CHAPTER FIVE Cole
CHAPTER FIVE
Cole
“ P lay nice, kid,” my office administrator, Bev, warns as I enter the reception area on my way to my next meeting.
I’ve known Bev since I was a rookie. She’s in her late fifties and keeps everything in this building in order, including me. She’s the only one I trust enough to vent to about Brent, who she thinks is “like a little weasel with an agenda.” A weasel that always needs some busywork.
“Always,” I grin as I hand her a freshly brewed coffee from our mediocre machine.
She accepts it eagerly.
“Have you eaten today?” she asks. Some men have a work wife; I have a work mother.
“Not yet, I’ll grab something quick after this meeting,” I say, glancing at my phone for the time. How is it after one already?
“How’s it going this morning, Deputy?” I ask, playing nice, when I enter Brent’s office a few minutes later. He’s been asking for this meeting since last week. He’s a fairly big guy and looks like your typical Kentucky farm boy. I’ve known him for years and, while he used to be strong and fit, judging by his beer gut now, I’m guessing he sucks back a few too many after work.
He sits up in his chair when he sees me, puffing out his chest as he pulls documents out of his drawer.
“I wanted to talk to you about a policy I think needs changing,” he says, attempting an authoritative voice.
Here we go …
I grit my molars.
“Which policy?”
“Your spending policy.” Sounds about right.
“Well, that’ll be easy. Seeing as this is my third day, I haven’t spent anything.”
I scrub my jaw.
“Oh wait, grabbed Bev some label tape yesterday when I left the courthouse.” I grin.
“I mean for the future,” he sneers. He hates that I’m his boss. “After what happened with Sheriff Sims, I think we need to open everything up. Currently we only report the general account online. That’s because any money he was using to pad his own pockets came from the Facilities fund. He was allotting a huge budget for food for inmates and then buying the bare minimum. Instead, he’d purchase gift cards at the local grocery store to gamble online.”
I nod. I know all this already of course.
I lean back in my chair across from him. Fuck it, I have nothing to hide.
“Great idea,” I say, nodding. His tensed jaw falls slack with my agreement. “Why don’t you head up a financial responsibility committee?”
If I don’t pick my battles, it’s going to be a long-ass four years.
“Okay. I can ask Tucker, Bates and … Fuller to help?”
I nod. “Sure. And you’ll keep monthly spending reports of every cent you spend too. Everyone will. Let’s show this town we’ve got nothing to hide. Oh, and you can start by getting me a detailed report of every area we can save in.” That should keep him busy.
I stand and get ready to head out to the meeting I have next, planning for some new training programs I’m thinking of running for the deputies. “Oh, and Brent. I’ll expect those reports with weekly logs of your time, Mondays by nine a.m.”
“Seems like a waste of your time to read through all that,” he says. Brent hates paperwork—he never gets his statements and reports in on time. “I can just handle this for you.”
Yeah, or do your best to twist what’s going on here and make it look like I’m doing something I’m not. I don’t trust this guy as far as I can throw him. And I know firsthand from loyal constituents that he was spreading rumors about me after Sims was fired, hoping to take the top spot over me.
“I’m sure you can handle it.” I put my hat on. “And what kind of sheriff would I be if I didn’t have a hand in everything my staff was doing?”
He doesn’t answer, and I breeze by Bev on the way to the boardroom.
“That should keep him out of your hair for a few days,” I tell her with a grin.
“Your facilitator for the safe work environment class is already in your office. There’s sandwiches if you’re hungry,” she calls out as I head down the hall.
“You’re the best, Bev!”
This sheriff gig is going to take a lot out of me, but as long as I leave this place better than I found it, I’ll be satisfied. Even if that means I have to make nice with Brent.
The rest of my week flows effortlessly, with Brent knee-deep in last year’s expenses, and by mid-afternoon on Friday, as I’m driving to pick up Mabes from the ranch, I find myself actually looking forward to our Vegas weekend. I haven’t been away in … forever. The last time was a few years ago, when Wade and I went to watch Nash in one of his playoff games.
I pull up to the big house and see my girl on the porch munching on a huge ice cream cone next to Harley, our family dog. My mama is playing Johnny and June through a Bluetooth speaker softly as she rocks and reads on the double porch swing; the trees are swaying behind the house. I suppose I should be appreciating how settling it is, but the only thing I’m thinking is there goes Mabel’s lunch. My mother raises her hands when she sees me, as if to say she’s not guilty of giving my eight-year-old an ice cream the size of her head.
“We’ve talked about this,” I say as I shut my truck door.
“It wasn’t me. Pop made it for her,” Mama replies, standing to give me a squeeze.
“She helped me weed the whole back garden,” Pop says, coming through the door with an ice cream of his own, even bigger than Mabel’s.
“Don’t be such a hard-ass. A little ice cream won’t kill her.”
“That’s another dollar in my boot, Great-Pop.” Mabel reminds him. He owes her a dollar every time he swears. We all do.
“I put ten in your boot when you got here. I’m all paid up.” He winks.
“You guys really don’t get the idea of the swear boot, do you?” I ask my grandfather as I shake my head, leaning against the old wooden porch rail. “And Mama, please try to keep the sugar to a minimum when I’m gone this weekend.”
“What do I always say?” she asks, folding her arms over her chest and reclaiming her seat beside Mabel. “When she’s here, she’s my girl. Not yours.” She grins at Mabel and I remind myself to be grateful I have my family so close and willing to help. I watch my daughter wink back at my mother. Then I laugh and lean forward to ruffle her hair. When the hell did she get so grown-up? A pang of guilt hits my chest for leaving her this weekend. I don’t like being away from her, even if I know she’s going to have the best time with her nana.
“You’re going, Cole,” my mama says sternly, reading my mind.
“We’re going shopping for my dress,” Mabel says as she finishes her ice cream and begins crunching down the cone.
“Are you now?” I ask.
“Yeah, her mama called, said she has to work and probably wouldn’t have time to take her before your swearing-in.” Mama eyes me carefully, signaling this means Gemma is missing her weekly visit again. She’s been talking about taking Mabel shopping in Lexington for two weeks. I eye Mabel, who doesn’t seem to care that my mama will be the one taking her. I tell myself that with all the people around her that love her and are there for her, maybe she won’t notice if one isn’t.
I pick up Mabel’s backpack and put it into the truck.
“We’ll be back in two hours,” I call, backing out of the driveway. I sigh as we drive home. I’m fucking exhausted. The idea of foregoing this whole trip, getting a good long run in, then sitting my ass on the couch with a pizza and some TV flashes through my mind before I give my head a shake. Fuck, what am I? Forty-nine instead of twenty-nine? Maybe I need this weekend after all.
We get home in just under ten minutes. Our house is on the other side of town, near Cave Run Lake, and is the place I feel the most comfortable. It’s not a huge property, but sits on the curve of a tree-lined court with a big pie-shaped lot. Sycamores and catalpa trees frame the yard and create a sense of privacy for our inground pool during the summer. It’s the perfect place to raise Mabel. She can ride her bike, draw with chalk on our long concrete driveway, and even venture into the court without worrying about any traffic. Most of my neighbors are retired and treat her like the little princess of the street. Our house is a smallish red ranch-style brick home with a big front picture window, three bedrooms and a double garage. The best part is that it’s all mine. Paid for from years of saving and the inheritance my dad left each of us kids when he died. He wanted us to spend it while we were young, and I couldn’t think of anything better to invest in than a stable home for Mabes.
Mabel drops her backpack on the bench in our entryway the moment we get in the door.
“Wash up,” I tell her as I toe my boots off before heading to the kitchen to start on a late lunch.
I hear the familiar buzz of my phone on the kitchen counter as I enter and start pulling out some meat, cheese and fruit from the fridge. When in doubt, a little smorgasbord will do the trick.
There are multiple messages from pretty much everyone I know, including Ginger.
VIXEN
Is this what I can expect from the good sheriff this weekend?
She’s attached a video of some kind of Vegas male stripper show. A row of about ten “cops” dance a choregraphed routine before ripping their fake uniform shirts from their bodies. I laugh. Christ, this woman never ceases to surprise me.
I don’t want to know what you searched to find this. But to answer your question, this is exactly what you can expect. But I’m a better dancer.
VIXEN
Don’t forget to pack those handcuffs and your dancing shoes then, twinkle toes.
Do you know me? I’ve been packed for two days.
VIXEN
Yeah, I should probably start packing.
I would say that I’m shocked you’re not packed. But I’m not. You’ll probably start ten minutes before we have to leave and then make me go buy you toothpaste or something when you forget it.
VIXEN
I am not a child, Cole Ashby. But thank you for the toothpaste reminder.
A toothbrush is always good too.
VIXEN
Just worry about yourself and don’t forget that sequined speedo, Sheriff.
I scroll through the rest of my messages as I slice up a watermelon and place the food on a platter. I am not the world’s greatest chef, but I can pull off an easy lunch on the fly. I read Wade’s message next. His nickname is Sarge in my phone, short for the name we’ve all given him over the years: Sergeant.
SARGE
Is there a luggage limit on this plane? I’m pretty sure Ivy is packing her weight in M&Ms.
NASH
Anyone else excited to see this baby come out candy-coated and scowling?
SARGE
Still be better looking than you.
NASH
If he looks like Ivy.
QUEEN JO
Be good kids this weekend. Break hearts, not the law.
I fire back some messages while thinking of everything Mabel will need for the weekend. I glance at the clock: ten minutes to clean if I want to have time to pack her stuff and get out of here on time.
“Half Pint, lunch’s ready!” I call down the hall.
“Coming,” Mabel singsongs as she skips into the kitchen. “I helped,” she says with the world’s most adorable smile, holding a grocery bag in her hands.
“What did you do, buddy?” I grin, genuinely curious.
“I packed.” She holds up her bag. “Two pairs of pajamas, clothes for tomorrow, my toothbrush, Cowey, and socks and underwear. I’m all ready. Oh, and Nana said to bring my slippers.” She holds up her stuffed cow, aka Cowey, that goes everywhere with her.
I smile as I pick her up and squeeze her tight.
“You’re my favorite girl.”
Mabel leans back and holds her hand up for a high five. I give her one.
“We’re a team, right Daddy?” she asks, always knowing my answer.
“You know it, buddy. The best team,” I say, kissing her squishy cheek before I set her down at the old weathered kitchen table.
Carrying everything on my shoulders might be overwhelming, but fuck, I wouldn’t change this life for anything. Every time I look at my daughter’s face, I know I’m the luckiest man in the world.
Mabel eats while I clean and we talk about her weekend. I make sure we both have everything ready to go and check the clock.
It’s Sin City time.