Chapter One Ezra #2
“Listen,” I say to Noah, “I’ve got to run, but don’t tell Odette it’s a yes to the arcade right away. Let her stew.”
“Oh, I planned on it. She’s hot when she’s mad.” He grins in a way that makes me want to roll my eyes again.
I grab the nearest thing I can find—a wet rag—and toss it at him. “You’re disgusting.”
He just laughs as he peels the cloth from his face.
I let tonight’s shift leader know I’m heading out, grab my laptop from the back office so I don’t have to stop by here after my therapy, then climb into my blue Porsche 911 GT3 RS.
I’m fully aware that folding my six-foot-three frame into a tiny sports car isn’t the best idea, nor is the manual transmission, especially given my mobility issues thanks to my bad hip, but I refuse to give up my fun just because of my injury. I’ve already lost so much due to it.
Which is precisely why I gun it the moment I’m out of the Stick Taps parking lot.
Driving fast is about the only vice I have, so I take full advantage of it every chance I get.
I pause briefly at the stop sign at the end of the long dirt road that leads to the cidery, then steer the little sports car onto the blacktop, loving the squeal of my tires against the pavement.
My lips twitch as I watch the speedometer climb much higher than the posted limit, and instead of my heart racing, it calms. This is the first time all day that I’ve felt truly relaxed.
I used to get the same high from playing hockey, but since that’s not happening anymore, I find my peace doing this—going as fast as I possibly can, living life on the edge, even just for a few minutes.
I realize how messed up that is, but I can’t be bothered to care, not when I push the gas pedal harder and the engine cranks up louder, the car eating up the miles as I zoom toward town.
In the back of my mind, I know I should slow down, especially since I’ve already gotten two tickets in the last three months, but I can’t seem to make myself do it.
All the thoughts that were racing around before this are gone.
I’m not worrying about everything I’ll need to do to make the arcade happen, how much feed I need to order for the animals this month, or the stack of applications I have sitting on my desk that I still need to look over so we can get a little more help.
Nope, I’m not thinking about any of that. I’m letting it go, and I’m focusing solely on the long stretch of road before me.
I fly past the Welcome to Port Harbor sign. Unlike Noah, I’m not from Washington. I followed him here when we decided to open Stick Taps. It didn’t matter to me where we lived or built our business. I just wanted to do it and stop thinking about the game I was forced to give up.
I was surprised to discover that I liked small-town life far more than I thought I would.
There are only roughly twelve thousand residents here, but man, they show up in droves when it counts.
And it usually always counts. They have activities nearly every weekend, ranging from fundraising events to harbor races.
While I think most of it is cheesy as hell and you won’t catch me attending unless I’m absolutely forced, it still feels nice to know that if I truly needed anyone, people would be there.
It’s a big change from what I had growing up, that’s for sure.
I get about a quarter mile before I see them.
Red and blue lights fill my rearview mirror, and I groan, braking and downshifting as I navigate my car to the side of the road.
I flip my visor down and pull my registration and insurance card free before reaching into my back pocket for my wallet to retrieve my driver’s license.
I hold all three out of the window before the officer even reaches the car. I’ve been through this routine far too many times to count.
That’s when I see in my side-view mirror that I’m not dealing with just anyone.
“Put that away, Mr. Rawlings,” Sheriff Turner says as he approaches the car. “You think I don’t have your information memorized at this point?”
Relief sinks into me that it’s him and not one of his deputies. They’re always hyped up on a power trip, but not him. He oversees the two towns that make up our little county, and I swear he knows every single person who lives in each one. He’s just that kind of guy.
“It’s because you’re so sharp at your job and surely not because you stop me too often.” I offer him a grin as I put my papers back under the visor.
“Let’s go with the first one.” He rests his hand on the roof, leaning down so he can get a better look at me. “Do I even need to tell you why I pulled you over?”
“Because you wanted a closer look at my car?”
He sighs, but I still catch the twitch of his lips. Honestly, I think the only reason I’ve received tickets from his deputies and not him is that Sheriff Turner used to be a fan of mine back in my playing days. I heard it through the grapevine and have been using it to my advantage since.
“You were doing 110 in a 50. That’s a serious infraction, you know?”
Really? Only 110 mph?
But I don’t say that. Instead, I put on my best Aw, shucks face and say, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware I was going so fast. Am I getting a ticket?”
“Sure you weren’t,” he mutters, then sighs again. “Look, I—”
“I’m sorry for speeding, Sheriff Turner, but I’m running late for physical therapy.
Got that bad hip and can’t play hockey anymore, remember?
” I’m wrong to exploit people’s emotions, but in this case, I’m using losing my NHL career to my advantage to try to drum up some sympathy. “Think I could be on my way?”
His eyes narrow ever so slightly, and something about it makes my skin crawl. I like Sheriff Turner, but I don’t at all like the look he’s giving me right now.
“Sure thing,” he says coolly, and the words instantly raise my hackles.
“Sure thing?” I repeat.
“Of course.”
He’s acting too chill about this.
“So, no ticket?” I ask.
He laughs quietly. “No, you’re getting a ticket, but that ain’t all you’ll be getting.”
My brows slam together. “What else?”
“Oh, Mr. Rawlings, I have the perfect punishment for you.”