Chapter 1 #2
I clench my jaw, resisting the urge to slam my forehead into the nearest wall.
She just stares at me with those wide, icy blue eyes.
I know she heard it; everyone hears it. But I hate it anyway.
People don’t expect a tall, muscle-bound cop with a badge to trip over syllables.
And yet, no matter how hard I fight it, I always do.
Is she going to call me on it? That’d be mortifying.
Being called a weirdo by a beautiful young woman, yeah, that would just complete the day.
She doesn’t say a word, though. A deer caught in headlights. Her book’s still open on the counter. I half expect her to greet me or say something inviting like the way small-town folks always seem to act in movies. Instead, silence stretches between us, thick and heavy.
It’s been two days since I landed in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by lakes, pine trees, and more silence than I know what to do with.
Five years as a patrol officer in Minneapolis, and now I’m here, exiled, basically, because of one bad moment in front of the wrong people.
One year, they said. One year to prove I can hold my own in the field, keep my emotions in check, and maybe stop tripping over my own damn words.
If I do, I get to go back and get the promotion.
Sergeant. I earned my degree in Criminal Justice, drifted for a bit, then joined the academy at twenty-five.
I’m thirty now. I should’ve gotten that promotion last year.
Everything turned sour during a community presentation with the mayor, the city council, and half the department in the room.
I stood up to speak, something I’d practiced for days, and the words just wouldn’t come.
Long pauses, voice shaking. My throat locked up, like it always does when it matters most. I stood in front of hundreds of faces and slowly died inside.
The next day, the mayor told my captain I’d “embarrassed the department.” Instead of firing me, they sent me here, to Lakeside, a few hours away, to regroup, as my captain called it.
Which I translated as find a way to get rid of your stutter.
Which is a hopeless case. Not that it mattered since they’d already decided where to send me.
Shaking myself back to reality, I take in the breathtaking woman before me.
She’s bouncing on her feet, fingers twisting together.
There are scars there, thin white lines across her knuckles.
I wonder what happened. She doesn’t look like someone who’d punch a wall.
Why am I even thinking about that? It’s none of my business.
We got a call this morning, a reported break-in at one of the shops on Main Street.
The connection was bad, and I couldn’t catch the name clearly before the line went dead, the caller muttering something that sounded like Callahan.
I drove down Main Street, where most of Lakeside’s shops are clustered, a far cry from the buzzing of Minneapolis.
I figured it would be quick. Ask a few questions and get pointed in the right direction.
That’s what small-town charm is supposed to be, right?
Wrong. So far, all I’ve gotten are wary looks and half-hearted hellos.
The guys back at the station warned me yesterday.
“They’re not like city folk, Jack,” one of them said, half-laughing.
“Not big fans of outsiders. Don’t take it personally. ”
Yet somehow, I’ve got the feeling this girl is as quiet with me as she is with everyone who walks through her door.
She exudes calmness like she’s got one foot in this world and the other planted in the stories she surrounds herself with.
Her face has this soft, almost timeless quality to it, the kind of look that wouldn’t be out of place in an old sepia-toned photograph.
Those eyes, though, are wide and pale from an unreadable blue.
Like a lake that’s frozen over, but you know runs deep underneath.
Her hair is loose and kind of wild, golden-brown, catching the faint autumn light filtering through the shop windows.
She’s dressed in layers, a knit green sweater hugging her tight silhouette, a pair of jeans, practical but still…
I don’t know, graceful. There’s something about her.
I wouldn’t even be surprised if she’d been sent here from the heavens, her angelic nature disguised in human form.
Most people I meet, I size up in a heartbeat.
That’s part of the job. You can learn a lot in school, but out in the field, it always comes down to instinct.
With her, though, my instincts linger longer than they should.
I shift my weight, wondering if she’s going to reply to my introduction.
She stares at me with her doll eyes, and as much as I don’t want to admit it, there’s something strangely magnetic about the way she’s looking at me, like she's trying to figure out whether I’m real or just a figment of whatever story she’d been reading.
“And y-you are?” I try again, not sure why I’m still standing here now that I’ve got the info I came for. A light shade of pink dances on her cheeks. Finally, she blinks, and her lips fall open.
“Alaska,” she says at last, her voice quiet, almost a whisper.
“My name is Alaska.” Her name hangs in the air between us, delicate and unforgettable.
It suits her in a way I can’t quite explain.
I clear my throat, realizing I’m staring at this mysterious, beautiful stranger.
She appears to be in her early twenties, but her eyes say otherwise, like she’s seen more than someone her age ever should.
“N-nice to meet y-you, Alaska,” I manage, her name escaping my mouth without a stumble. Somehow, the letters roll off my tongue, smooth, familiar, like I’ve said it a thousand times before. She doesn’t reply, just gives a small, almost imperceptible curve of her lips.
“I, uh-” I tilt my head toward the door. “H-have a nice d-day, Alaska,” I say, my voice coming out lower, rougher than I expected.
“Have a nice day, Officer Parkson,” she replies, sitting back on her stool with grace.
Her gaze stays locked on me like she’s memorizing something I can’t see.
The sound of her voice carrying my name trails after me even as I step outside into the cold, feeling her icy gaze shooting holes in my back.
I’m not sure why, but for some reason, I can’t help but think that maybe small towns aren’t so bad after all.