Chapter 12
Emery
I drop heavily in the black leather salon chair.
“So …” Breanne repositions it in front of the mirror before her fingers weave through my hair. “What are we doing this time?”
I glare at the reflection. A tired, sallow face stares back. “Something that fixes this.” Though highlights and a blowout aren’t going to magically erase the dark bags under my eyes.
“One of those weeks, huh? Thought that might be the case.” She sashays over to the mini bar in the corner and retrieves a bottle of chardonnay, pouring me a glass. “Your favorite.”
“You are the best. Seriously.” When Breanne said she was leaving the salon she worked at to open her own little place in her backyard with more flexible hours, I was ecstatic, and that was before I discovered these added perks.
“I know. Remember that when you tip me.” She winks as she hands me a glass and then studies my hair with a furrowed forehead. “Let’s freshen up those highlights, get rid of the dead ends, and add a few long layers around the front to frame your face. A bit different but not too different.”
I suck back a sizable gulp of wine. “At this point, you could shave it off and I don’t think I’d care.”
“You do have nice bone structure—”
“Let’s do it.” I aim to take another mouthful, only this time I miss my lips, spilling wine all over my shirt. “Perfect. That’s just … great. I couldn’t wait until you put the cape on me.”
“I saw nothing.” She busies herself at her color-mixing counter while I dab a tissue. At least I changed out of my uniform.
“Does all this”—she waves a hand toward me—“have anything to do with a certain neighbor who’s back in town after a not-so-brief stint in prison?”
“Your husband talks too much.” As one of my platoon sergeants, Mike comes home and fills Breanne’s ears with station gossip, and all anyone seems to be talking about these days is Logan Landry’s return.
Even my dickhead boss, Doug, called, looking for an update.
How that landed on his radar is anyone’s guess but probably through Brad Whitley, who treats my chain of command like an open chat line.
“My husband does talk too much,” she agrees, stirring the bleach. “Have you seen this guy yet?”
“Briefly, last Saturday.” I fill her in on the window-breaking shenanigans, leaving out the part where I fell into Logan’s arms and then ran home to cry for the night. While I may consider Breanne a friend, I wouldn’t want any of that ever getting back to the station via Mike.
“And since then?”
I shake my head. It hasn’t been hard to avoid him.
Between work and evenings in North Bay for Isla’s practices, I haven’t been home much.
“I don’t know what to do about Thanksgiving dinner,” I admit through another sip.
“I told Annie we were a maybe, but it’s two days away. At this point, I’m being rude.”
“I’m sure she understands why. I mean, given who you are. Plus, weren’t you guys like, close, back then?”
“We were, yeah. I mean, we grew up together. Went to school together.”
“It was more than that, though, right?”
“Who told you that? Mike?” He and Breanne only moved to Cold River for his job four years ago, so anything they know about Landry history is secondhand.
She shrugs playfully.
“Seriously, where did you hear that? Are your clients talking about me?”
“What?” Her amusement falls off. “No! Of course Mike told me.”
This whole situation has made me paranoid. “Just … I know how people are around here, and I don’t need anyone making who I dated in high school a thing. It’s hard enough being a female detachment commander without that baggage.”
“Yeah, of course. If I hear anything, I’ll set them straight. And I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks.” I take another big gulp and then study the dribble left in the glass. “If I don’t slow down, you’re going to have to drive my drunk ass home.”
Breanne cocks her head in thought. “What do you have planned tonight?”
“Nothing. Rotting on the couch. I’ll probably order in. Isla got a ride to North Bay, and she’s staying overnight with one of her teammates. I’ll drive down tomorrow to see her game and then bring her back for her afternoon shift at the Landrys.” I pause. “Why?”
She smiles. “Well, there’s a great band playing at the Bale House tonight, so how about you call that cute bar owner to reserve a table, I’ll do your hair, and then we’ll head over? Mike can drive both our drunk asses home.”
I open my mouth to object.
“Come on! It’s Friday night, your kid is gone, and your hair will be magnificent. Not going out is a waste, and I will not allow it.”
“You are such a pain in my ass.”
“Good friends always are.” She collects a cape and towels from the shelf. “Now make that call.”
With a sigh, I dig out my phone.