“And has Bluelick provided the challenge you sought?”
The careful way she asked the question made the broken condom flash through his mind. He straightened, let go of her hand, and ran his suddenly damp palms over his jeans. “Bluelick is an interim step toward a larger goal. One stop on a track I need to stay on if I’m going to achieve everything I want to achieve in my career.”
Now she straightened, too, and he saw something beyond idle curiosity in her pretty blue eyes. “Goodness, sounds ambitious. What’s the larger goal?”
“Chief of the kind of department I came up in.” The kind of department his dad had chosen. Just thinking about it reaffirmed the goal in his mind. He had a plan. Fulfill the dream his father never got the chance to fulfill. Do his dad proud. His gaze wandered to the trash, and he mentally cursed. He needed to be more careful, because they both had plans, those plans didn’t overlap, and shit like what had happened tonight could derail them both.
Chapter Eleven
Melody stood in a pew at Bluelick Baptist next to Ginny, trying to concentrate on singing the closing hymn, “Blest Be the Tie That Binds.” All around her, members of the congregation raised their voices in song while she mouthed the words and thought impure thoughts.
Last night had been amazing. The A-play, the kitchen sex. Asking Josh how Bluelick was working out for him had kind of pulled things off the sexy track, but they’d found their way back easily enough. Somehow, on the way to the door, they ended up necking on the couch, where he’d proceeded to wring another devastating orgasm out her with nothing but his tongue. No matter how hard she’d begged, pleaded, and insisted she couldn’t get there with just his mouth, he’d stayed the course—and proved her very, very wrong. Talk about new experiences.
Waking on her sofa, naked and alone, constituted a new experience, too. One she was a lot less enthusiastic about. Not that she’d expected Josh to spend the night, but…heck, she didn’t know what she expected, but a note that might as well have said, “See you around,” propped against a beer bottle, missed the mark.
A tug on the hem of her dress brought her gaze down. Ginny tugged again, and pointedly looked around. The hymn had ended. The entire congregation had taken their seats. Except her.
She dropped to her seat.
Reverend Carlson smiled his appreciation, and then, in his best effort to provide both a workout and a Sunday service, gestured the congregation to its feet again for the benediction. The blessing ended a minute later and the organist swept into the postlude while elderly members and families with antsy young kids made their way down the aisles to the exit at the back of the church.
Ginny turned and craned her neck toward the exit. “Who’s that guy?
“What guy?” Melody followed her friend’s gaze. She watched a tall, broad-shouldered man head to the door.
“I saw him in town last week—once at the gas station and once at Dalton’s Drugs. He looks familiar, but I can’t place him.”
He gave off the impression of someone close to her age, but it was hard to judge. His dark hair needed a trim, and a shadowed jaw suggested he hadn’t seen a razor in a while, either. Not that she got a good look. He slipped out of the church like a shadow.
“Wolverine?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know, but he could really use your expertise.”
Her friend smirked. “Which expertise would you be referring to?”
“Please. I’m referring to your grooming expertise. We are in a house of God here. Besides, I thought you were on a hiatus?”
The corner of Ginny’s mouth turned down and she nodded. “Naturally. As soon as I put myself on a sexual moratorium, a mysterious new man appears on the scene. It’s like how every time I wash my car it rains.”
“Okay, first, that one looks a little dangerous, so I’d say it’s for the best. Second, you’re not allowed to say ‘sexual moratorium,’ or sexual anything, while we’re standing in the shadow of the Lamb of God.” She jerked her thumb at the stained glass window, which depicted Jesus in all his haloed majesty, kneeling in a green field, smiling down at a lamb.
“Oh, he’s heard it all.” She led the way out of the pew. “Besides, don’t you think Jesus would give a big thumbs-up to my moratorium? One less sin I’m engaging in these days.” They reached the foyer, but had to pause there to let a clog of other attendees filter through the double doors and down the short granite stairs to the sidewalk. “But speaking of sins, do you have anything to confess?”
Melody glanced around to see if anyone had overheard.
Ginny stared at the ceiling. “No one’s listening except me and God, so spill. Are you and the fire chief burning up the sheets yet?”
She waited until they’d cleared the church before answering. “Am I not allowed to have dinner with a man without causing all sorts of speculation?”
“Sure, if it was just dinner, but I’m not blind. Ever since he hit town, the fire chief’s been eyeing you the same way Mr. Cranston’s Saint Bernard eyes Mrs. Kendall’s miniature dachsund—like he wants to gobble you up. In one…big…bite.”
“Ginny, am I a dog in this analogy?”
“Hey, we’re all animals when you get right down to it.”
“Yeah, well”—she kicked a stone off the sidewalk and frowned—“if anyone’s a dog, it’s him. Yes, we had a lovely dinner Friday, but due to the crash on the double A, the evening ended at my doorstep. Last night he came over after his shift, we unleashed our animal sides and ‘got right down to it,’ as you say. This morning I woke up alone, on my sofa, with a note stuck to my forehead that read, ‘Thanks for the booty call.’”
Ginny stopped cold. “He did not stick a thank-you-for-the-booty-call note on your forehead!”
“No. But he might as well have. The note said ‘Sweet dreams,’ and he left it on the coffee table, propped up against an empty beer.”
“Aw. That’s kind of cute.”
“‘Cute’ is not the word. Why didn’t he wake me up and say good-bye properly?”
“Um…because he wanted to let you sleep?”
“Okay, fine. If he’s such a gentleman, why didn’t he say something in the note about seeing me again?”
“Mel, you were in a long-distance relationship too long. Josh isn’t in New York or DC. He’s right here. Right there.” She stood on her toes and pointed down the street to the firehouse. “You know where to find him. He knows where to find you. There’s no need to pin down every detail. Relax and go with the flow. You want to keep things simple and easy, right?”
Yes, she sure did, and she needed to take a step back here, because they weren’t getting involved. They were having fun.
She started walking again, toward her parents’ house for the obligatory Sunday lunch. Ginny had a standing invitation, especially since her parents had taken early retirement and moved to Florida.
“So, when we’re getting together next is a detail I should let work itself out?”
“I think so, but if you want to plan a date, you can call him and ask him if he’s free.”
Melody cringed at the notion. “I know I’m in the minority here, but given that our last ‘date’ consisted of sex, sex, and more sex, I feel a little bit like a slut asking him for another one.”
“You might have to unlace your corset first, Miss Melody.”
She laughed. “Fine. I’m old-fashioned. I’ve been out of the dating scene for, um, let’s see…my whole life. I get what you’re saying, though. Basically, I shouldn’t take offense at waking up this morning all alone, with no next date firmed up.”
“Were you expecting him to spend the night?” Ginny looked at her with something like pity in her eyes.
“I don’t know—”
“You’d planned on breakfast in bed?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not a complete moron.”
“Afterward, a bended-knee proposal?”
She laughed. “All right. I hear you. We’re casual. I can d
o casual.”
“Good.” Ginny giggled back. “’Cause I bet Josh does casual real well.”
“No doubt. Casual defines his entire situation here.”
“How so?”
Melody ran her hand over the back of her neck—why did it have to be so darn hot in June? “He has no plans to put down roots in Bluelick. Not enough action for a city boy.”
Ginny brought her head up, straightened her spine, and propped her hands on her hips, reminding Melody of an agitated kitten. “Not enough action? Please. This town’s got more action than he can handle. Flaming bags of dog poop. Burning barns. Who knows what we’ll light up next?”
“I know you’re joking, but he suspects someone of lighting that barn fire.” She paused at the corner and waved to Mr. Cranston, driving by in his land yacht.
“Really?” Ginny waved as well, and then turned wide green eyes on Melody. “Maybe it’s the same person who torched the poop? Maybe we have an arsonist right here in little old Bluelick?”
“Yes, but that possibility is also part of his frustration.” She stepped into the crosswalk and kept pace with Ginny as they headed toward the square. “He’s not very impressed with the services of the county sheriff’s office. They’re the ones in charge of investigating arsons, and he says they’re dragging their feet because the barn fire caused no injuries. In their minds, it’s minor, so we’re last on their priority list.”
“He’s dead-bang-on about the services we get from the county.” Ginny stepped closer to Melody to let a couple of hand-holding teenagers pass. “The sheriff’s department never comes out here. They patrol once in a blue moon. Our fine mayor renews the contract every year, at ever-increasing costs, which means my taxes keep going up, even though their response times and follow-up continue to suck. At what we’re paying now, we ought to be able to fund our own small but dedicated Bluelick Police Department. But will Mayor Buchanan consider the proposal? Noooo.”
“Why not, if it’s a better, less expensive option?”
Ginny shrugged. “If you ask me, he’s been too busy with his personal life to give anything else much attention. I get the impression divorce number two was a knock-down-drag-out.”
“He kind of had it coming, don’t you think?” She rolled her eyes heavenward, but a canopy of late-blooming magnolias blocked her view. “When a man files for divorce and moves his twenty-three-year-old cocktail-waitress girlfriend down from Rabbit Hash, he’s got to know things are going to get ugly.”
“No argument.” Ginny lowered her voice a notch as a young couple walked by pushing a stroller. “But Monica took ugly to a whole new level.”
Melody shooed a memory of last night’s broken condom out of her head and focused on what her friend had said. Trust Ginny to have the story. “What did you hear?”
“She came into the salon for a trim and root touch-up a couple months ago while they were in the thick of it. She’d had at least three martinis beforehand, and was feeling chatty. Said stuff about how she wouldn’t settle for a penny less than a quarter million dollars a year for the rest of her natural life, and her payment had better arrive promptly on the first of every month, or he’d wish he never met her. She took him to the cleaners.”
Another couple with a baby approached. Jeez, is there something in the water? This time the little one stared out at the world from a carrier strapped to her father’s chest. She smiled at the cooing infant, and said to Ginny, “You can’t put too much stock in the words of a tipsy, angry, soon-to-be ex-wife. Monica wasn’t a nice woman on her best day.”
“I know. And I felt the same way about what she said. I hear a lot of things while cutting people’s hair…especially from mad-as-hell ex-wives and pissed-off girlfriends. I take ninety-nine percent of the stories with a huge grain of salt. But Monica sounded serious about the money. If that really is her settlement, being divorced from Tom Buchanan pays a lot better than I ever imagined.”
Melody stopped at the corner and leaned against a wrought iron lamppost. “I don’t care how much it pays. It’s not a job you’d be interested in.”
Ginny shuddered. “Absolutely not.”
“Tom Buchanan does have a job you should consider.”
“I’m not interested in working for him. Come on.”
“I mean his job.” She followed Ginny to the crosswalk. “You should run for mayor.”
“Me?” Ginny glanced over at her as they crossed to Magnolia Street. “Are you stoned? I don’t know anything about being a mayor.”
“You know Bluelick ought to have better law enforcement than we get from the county, and you have a solution in mind. What’s the problem? Are you chicken?”
Ginny stopped and folded her arms over her chest. “You’re playing the chicken card? Really? The woman who’s too chicken to call a man she had amazing sex with and ask him if he wants to go on a date for fear of appearing, and I quote, ‘slutty’?”
Ouch. Score a point for redhead. “Okaaay. If I call Josh and ask him out, will you at least do the research on what it takes to run for mayor?”
“You’ve got a deal, slut.”
…
“Would you want to go out Friday? With me?”
Josh held off on answering because two firefighters hauling burned-out trash bins back to their home behind the hardware store caught his eye. “No,” he shouted.
“No? Um, fine. That’s fine. You don’t have to yell, by the way. There’s nothing wrong with my hearing.”
What? He shook his head to clear it, and gestured to Rusty to leave the bins alone. “Sorry, I wasn’t talking to you. We just put out fires in the Dumpsters behind the hardware store and my firefighter was helpfully rolling the burned-out messes back to the building. I yelled ‘no’ because I want the sheriff’s department to come collect evidence first.”
“Oh. Like, dust them for prints?”
The sound of her soft Southern drawl did great things for his mood—a mood that had been foul all week. He blamed Bluelick itself for his irritability, because when he’d left her house Saturday night he’d taken the “see you around” strategy, and counted on the small town to ensure one blasted thing—that he would, in fact, see her around. But no. Not jogging at lunch. Not at the market after work. Not loitering on her front porch like the time he’d taken the scenic way home from the station and driven past her house. This shouldn’t have bothered him, because he could do casual as well as the next guy. Yet his thoughts drifted to her constantly, and he’d been perilously close to calling or texting her in an uncharacteristically compulsive, not-so-casual way.
“Fingerprints wouldn’t prove much, since everybody in town could have touched them at some point. But if they find traces of accelerant in the Dumpsters, and it turns out to be the same accelerant used in the barn fire, then we have a decent probability the same person set the fires.” He looked down at his watch, surprised to see the time closing in on 6:00 p.m., and the end of his shift. Melody was likely still at the office, putting the finishing touches on her Monday. He had a fleeting idea of asking her to dinner, because a spur-of-the-moment invitation qualified as casual, but he quickly dismissed the notion. God only knew how long he’d be stuck here, babysitting Dumpsters while waiting for the sheriff.
“I didn’t know they’d confirmed the cause of the barn fire.”
“They haven’t.” Even he heard the frustration in his voice. For all he knew, the samples he’d provided from the burned-out barn were still sitting in some evidence locker, gathering dust.
“You know who owns the hardware store, don’t you?”
“Yeah. Tom Buchanan.” Josh watched a silver Mercedes S-Class pull into the parking lot. “He just arrived. I better go. I’ll call you later, but yes to Friday.”
He shoved his phone into his pocket and headed over to Rusty. “Did you call this in to the sheriff?” Rusty had been on the way in for his shift when he’d spotted the burning bins and called the station.
He pushed his ball cap back and sc
ratched his forehead. “For a Dumpster fire? No. Why would I?”
Josh ignored the question. “Call it in. Someone set this.”
“Oh, come on, Chief.” Rusty shot a grin at the small group of bystanders. “The sheriff will laugh his ass off if we call this in. Somebody came back here for a smoke, flicked the butt into a Dumpster full of cardboard and paper and what have you, and whoosh…accidentally lit the things up. End of story.”
“One cigarette started fires in two Dumpsters? Find me that cigarette butt, because it’s fucking magic.”
A few people chucked, and Rusty colored. “The fire jumped from one Dumpster to the other.”
Josh shook his head. “No. The degree of burning in each bin suggests two points of origin and two contemporaneously ignited fires.” He turned away to intercept Buchanan, and yelled over his shoulder, “Call the sheriff.”
“Chief?” Buchanan rushed up, needlessly smoothing his gelled-in-place hair. “Why are we calling the sheriff?”
Josh looked at the man who’d hired him. His first impression hadn’t changed. Fifty going on thirty, stylish and self-absorbed. Mayor Buchanan was a slick, small-scale operator, but with a genuine soft spot for his hometown. “Because someone deliberately set fire to these Dumpsters, and I’d like them to do their job and collect evidence to prove it.”
Buchanan frowned. “It’s just a couple of Dumpsters, Chief, most likely lit by kids being careless or mischievous. No need to make a federal case of it.”
Right. That would be Buchanan’s opinion, given that the kid responsible was probably his own. “Hey, Tom, it’s your hardware store and they’re your Dumpsters, so if we find the kids who set the fires and you don’t want to press charges, that’s your business. But prosecutors don’t need you to bring the felony charges.”
Light Her Fire Page 12
