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“I think he’s gonna take it. I don’t know. He’s being ornery lately.” Emma’s face grows irritated.
“Is that because his best friend from the Navy that he brought home is banging his little sister? Because that might do it,” I tease, knowing how protective Frank can be when it comes to her.
“Nah, he’s over that now. It’s something else.” She gives me a pointed stare.
“Nope.” I shake my head. “My days of being in love with your brother are over.”
“Good.” She beams at me. “I think it’s time you give Dean a chance.”
“Dean? Really?” He moved here a year ago and filled a much-needed spot at the veterinary clinic. I take my dog Teddy to him. He’s kind, and he’s handsome, but I already know there’s nothing between us. I’ve never felt any sort of chemistry or thought of him in that way. But maybe that was because I was blinded by my love for Bis… Frank.
“Why not?” She shrugs, but I know she’s up to something. Emma is always up to something.
CHAPTER 3
FRANK
“Heard you were offered the chief of police’s position by Alderman Reid,” shouts Tom as soon as Vincent and I step into the bar. At his greeting, I turn and grab on to the door handle, but Vincent stops me, and then half the crowd comes over to drag me to the bar. They hover around like I’m about to make a big announcement.
“You thinking about taking it?” Tom asks as he slides two mugs of beer in front of us.
“Not sure I have a choice.” I dump the contents of the mug down my throat and signal for Tom to pour me another.
“We’re a good set of people,” Pratt, a local, says in a hurt voice. The big burly rancher props his elbow up on the glossy bar top. “What’s wrong with being the chief of police here?”
“I don’t see you running for that job,” I point out.
“Friend, all I’ve ever used a weapon for is to shoot varmints on the farm. I’m not qualified to be toting around a pistol and arresting people. You, on the other hand, went to the Naval Academy, got some special awards for doing shit your parents can’t talk about, and probably know how to kill people eight different ways,” Pratt replies.
“Only eight? You’re seriously underestimating Frank here.” Vincent claps me on the shoulder.
Pratt tilts his head. “No one ever did explain how Biscuit became Frank.”
“It’s cuz his head is square.” Vincent holds his hands a few inches away from each of my ears, pretending to measure my supposed box-like head.
“I don’t see it.” Pratt’s perplexed.
“It’s better than Biscuit. How’d that come about?”
Pratt guffaws, and I heave a big sigh. I guess the story was bound to come out at some point. Pratt motions for Vincent to lean in.
“When this pup was a young’ un—”
“Pratt, you are two years older than me. Stop talking like I’m about to get my tombstone engraved.”
“When this pup was a young’ un,” Pratt continues as if I haven’t opened my mouth.
Vincent grins, enjoying this thoroughly. “Go on,” my faithless friend encourages.
“His ma was making cookies for a school function. This was before, when you could bring baked goods to school. Mrs. Charles is famous for her monster cookies.” Pratt stops and stares off into the distance as if remembering the taste of them. Mom did make some good-ass cookies.
“And?” Vincent prompts.
“And I got into a flour fight with Melody, and she said I looked like a biscuit. She said it for about two weeks straight, and after that, no one called me anything else.”
“Till you got to flight school.”
“That’s right.”
“I like Biscuit better.”
“Speaking of the devil,” drawls Pratt as the door to the bar opens, and Melody and Emma appear in the doorway. “Ladies, over here.” He waves his arm.
Even though I’m sitting down, the bar’s not so crowded that I don’t get to enjoy the sight of Melody strolling over in tight blue jeans. Her thighs look edible. Actually, all of her does. I drain another beer and turn back to Tom. “Maybe I should move to shots.”
Tom makes a face but fills two glasses with some top-shelf vodka. “Don't think the chief should be drinking so heavily.”
“I’m not the chief yet, Tom.”
“Yet, but you will be soon. Don’t want you to pick up any bad habits.”
Small towns. Love them and hate them. I down one shot and then the other.
“That was for your buddy,” Tom protests.
“Too late.” I throw it back and swivel back to face Melody.
“You,” she declares.
“Yeah. Me.” I give her an insolent once-over, taking in her round cheeks, lush hair, perky tits, wide hips, and luscious thighs. I could drink her down in one shot just like the vodka. She’d taste a thousand times better, and I’d be addicted immediately, like Tom suggested.
