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He makes a face. “People do that?”
Officer Mendoza and I both laugh in unison.
“Oh, they do much worse, sir,” my P.O. replies.
“Okay, then, uh, carry on,” he says, slinking back into my office.
I take the cup and disappear behind the door, peeing into it and watching the label’s ink indicate the test was done correctly. None of the main drugs—THC, cocaine, methamphetamines—show up as hot. I put the lid on and seal it with the tape that already has my name and offender number on it.
Yeah, I know the drill.
I wash my hands and exit, handing her the sealed-up cup. She checks the cup, sees it’s negative, thanks me, and leaves.
With a deep breath, I walk into my office, unsure of what to expect from my sexy boss.
Eight
Lincoln
I thought about going back out to the main part of the pub but would rather have more alone time with Quinn. I’m honestly flabbergasted she listens to such graphic content in her books, and I think it’s fucking hot. I wonder if she likes that type of dirty talk in bed?
After a few minutes, she arrives in her office, looking sheepish but trying to smile.
“I’m very sorry ’bout that. If I’d have known y’all were also coming by, I would have just gone down there after work and made her stay late at her office.”
I put my hands in my pockets. “I wasn’t aware you were still on parole.”
“Uh, it’s probation, actually. Parole is for people who actually did prison time. But yes, I got three years and have one left. It’s really no big deal. Just the UAs are kinda insultin’. As if I’d ever do drugs.”
“I agree. Especially since drugs wasn’t what you got arrested for.”
Four years ago, Quinn got a job as a server in this brewery when it was just opening up. She proved to be friendly, business smart, and loyal, so she was promoted to assistant manager, and then eventually manager for the entire location. That was when we had just started the employee homebuyer program. She and her husband had been approved and bought their first home. It came out later that he was an abusive piece of filth and he was forcing her out. We’d sat down together, and I told her I would help her sell and get something else, but she had to promise to divorce him.
That did not go over well. I still feel somewhat responsible for the domestic violence charge she caught on that horrible day, but she later thanked me, saying the incentive of getting her own townhouse gave her the courage to leave him.
Thankfully, she got no jail time, but he did. Past domestic abuse calls, coupled with the final one that ended their marriage, landed him three strikes and five years. Unfortunately, he only served two-and-a-half and is now out.
Which reminds me.
“You haven’t heard from Garrett since he was released, have you?”
She shakes her head. “No, which surprises me, to be honest. I thought he’d be madder than an ol’ wet hen after he was released and come after me.”
I chuckle because her Southern metaphors never fail to amuse me. And the best part is that I don’t think she means to be funny. “Well, how’s the townhouse?”
“Still wonderful as ever. I love the area, it’s so quiet. Well, except Mr. and Mrs. Alderson next door. Boy, do those two fight like cats and dogs. You’d think at their age they’d get tired of that nonsense and just say ‘yes, sir’ or ‘yes, ma’am’ because they are too old for that mess of drama.”
I bite back a smile and say, “I agree. Have you asked them to stop?”
She sits down at her computer and shakes the mouse. “Nah, I just pound on the wall ’n tell ’em to knock it off. Usually works.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I stay quiet and watch her as she concentrates on something on the computer screen. Her long hair is twisted into a clip at the back of her head, and her brow furrowing in concentration as her small nose scrunches is cute.
She looks at me with her greenish-hazel eyes that remind me of the color of my new kitten’s.
“Were you able to look over the reports?” she asks, breaking the awkward silence.
I nod. “Yes, thank you. I better go.”
