by Emily Bishop
“Hi.”
I step out of the alley behind the restaurant only to find Ben leaning against his personal car—an old, brown truck. I release a frustrated breath, and a puff of steam comes out in the cold.
“Haven’t you had enough of me for one day?”
I realize, too late, that this is a loaded question.
Ben has had more of me than many other men out there, and he’s likely remembering how much went down earlier. I want to regret it, but I don’t. A tiny part of me, the part I generally like to ignore, would like to give him more.
Of course, that’s a terrible decision, so I shove it into the back of my mind.
“I thought I’d walk you home.”
A laugh escapes me at this, and I find myself smiling against my will. I turn back to my front door, mere steps away.
“Great job, you did it. You can officially write in the record that you kept me safe tonight.”
“Walk with me,” he says. It’s a question, made in the form of a statement. I can tell that if I say no, he won’t protest, but I don’t want to. I hate that.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because it’s a nice evening, and I would like to take you for a walk.”
“Maybe you should get a dog. I hear they like to be taken for walks.”
“Do you fight this hard about everything?”
“Who said I was fighting?”
“Are you coming or not?”
“Oh, now we’re getting serious. As long as you promise not to detain me again, I’d be willing to do one loop around the dock.”
Even in the dark, I see his lips twitch, and I crave him more than ever. Against all better judgement, I want to suck on that full bottom lip of his, maybe take a little bite. Maybe taste a little lower. Or a lot lower.
The twilight has befuddled my mind. I give my head a gentle shake and walk up to stand next to him, nodding ahead with my chin. “All right then. Let’s get this over with.”
“Get what over with?”
“Whatever scheme you have crafted. Is this some kind of ploy to get information out of me?”
“Must everything be a trick with you?”
“You tell me,” I counter, and he walks on in silence.
The ocean laps against the shore, waves caressing gray stones then pulling back toward the sea. I inhale. I love the scent of the ocean at night, paired with the cold. Fall is in the air, and the promise of a new season, of change, always fills my heart with excitement.
“Do you come down here often?” he asks. He glances out at the boats, and his expression is hard. This is killing him. He wants answers, but he’ll be disappointed. I’ve got nothing to share.
“Not to this exact place, no. I meet a lot of our fish and lobstermen out down the way a bit to negotiate prices.”
“So, you don’t own a boat or anything?”
I look up at him. His chin is strong and angular. The shadows of night cast against his face make him look even more domineering than usual, and, to my dismay, I find it hot as hell.
“I had nothing to do with the theft, Ben,” I say.
He looks down at me and searches my eyes, seeking answers there. I stare up at him. I have nothing to hide. He might as well figure that out now, so I can save myself another arrest.
“Do you remember anything about the man you saw on the boat? Anything at all that might prove helpful as a clue?”
I reach into the corners of my mind. I’ve been trying to hold onto any image of that man, of the situation, but my defense mechanisms are hard at work. I recall the barrel of the gun, the black mask, but nothing beneath it. I tell Ben as much, and he nods, walking on.
“That’s normal for victims of crimes like this,” he says. “But if you do remember anything, you’ll tell me?”
“Of course, I will. I want that asshole to be caught, too. It’s not every day someone tries to kill me.”
“Well, now, that is good to hear,” he says. The humor in his voice is comforting in the dark, and I nudge his shoulder with my own.
“Shut up,” I say.
“Fine,” he agrees. We walk back to my place and stop at my front door. I glance at the spot where he fucked me earlier, my back pressed to the wall. Will he make a move again? I turn to look up at him.
“Well, thanks for stuff.”
“I’m sorry, ‘stuff?’”
“Ugh,” I grumble. “Thanks for saving my ass tonight. It was helpful.”
“See? That wasn’t so hard.”
“And now I regret it. Goodnight, Sheriff.”
He looks down at me. Is he going to kiss me? I’m perfectly happy to have another go. This guy knows what he’s doing with a woman’s body, and I wouldn’t mind taking full advantage of that. He steps back, and a pang of disappointment hits me in the gut.
“Goodnight, Naomi. I’ll be in touch.”
“About the case?”
I sound so desperate. I wish I could take the words back.
He nods. “Yes. About the case. Sleep well.”
He turns and walks off into the night, back to his truck. I stare after him a moment, safe in the shadows. Does he trust me, or does he still suspect my involvement?
Could he have sex with me and still think I’m an accomplice?
Chapter Eight
Ben
My body shoots out of bed, my back moist with cold sweat as I stare around the room. My heart pounds in my chest, and my eyes dart around as they acclimate to the light of day.
Just another dream. Another goddamned fucking dream.
I lay back against my thick white pillow and close my eyes. I breathe in and out, focusing on that action, like my post-discharge therapist taught me to do. At first, this kind of thing did nothing to stop my anxiety, my terror. Over time, it’s gotten slightly easier, but no matter what, the nightmares still come.
They are one of the reasons I never stay the night with a woman.
I release one final breath and open my eyes, taking in my peaceful surroundings.
I’m in my room, in Maine. The distant tide crashes against the shore. I glance at my clock. Shit, I’m going to be late if I don’t get my ass up, and I jump out of bed. When I move, I don’t think. It keeps me in action most of the time.
I shed my shorts and underwear, and I turn on the shower. I step beneath the water and allow my nightmares to melt away. I turn my thoughts to the day ahead and what needs to be done.
Quite a bit, actually.
I think about it, wash up, then step out and make fast work of dressing for the day in a pair of blue jeans and a white button-down shirt.
I roll up my sleeves, slide into a pair of comfortable shoes, and head out the door. I cast a glance at a few of my car projects and make a mental note to work on one or two of the engines later. Tinkering helps calm my mind. If only I had time to do that this morning, to clear my head.
I don’t have that luxury, so I slide into my take-home cruiser and drive to the station. I pull into my spot and walk in, wondering if I’ve beaten James or not. I haven’t. He’s sitting right at the desk in front, staring at his cell phone. He looks up and presses a button, sliding it under the desk.
“Working hard?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow at him.
It feels weird to be his boss. I’ve led teams before in the military, but that was different. Those men were like my brothers. James is more like a distant cousin that I don’t know how to connect with, so I don’t.
He shrugs off my comment. “You’ve got a voicemail,” he says, changing the subject.
“How do you know?”
“Because I was reading the morning paper, and the mayor has published some pretty strong words about this yacht theft.”
Ugh.
Why is this my life? I nod and head toward my office, where the ominous red light blinks. I take a seat, prepared to face the day. Anything is better than facing my own sleeping brain. Isn’t it?
The bustle of officers going about their business, grabbing coff
ees or discussing work surrounds me, but I block it out.
I pick up the phone and check voicemails. There are twenty-nine. One of them is from the mayor. The rest are from concerned boat owners calling to check on the status of my hunt for the thief.
“If you could give me a call back and let me know what’s going on, I’d appreciate it. Thanks.”
I take down the names and numbers. They should’ve called the sheriff’s department directly, but everyone around here has a contact who has my number. It grinds my gears.
James may have thought his comment was smart earlier, but he won’t be as thrilled when I hand this paper to him for follow up on. Finally, I listen to the mayor’s message one more time. He wants a call, and I’m not about to turn it down.
I dial the number and wait for the other line to answer.
His secretary, Bette, picks up. “Mayor Robichaud’s office, how can I help you?”
“Hey, Bette. It’s Ben.”
“Ben! How are you, dear?”
“I’m wonderful, and yourself?”
“Oh, fine, fine, though it’s not my boat that got stolen. Let me patch you through.”
“Thanks.”
I only wait a second before Beau Robichaud’s voice pierces my ear.
“Ben? What in God’s name happened there? My office is being swarmed with anxious callers, all convinced they’re going to get their property stolen. We have a reputation as a safe town, Ben!”
“I know, Beau. We’re getting them, too. And we’re going to fix it.”
“You better, because our reputation, our survival as a town, depends on people being willing to come up here to visit, to get away. If we get a rep for being dangerous, we’ll lose a lot more than a yacht.”
“I know. I’ve got it handled. The culprit will be caught and charged.”
“They better, because if they don’t, I’m not sure we can trust you to provide for this town’s safety. Every day that passes the people trust us, and you, less.”
Seriously?
I have to fight hard to maintain my training. Beau is a superior, and my employer.
“Understood. I’ll be in touch soon.”
“I’ll look forward to that report,” he says, his voice terse. He ends the call then, and I hang up. I run a palm across my face, rubbing my eyes. What a fucking mess this is. Maybe I should have stayed in the military, after all.
Even as I think it, I don’t believe that. It was time to get out, but is civilian, small-town life good for me? If something like this can destroy my career, is it worth it?
I stand and fold the list of callbacks, keeping it in my hand at my waist as I step back out. James is waiting for me, and he glances up, trying not to look like he’s excited for gossip.
My god, small town people are predictable.
“How’d it go?” he asks. There is a tinge of excitement in his voice.
“He was disturbed by the news, but he has faith in us to solve this mystery and bring the asshole to justice.”
James’s face falters a little, but he’s quick to bring it back to a neutral expression. If I hadn’t been trained in reading people from every angle, I would miss something like that. This morning, it doesn’t go undetected.
Poor James. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. He ran against me for sheriff and he’s never gotten over the loss.
“Does he have any leads?”
“Why would he have any leads?”
James shrugs. “Sometimes political leaders know things that cops don’t. They’re better connected.”
“I don’t think anyone around here is that connected.” I glance around at the other deputies and sigh. What the fuck is James on today?
“You don’t?” he asks, and I don’t like his tone. I stare at him and wait for him to elaborate on that.
“You brought in Naomi Greeves yesterday, dripping wet, right out of the water. I could have sworn that you were convinced of her guilt, even pissed that you didn’t have enough to go on and had to let her go. This morning you’re telling me that no one here is connected, when there are pieces of evidence all over that woman.”
My gut twists with anger at his insinuation, and it shouldn’t. He’s not altogether wrong. I did drag Naomi in a day ago with full intent of making her confess to the crime, or at least that she was an accomplice in one way or another.
But now, after speaking with her, seeing her in action at her restaurant, I think she’s telling the truth.
I’m not convinced Naomi has anything to do with the crime. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“I’ve spoken with her several times since then. I don’t have a reason now to think that she was connected to the crime. I think she’s innocent.”
“You think? Was that during the romantic drive home you provided last night? Did something happen after that to change your mind?”
He’s making outrageous insinuations. What pisses me off the most is that they are close to the truth, and I don’t like that he’s making correct guesses about this. Is the fact that I’ve slept with Naomi clouding my judgement?
I never let sex get in the way of my better judgement. It’s been a rule of mine for a long time, and it’s kept me out of a lot of trouble. I shouldn’t have had sex with her, but I can’t quite find the will to feel bad about it. I still crave her, even now. I want to grab her hair as I get her on her knees. I want to drive my dick home, nice and hard, and watch her come from that angle.
I clear my throat. I’m proving James’s point. Not a good thing. “You’re reading into things. There is no connection there.”
James sits forward, his eyes searching mine as he speaks. “She is new to town. She was at the scene of the crime. There is a strong possibility that that woman is the ring leader in all of this. There is no one at the moment who looks guiltier than Naomi Greeves!”
“That’s bullshit!” I say, much louder than I should have. “I’ll keep an eye on her, but I think you’re on the wrong path. I think we need to look elsewhere.”
James shrugs. “Suit yourself. Ignore the facts if want, but I would hope for more from you than this little obsession you’ve got for Naomi. You need to get a grip on your own dick, Ben. It’s obvious you have some kind of little thing for her.”
“You’re delusional. Just because I help a woman get home, because I get enough information out of her during that time to get reasonable doubt as to her guilt, does not qualify as obsession. Do not question my motives in this job. I will do what it takes to bring justice to this town, just like I’ve done since arriving.”
“Yeah, sure. Whatever. Just don’t overlook the fact that the criminals are either long gone, or it’s her and she’s playing you for a fool. Or she’s one of them. Do you feel like getting played, Ben? With your job on the line?”
“I don’t overlook anything. I’m going to go on patrol. Here.” I slam the folded paper down on the desk. “There are twenty-eight people looking to make sure their boats are safe in the harbor. I’ve written down names, numbers, and boat names when given. I want them all called and responded to by the time I get back in a few hours.”
I don’t ask him whether he’s willing to do it. I’m too angry. He will, because he has no choice. If he doesn’t do it, he knows I can give him worse tasks.
I step out of the station into the cool air of an early autumn day, but I don’t feel the joy in it. I think about James’s words, and Naomi’s. There is something here that doesn’t add up.
I wish I could figure out what the fuck it is.
Chapter Nine
Naomi
I slam a large wad of dough against the metal counter in my back kitchen. The resounding thwap is comforting, and I do it again four more times. The malleable dough flops against the silvery, floured surface, and it spreads in my hands as I prepare for another good toss.
“Rough night?” Paul strolls in and crosses his arms as he looks at me. I’m sure I look terrible. I was up half the night after havin
g a nightmare about the masked man on that stupid yacht. He’s officially haunting my dreams, and I hate him even more for it.
Why did I have to pick that boat? Why couldn’t I have left well enough alone? I didn’t even get what I’m sure were outstanding pictures I took with my soggy, broken camera. He took those from me, too. If he hadn’t been pointing that gun at me, I wouldn’t have had to jump for my life.
“Just some bad dreams,” I reply. I don’t want to burden Paul with the intricacies of my own sordid affair. He’s got enough on his plate as it is.
He watches me for another moment or two and then shrugs. “I get those sometimes. I hear chamomile tea helps.”
I grin. What a chef thing to say, recommending a food-based remedy. Paul is one of my favorites.
“I’ll have to try that tonight, though I imagine I’ll crash the instant my head hits the pillow. It’s going to be a long day.”
“What can I get started on?”
I point to a basket of clams I purchased this morning, fresh off the boat. “Shucking?”
“You got it.”
Paul never gives me lip. He never questions any order I give. He always nods and gets right to work, and he works well. I’m so grateful I found him. I couldn’t ask for a better sous chef.
We spend the rest of the morning preparing our fare for the afternoon and evening menu, and the gentle sounds of productivity echo across the kitchen. I pull out a massive block of cheddar cheese and a grater and take out the rest of my morning frustration shearing bits of cheese to put in my biscuits. After giving them away for free, I’m hoping they become a bit of a trademark to the place. Don’t miss Naomi’s place—the cheese biscuits are to die for!
Yeah. That’s what they’ll say.
I wipe my brow with the sleeve of my forearm and lift the grater up. A massive pile of cheese tumbles down, and I mix it into my dough. I hope I wasn’t too rough on it. I want tonight’s biscuits to be as light and fluffy as ever.
“Hey, party people. What’s on the menu tonight, and when do I get to start sampling?”
