Chapter One #3
She grins and shifts the ice pack. “Whiskey was watching you again.”
I open my locker. “Everybody was watching me. That’s generally the point of wrestling.”
“He doesn’t watch everybody like that.”
She watches me through the green-tinted mirror while I pull out my uniform shirt.
“That biker watches anything he thinks he can steal.”
“Maybe he wants to steal you.”
“Then he better bring help.”
Sheila laughs, but I keep my back to her as I peel off my gear.
Mostly because I don’t want her seeing my face.
Whiskey does watch me.
I’ve noticed it for months. I pull on my undershirt, then button my uniform shirt one snap at a time while watching myself in the mirror.
Whiskey looks at me the way men aren’t supposed to look at women carrying badges.
There’s no caution in it. No calculation about my father or my job.
No nervous glance toward Sheriff Dix as if Daddy might leap from the bushes with a shotgun.
Every boy I dated in high school was terrified of my father. Every man I tried dating after joining the department was scared of both of us. The last one asked if I could leave my service weapon in the car because it made him uncomfortable. I asked if I could leave him in the car instead.
Whiskey ain’t scared.
That should make him appealing. Instead, it makes him dangerous.
I drag my uniform pants over my hips, tuck in my shirt, and reach for my radio.
It crackles before I can clip it to my belt.
“Unit twelve, respond to the Piggly Wiggly on Paradise Road. Possible disturbance in progress.”
I close my eyes.
Sheila snorts behind me.
The radio crackles again. “Caller reports two women fighting near frozen foods. One may be armed with a ham.”
Sheila lowers the ice pack and stares at my radio.
I press the button. “Unit twelve, show me en route.”
Then I let my hand drop.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“A whole ham?” Sheila asks.
“I’ll update you after the investigation.”
Daddy is waiting outside the locker room when I emerge in full uniform. He has the expression of a man who heard the call and is attempting not to smile.
“Not a damn word.”
“Haven’t said nary a word.”
“You’ve got your smug face on again.”
He falls into step beside me as we cross Heck’s Kitchen. The crowd barely notices the uniform. Half of them know me. The other half have already been arrested by somebody wearing one.
I glance toward the bar without meaning to.
Whiskey is gone.
I tell myself I’m relieved.
Outside, the night air hits the sweat still cooling beneath my uniform shirt.
The parking lot is packed with motorcycles, muddy pickups, and at least three vehicles that shouldn’t legally be on the road.
Cigarette smoke drifts beneath the yellow security lights while music from inside vibrates faintly through the old courthouse walls.
My department-issued Ford Police Interceptor Utility waits near the edge of the lot beneath a flickering lamp, the CAD screen glowing through the windshield with my next call already waiting.
Daddy stops beside the driver’s door.
“Let Lester handle it. You just wrestled for twenty minutes, and you’ve got a split lip.”
“You ought to be proud I’m diversifying my income.”
“You’d make more taking extra patrol shifts.”
“Yeah, but nobody buys posters of that.”
He gives me a look, then steps back enough for me to open the door.
“Call if you need backup.”
“For the ham?”
“For whatever started the fight.”
“In this county, it’s probably a coupon or somebody’s meemaw getting called a whore.”
He almost smiles.
I climb behind the wheel and reach for the door, but Daddy catches the top edge before I can pull it shut.
“Twila.”
Something in his voice makes me stop.
The humor is long gone.
“What?”
“Stay away from the Kings tonight.”
I glance back toward Heck’s Kitchen. “Already left.”
A motorcycle fires up somewhere beyond the row of trucks. The engine growls across the lot, then fades toward the highway.
Daddy doesn’t look toward the sound. He keeps scanning the parking lot instead. Vehicles. Shadows between them. The road beyond the lights. “I mean it.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“That answer quit working when I was twelve.”
“It never worked when you were twelve.” His gaze moves across the lot again before returning to me. The motion would probably mean nothing to most people.
But I’m a deputy. I know what it looks like when my sheriff is checking for a threat. I also know what my father looks like when he’s scared.
“What happened?”
“Nothing that concerns you. Go handle the call.”
“Daddy.”
“Deputy.”
That title slams the conversation shut harder than my Interceptor door does when he finally pushes it closed.
I start the engine, lower the window, and give him one last chance.
“Ordering me away only makes me curious.”
“I raised you. I’m aware.”
“Then try honesty sometime.”
“Try following an order.” His hand remains on the top edge of my door for one second longer than necessary before he finally lets go.
I roll up the window and pull out of the parking lot before one of us says something worth putting in a report.