Five #2
He clocked me at the bar with an admiring sweep of my low-cut dress and my balled fists, and then glared at Stokes on the ground and Jude hovering nearby, the hint of a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Want to tell me what the hell is going on here?” he demanded.
“He touched me without permission,” I said, nodding down at Stokes, whose mouth was opening and closing like a fish flopping around helplessly in the bottom of a boat as he desperately tried to suck air into his deflated lungs.
I wasn’t proud of the fact that I liked watching him try to gulp air. “He has a habit of doing that.”
Russo’s nostrils flared.
“Want me to cuff him?” Russo glared down at Stokes, whose green eyes went round with terror. Russo now loomed large over him, putting a hand on his hip and flipping back his jacket to show his hidden holster and pistol.
“You don’t have jurisdiction here,” I pointed out.
“I didn’t say I planned to arrest him. But if I cuff him, he’ll be easier to punch.” Russo glared at Stokes, and I could’ve sworn I heard a squeak of fear escape him. Might have been a nervous fart. Hard to tell.
“Careful. He’s the mayor,” I warned Russo as I took a step
back.
“Not my mayor,” Russo said, eyes narrowing.
Stokes managed to pull himself off the floor, wheezing, as he limped toward his shoe and picked it up. He stuffed his foot in it and then gingerly made his way to the door. He hesitated there. “You’ll regret this,” he sniffed.
“Not as much as you will if you don’t get the hell out of here,” Russo promised.
Stokes’s eyes widened just a little and he scurried out, probably instantly running off to tell his friend the judge. Well, let him. I had witnesses. He touched me first. I didn’t care if the town gave him a free pass. He’d pay any time he touched me.
Russo frowned at the church door as it closed behind the retreating mayor and then focused his attention back on Jude.
“And who is this?”
“This is Jude, my brother’s best friend.”
“Brother’s best friend,” Russo echoed, with some skepticism, giving Jude a calculating sweep from head to toe.
Jude was a smidgen taller than Russo, which I never would’ve believed if I wasn’t witnessing with my own eyes the two men standing shoulder to shoulder.
In my mind’s eye, Jude was always hunched over a laptop or calculator, and I never realized how tall he was.
Back in high school, he and my brother were opposites—Oscar was the varsity quarterback who enlisted in the Marines after school, and Jude was the quiet bookworm who lived for the science fair. How they managed to remain such good friends over the years, I’d never know.
“I’m Russo,” he said, grasping Jude’s hand hard. He didn’t add Nice to meet you.
“Russo?” Jude echoed, not flinching as Russo squeezed his hand so hard his own knuckles flashed white. “The Chicago detective Ella interviewed on her podcast?”
I swiveled to look at Jude. Oscar didn’t bother to listen to my podcast, but Jude did?
“The same,” Russo acknowledged and then let Jude’s hand go. The two men stared at each other for a beat. Benji, noticing a new arrival for the first time, trotted out from behind the bar and sniffed Russo’s expensive loafers. He then sat on his hind legs and waited patiently to be noticed.
“Look at this mutt,” Russo said and smiled despite himself. He bent down and gave Benji a little pat on the head. Russo was full of surprises. Tough on everybody except dogs and babies, I guessed. “What’s the barrel for?”
“He thinks he’s a rescue dog,” Mel explained as she leaned an elbow on the bar.
“Dogs in the canine unit don’t have anything on you,” Russo said. Benji gave a single approving bark.
“Flattery will get you everywhere with him,” Mel said. Russo gave the dog another scratch behind the ears.
“Shall we grab a table?” he asked me as he straightened. I nodded. He lightly guided me with his hand on the small of my back, and I allowed it. I couldn’t deny the touch was a bit of a thrill as he led me away from the bar to a small round table with two chairs in a remote corner.
I felt all eyes on us as Russo pulled out a chair for me. I sat in it daintily, and he pushed it forward as if I weighed nothing at all. Russo flashed a grin at me.
“I guess next time we meet for a drink, I should bring a stick to bat away all your admirers,” Russo said, nodding back to the bar.
“Oh, they’re not admirers,” I said quickly. Jude was like another brother, and Gary and Bill were old enough to be my dad. And Stokes didn’t count.
“Sure they’re not,” Russo said as he glanced over at the bar. “How about I go get us a drink?”
“Yes!” I said, a bit too eager. A bathtub filled with tequila, please. I expected Russo to ask what I wanted, but he was already on the move.
“Be right back,” Russo said, stalking toward Mel.
Okay, then. Dealer’s choice.
I tried not to look over at Jude, though I stole a glance anyway.
He met my gaze with a skeptical raise of one eyebrow.
That single eyebrow said he’d clocked Russo and made a whole host of judgments about him.
I didn’t want to know what they were, either.
Then the church door opened and Kenzie Gordon swept in.
Did I mention how much I hated Lake Sanguis?
Kenzie wore a business suit and razor-thin heels my mom would’ve loved, her wavy blond hair down to her mid-back.
How did she make those fake lashes look real?
That’s what I wanted to know. Perfectly thick and separated, curled upward.
Unnaturally long, but realistic all the same.
Pageant makeup, I thought. She probably knew all the secrets.
Also, she was so tall and lean, with legs for miles. She made her navy blue suit look like something a Victoria’s Secret model ought to be wearing.
Russo, as well as every man in the bar, took note. They watched her as she scanned the bar and found who she was looking for: Jude. She went to him, and they hugged.
So, this was who he was meeting.
They seemed to be very friendly exes, indeed, as she threw herself into his arms for a hug that lasted several long seconds.
Kenzie sat down on the barstool next to him and urgently began talking and gesturing with her hands.
Then it hit me: Kenzie probably wanted to talk to Jude about the listeria outbreak at Gordon’s Frozen Custard.
Jude was an expert in listeria and all things dairy, so that made sense.
What didn’t make sense was how Kenzie seemed to be finding all the excuses in the world to touch Jude.
On his arm. His shoulder. Even his knee.
Jude reached out and took Kenzie’s hand. He was consoling her. I might be watching a rekindling of their old flame in real time.
Russo reappeared, carrying two pints and blocking my view of Jude. I blinked and looked up. He set the beers on our little table and slid into the chair across from mine. “Thank you,” I said.
Russo shrugged. He flashed a smile at me. I sighed and reached for my beer.
“Why does the bartender call you Thin Ice?” Russo asked.
“I fell through the ice of Lake Sanguis when I was seven. Nearly died. Not my fault, though, because some jerk kid stole my mitten and ran out to the ice with it. And as a rule, I don’t let people get away with bad behavior.”
“You should join the force, then.” Russo flashed me a smile. “Did you drown that kid or what?”
I thought about Robbie Blythe, the snot-nosed cretin whose hobbies included eating glue and torturing me with endless taunts.
“Nope,” I said. “He got away with it. His family moved to Chicago right after. But since he didn’t fall in, I was the one who got branded with the nickname. Plus, everyone in town thinks it’s funny to call me Thin Ice because I’m always getting into trouble.”
“Like getting into a fight with the mayor?”
I nodded. “And that was his second go-round. We went to high school together,” I explained. “He got handsy at prom, and I broke his nose.”
Russo burst out laughing. “Good for you,” he said, chuckling. “Good for you.” His laugh died down as his eyes grew serious. “If I had been there, I would have broken his neck.”
Now it was my turn to laugh a little, though I wasn’t totally sure Russo was joking.
He raised his glass. “Cheers,” he offered. I lifted mine, and we clinked glasses. I took a sip of beer, and got punched in the face with a bitter pine cone. An IPA, my least favorite kind of beer.
“Something wrong?” Russo asked, face clouded with concern.
“I’m… not the biggest fan of IPAs,” I admitted. Even though the truth was I’d rather eat lawn cuttings, since the taste was pretty much the same in my mind.
Russo’s mouth grew slack. “Really?” Russo shook his head with disappointment. “You can’t hate the best beer there is.”
Why was I surprised that Russo would go for the high-octane, ultra-bitter IPA?
Of course he’d be about pale ales, the kind that knocked you in the face and hit you like a freight train because they had 8 percent ABV.
Russo stared at me, his steel-blue gaze unwavering, and under his watchful eye, I just caved.
“I’ll give it a try, I guess,” I said, taking a very small sip of freshly snipped dandelions and trying not to wrinkle my nose in distaste. “Mmmm,” I lied.
“That’s my girl,” Russo said, flashing me an approving smile that I liked a little too much. “Now, are you going to tell me why you haven’t mentioned the skull emojis on your social media accounts?”
So Russo had noticed those, too. Of course he had. He studied me with his sharp blue gaze with the same kind of withering focus that made suspects crumble and confess everything in the interrogation room.
“Right, well. I kind of just noticed those.”
“Kind of?” Russo asked, skeptical.
“Okay, well, that’s not the only thing that’s happened.” I inhaled, and under Russo’s watchful gaze, told him about the Jeep Wagoneer that may or may not have been stalking me. His frown grew deeper. I showed him the blurry photos I’d taken of the car outside Koi.