He lets the little metal shield do his bidding to effortlessly launch into the business he has with me. “Can I see your license?"
“Which one?”
“Both fishing and drivers.”
Right. He needs to verify identity. I know better than to fish without a license, but it’s been eons—possibly ever—since I’ve been checked for it. Trying not to expel my sigh ofdiscontentment too loudly, I nod, reaching in the back pocket of my jeans. I hand over the folded piece of cardstock I’d obtained earlier at the bait shop as well as my driver’s license.
The man takes a moment to look them over. “Thanks,” he nods, seemingly satisfied until he shifts both documents to one hand and holds his other out to me. “And your salmon permit?”
My head snaps up to regard him. “What?”
“Your salmon permit,” he repeats, his tone dripping with notes ofduh. “Those are Chinooks.” He gestures at my catch.
“Yeah, I know.” I don’t hide my annoyance this time. “Since when do I need a permit for salmon?”
“Since the beginning of this season,” he answers with a tip of his head.
Never mind, he’s not hot; he’s arrogant. I try to mentally brush off his superiority and catalog when I last fished. Shit, this is definitely the first time this season. “So, wait a minute. I didn’t need one last season?—”
“That was last season.”
“What changed? No one told me I needed one this season.” Frank at the bait shop didn’t mention it.
“There was a lot of overfishing last year, putting the salmon population at risk. Both Tribal and county parks and wildlife had to reassess regulations.” He spouts off like some kind of wildlife officer bot.
“Look, I’m sorry, but no one told me.” The heart rate I’d spent the afternoon trying to quell ticks back up again. My nervous system does not need this kind of stress.
“I appreciate that, but it’s your job to do your research. Laws change frequently, but they’re always posted.”
Well, shit. I didn’t update myself on the current rules, but seriously?
He shakes his head as he reaches for his other back pocket, which likely holds his ticket book.
“Oh come on!” My protest bursts out unexpectedly, and a weight drops in my chest.
He looks up from what is most definitely a ticket book and cocks his head at me. He places his hands on his hips and narrows his eyes, a posture that screams,‘Are you seriously starting with me?’He gestures to the fish in my hand. “And…you’ve snatched up seven chinooks there on the hook. You don’t have a permit, and you’re over the limit.”
“There’s a new limit now too?”
He glares at me. “Were you planning to host a big fish fry tonight? Sorry to burst your bubble.”
“Like I would fry salmon,” I sneer.Heathen. “No, I plan to gorge myself like a raccoon on a pile of raw fish and come back tomorrow.”
“That attitude isn’t doing you any favors as far as a citation is concerned.” He shifts the bill of his hat, and I think I see his gaze behind his shades flit to my lips.
“What can I say? Being busted for stupid shit doesn’t put me in the best of moods.”
“Stupid shit? Excuse me?” He tips his chin upwards as his shoulders drop and I get the feeling he gets that a lot. Too bad.
“You’re supposed to serve and protect. But all I see is you swinging your dick around, acting like a wildlife Karen when I’m not doing any harm.”
His head dips back down at me. “Do I need to give you a lecture about how to preserve the ecosystems in this region? Because that’s also part of my job, and the amount of salmon you’re ripping out of this stream?—”
“Seriously, you do not need to talk to me about wildlife conservation. If you saw where I live and what I do for a living?—”
“Oh really? Enlighten me,” he fidgets with his ballcap again and takes half a step back like he’s surprised by his own comeback.
“I’m a vet tech,” I inform him.
