insistent honk sounded, the tell-tale sign that Thomas had pulled up all of ten seconds ago and was already impatient.

  “Gotta jam,” I told her, and ducked in for one more peck on my kid’s head. “Be good, Danny, make your dada proud.”

  I grabbed my jacket, hat and holster, and was out the door, pacing across the front lawn to the squad car. As always, Thomas or Tom, Tommy, T-Dog, dealer’s choice was in the front seat, drinking cheap take-out coffee from a Styrofoam cup. Two sugars, no milk.

  I walked to the passenger side and slid in.

  “Hey old man,” I said with a grin as I buckled my seatbelt.

  Tom looked at me with a half-kidding scowl that slid the ends up of his enormous, bristly mustache flush up to his nose. “Who you calling old?”

  He was one of those guys who looks like he was born fifty years old with a stick of gum in his maw and a smoker’s voice. Incidentally, he was only forty-three, hated gum and had never smoked a cigarette in his life.

  When I joined the force about three years back, one of the younger guys had warned me about Tom, said he was an angry son of a bitch and to watch out. I was assigned to be his partner. We didn’t speak for the entire first week until I at last summoned up the courage to ask him if I could put on some music. He gave no response, so I took it as a ‘yes’ on and turned the channel to sixties rock. Tom nodded his approval, and we’d been friends ever since.

  “Anything good on the scanner?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Nope. This lil’ ol’ town is as tame as it was the day before. Quiet, sleepy, crime free.”

  I groaned, knowing what this meant but hoping I was wrong. “Highway patrol?”

  “Affirmative.”

  Highway patrol was the worst. We were required to pull over a certain number of drivers to make the state quota. Since there were only ten cops total in Fallow Springs, each cop had to pull over a shit ton of drivers to hit said quota. It was a pointless task, and one that made me the bad guy, even though I’d gone into the career to be the good guy.

  Though that being said, I knew firsthand just how important highway patrol was to saving lives. Or at least, trying to save them.

  “How’s Paula?” he asked, referring to my mom and blessedly interrupting my dark train of thought. We’d grown close enough that our whole families were on a first-name basis.

  “Same old, same old. Tougher than a cockroach during nuclear fallout.”

  “And Danny?” he continued with a small smile. Tom had a special, unexpectedly soft place for my son, whom he occasionally brought bags of candy and stuffed animals. The dirty secret about Tom is that he’s really just a teddy bear.

  “Gets bigger every day. He’ll be taller than his pops by the time he’s twelve, I’d reckon.”

  Tom eyed me up and down. “You think he’s gonna top six-foot-three before he’s even a teenager?”

  “Doctor say his growth rates are off the charts.”

  “Good. That’s what I like to hear.” Tom gave a satisfied nod and sipped at his convenient-store coffee. “I’ll pass it on to Gladys.”

  Gladys, Tom’s wife, had become equally involved with Danny, and had recently knit him a soft baby onesie.

  “Aw shit,” Tom said, smacking his forehead. “I knew I’d forgot something.”

  “What?”

  “Our anniversary, it’s this weekend, and I gotta get her a gift, maybe some roses, and—” he veered off from his sentence abruptly, and I felt my fingers begin to tremble. “Never mind.”

  “It’s okay, really, I’m fine.”

  He shook his head, and let a meaty hand drop on my shoulder. “I know fine, kid, and you ain’t fine.”

  He was probably right, but a cop car was hardly the place to talk about it. I gently loosened myself from his hand and put on our radio station. Led Zeppelin’s dissonant chords filled the car. Which was good — I’d about had my fill of talk.

  “Where we posting up?” I asked at last, once enough time spent in silent rumination had passed. Sometimes our four-door reminded me of a monastery, except with two country boys for monks.

  “The usual.” With that, he took a sharp left at the intersection, and drove a few more minutes before eventually pulling over on the side of I-94, right near a snow-capped pine tree. The tree offered just enough protection so that we wouldn’t be too visible to oncoming drivers. Tom grabbed the radar gun from the back seat and powered it up.

  “I’ll hold it today,” he offered.

  Those were the last words we said for the next few hours. Neither of us was big on chitchat, and we’d blown through our polite small-talk reservoirs years ago. Now, we were generally happy to just sit in peaceful silence and appreciate the nature around us.

  The sun rose higher and higher above the trees until at last it was ten. Snow twinkled beneath the rays. A stray squirrel, who hadn’t had the presence of mind to get his ass cozied up in a tree, darted across the lanes. Poor little fellow. Sometimes, on days like this, I’d bring a bag of nuts to feed the hungry ones with, the squirrels that hadn’t prepped for the severity of Wisconsin winter.

  A few cars drove by, but none speeding or even boasting outdated license plates. I settled deeper and deeper into my seat, anticipating a painstakingly long day. The car was getting hot, so I undid my jacket. Life as a cop could be thrilling — I’d been in my fair share of on-foot chases — but more often than not, it looked like discounted meals at the local IHOP. I was philosophically prepared to have one of the more boring afternoons a cop can have. The mundane stuff was just as important as any blockbuster tackles.

  That is, until I watched an old Chevy go past. It didn’t click up on the meter, but it did have —

  “A broken brake light,” I said urgently, smacking at Thomas’ fleshy forearm. “I saw a broken brake light.”

  “Yeah?” he asked sleepily. “Where?”

  “Red Chevy, just drove past.”

  “‘Spose we ought
a get it?”

  “Think so.”

  He revved up the engine, hit the sirens — this was his favorite part, even after decades on the force — and shot after the Chevy. With no other cars in sight, the driver knew to pull over pretty quickly. We slowed to a stop.

  “You want this one, or should I?” Tom questioned.

  “I got it.” I needed to stretch my legs.

  Jacket open and hat firmly on, I swung open the door, and walked the twenty feet to the ancient Chevy. Frankly, I wouldn’t generally pull someone over for a broken tail light — I try to be a decent guy — but at this time of year, nights got dark and stormy, and a light being out had real consequences.

  “Hey there, officer,” a delicate voice spoke.

  I began to speak, and ground to a halt, realization dawning on me.

  I was face-to-face with the most beautiful woman to ever waltz through Fallow Springs.

  CHAPTER 4

  Zoe

  I saw red and blue lights flashing in my rear-view mirror and my stomach flipped, catapulted and dropped so hard I thought it might fall out of my ass.

  No way. No fucking way could I be getting pulled over. Not today, when I had the biggest order in the history of my shop to wrangle. That just didn’t make karmic sense. Shit like that didn’t happen to good girls like me. Hell, I hadn’t even got a parking ticket before, let alone been flagged by the police. This was almost legendarily bad timing on their part. I would’ve thought it was a prank show, if any crew in their right mind would film in the boonies.

  Couldn’t a girl just catch a break?

  That thought gave me an idea. I’d seen women do it in movies before, and theoretically I knew it was a tool in my arsenal, but… could I manage it? Moreover, was this a great moment to test out what was an iffy theory to begin with? I reminded myself that I needed to get the trunk of groceries back to the bakery so I could begin working on the order. I was on a mission, as it were, and failure was just not an option. My life, quite literally — okay, like, sort of literally — depended on it.

  I had no choice. I had to flirt my way out of this ticket.

  In my rear-view mirror, I saw a man get out of the passenger door of the cop car, and even with the ‘objects in mirror may be closer than they appear’ distortion, I could tell that the flirting wouldn’t be too much of a burden.

  Because this cop was hot. Like, male stripper, Vegas revue hot. James Dean hot. Paul Newman hot. Except he surpassed the strippers, and Dean and Newman. He was in a class all his own. Saliva pooled in my mouth, and I swallowed it rapidly. Wouldn’t do to actually drool over him — not very flirtatious.

  His black denim — was that regulation or was he just a badass? — clung tightly to his thighs and was slung low on his hips, supported by a belt that also had a holster, which butted against his thigh. A cowboy hat dipped down, covering his eyes, but I could still make out a strong jawline with a small cleft in the chin that showed through his medium stubble beard, not to mention cheekbones higher than Mount Sinai. An aquiline nose and full lips rounded out the face.

  After a walk that seemed to take long enough for me decide that I was going to have to tone down the flirting I was thinking of, he arrived at my car.

  He leaned in with a grin and nudged the top of his cowboy hat up, revealing a dazzling set of ice blue eyes framed by full, chocolate lashes.

  Ah shit. For the second time that day, I had the distinctive thought — I’m screwed.

  “Hey there, officer,” I mumbled under my breath, physically incapable of making eye contact. I worried that if I gazed too closely, I might never be able to see another man as attractive so long as I should live.

  No, no! my inner angel voice shouted. Remember the cakes! Good voice. Smart voice. I’d do that. Or at least, I’d try my darndest.

  I shook my head free of sensual distraction, and righted the mental train, guiding it awkwardly back onto the metaphorical tracks. I had a business to save. Time to boss up.

  So, I gave it another shot. I lowered my voice, and enunciated each word, as I said, “Hey there, officer.”

  Much better, Zoe. Well done. Indeed, he did look momentarily taken aback.

  “Miss,” he began. “Pardon my manners, what’s your name?”

  “Zoe Reynolds. But friends like you can call me Zoe.”

  “I wasn’t aware we were friends,” he returned in a low, humor-filled voice.

  “Well, not yet we aren’t. But I’d like to change that.”

  His grin grew wider, and my breath caught in my throat. I didn’t know how much longer I could keep up the pretense of being in control. Especially when I was thinking about all the ways I wanted those thick hands to control me.

  He continued on in a drawl, the kind that told you he’d fished on an open lake in the summer and cooked the bounty over a fire he had made himself. It was the drawl of a self-possessed man.

  “Zoe,” he said languidly, “you know why I pulled you over?”

  I rallied my strength. “To get to know me better?” I asked with a wink.

  Did I just do that? Oh shit, I think I did. When had I grown so brazen? A small part of me sparkled with pride, though I figured I shouldn’t get too big of a head over something as basic as flirtatious chitchat.

  “I wish, darlin’. I sorely wish.” He sighed, and I could see real regret filter throughout his face, that familiar masculine strain of trying to resist a pretty woman. “‘Fraid I gotta talk with you ‘bout that brake light.”

  Fuck. The brake light, of course. It had been out since, well, pretty much since the first day I got it. But I didn’t have the money to fix it, and I’d figured that if I could just hold out until the bakery was on its feet, I’d be able to take the car to an auto repair shop. Guess I didn’t make it quite that long. I guess the cops noticed the broken brake light as I was slowing down due to a squirrel crossing the road. Of all the luck.

  “Right, of course,” I replied hastily. “I’m planning on getting it fixed next week.” The lie came out more fluidly than I’d anticipated.

  “Well, that sounds good by me. What other plans have you got for next week?” he inquired, his eyes twinkling, almost coaxing me further into the banter.

  “Not so many that I couldn’t squeeze you in there,” I fired back. Was I about to dodge a ticket and get a wickedly hot date? Man, oh man, had my luck turned.

  “So, what’s your name, officer?”

  “I’m Officer Dylan Robertson, ma’am.”

  He sidled up closer to the window, and I had to remind myself to breathe. This guy was all-American rugged, and I wondered what it’d be like to ride a cowboy cop. Would he buck beneath me? Was he hung like a bronco? That last thought was so overwhelming that my ears began to burn.

  “I’m gonna need to see your license,” he said.

  I snapped out of my daze. Shit. Did this mean I was still on the hook for the brake light? Here I’d thought I was doing so very well.

  “And registration. Got to do things by the book,” he added smoothly with a cocky smile.

  I hadn’t given up yet. This was the first nibble I’d had in months and I wasn’t going to let a broken brake light or a broken heart stand in my way a moment longer.

  Trying to match his calm seduction, I slowly leaned over to my console, popped it open — jerked it open when the button caught — and pulled out my registration. I turned around to the back to grab my wallet and pivoted just enough that my thong rode up over the edge of my jeans. I heard a deep breath behind me. Good. He’d clearly noticed the lacy strip of pink.

  I palmed my wallet and unzipped it to riffle through the contents. Coupons, membership cards, spare change. It was a hoarder’s wallet. I landed upon my license and thumbed it up to the top of the wallet. Grasping the plastic and paper, I reached my hand out the window and put the documents in his outstretched fingertips. Time to play the game. I let my skin rest on his, which was warm to the touch, like a patch of grass warmed by the sunshine in summer.r />
  His hands were truly mountainous, the kind of hands made for building log cabins. They were rough, and thick but not meaty. They held great promise in regard to what rested in his pants. I grinned internally at the image that flitted across my mind’s eye.

  And then I noticed the ring on his left hand.

  CHAPTER 5

  Dylan

  I watched her clock the ring in what felt like slow motion. One minute, her eyes were lustily tracing the curvature of my hands. The next minute, those same green eyes had come to rest with a rapidly dawning horror upon the ring.

  If only she knew what it really meant.

  “Oh,” she muttered. “I get it. Understood. Ha. Great, just great.”

  Rushing to explain myself, I jumped in with, “No, uh, it’s not, you’re, this is actually—”

  “Yeah,” she said with a touch of defeat in her voice. “Isn’t it always.”

  I was ready to fire back with something besides the truth, but I was cut off.

  “You kids all right out there?” a voice called out. Thomas. For better or worse, he had interrupted. I saw the old man hoist himself out of the low-riding car and trudge over to where me and this woman were locked in a silent quarrel over my ring. Thomas arrived at my side before I could continue.

  “What’s going on out here, Officer Robertson?” he asked with a tip of his cap in her direction.

  “Well,” I began, “we’re just discussing her brake light situation.”

  “Yeah? You been gabbing long enough I’da thought you’d gone over all the Badgers’ stats from last season by now.”

  “Ha, not yet, sir,” she interjected. “If Coach Chryst gets his shit together we can talk shop all day.”

  Thomas gave a hearty chuckle at that. I smiled at her charisma and quick read on Tom. She shot me an angry look, her eyes darting to the ring and my smile relapsed into a somber, tight-lipped expression.