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  “What’s the ass wipe you like?”

  “Language, Mark!”

  He laughed, grabbing the package he recognized. “Does this go under the cart, too?”

  “Yes, it does. Followed by your damn head.”

  His mother had held out well with age, as hard as she had to work. She was attractive in that naturally preserved way that confident, independent women had. Her medium-brown hair was greying so she usually lightened it to hide that part of age. But even the lines at the side of her mouth, the crinkle next to her eyes, and the freckles she’d had her whole life made her beautiful. She was lovely, and had been mistaken as his sister once before. It was Tiny, actually. Fritter had known the prick wanted to hit on her and he put the kibosh on that right away.

  No, his mother was sacred and off limits. Even if she’d been a biker’s fuck buddy at one time. None of his friends were going to be screwing his mom, there was no fucking way.

  “What about condoms, Ma? You need any of those?”

  “You are in fine form today, you little shit. You must have gotten laid last night, that’s why you stayed out all night without lettin’ me know.”

  “You know me, Ma. I got a service to provide to sad, lonely women.”

  “You could at least knock one up so I could see a grandbaby before I die.”

  “I ain’t knocking up some sweetbutt, Ma. It’s hard enough keeping them from getting jealous.”

  “You ain’t that much of a catch, son.” She frowned at the label of a stick of deodorant. “They’re only competing with each other, they could give a shit about you, just remember that.”

  “Yeah, I know.” She set the deodorant down, then picked up another one to read. “What are you looking for on deodorant?”

  “Aluminum.” With a sigh she put that one back, too. “They all got fuckin’ aluminum in them.” When she coughed he winced.

  “So what?”

  “So, it’s giving people cancer. You should read something every now and then.”

  “There’s articles in Hustler.”

  “You don’t even read those.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You need any shaving cream?” She hated the scruff on his chin and neck, but he couldn’t be bothered to worry about it. He hated the tight, itchy feeling after shaving.

  “No, I’m good.”

  They turned down the cleaning aisle next for toilet bowl cleanser. After a tour through frozen foods it was checkout time. The manager came to talk to his Ma personally and Fritter liked that Markham was showing the respect his Ma deserved.

  Assuming he wasn’t hitting on her, of course. Prick.

  As they loaded the groceries into his Ma’s pickup truck, he couldn’t help but notice the door to the cafe beside the grocery store open. It was because Sheriff Downey was walking out, being followed by a dude who was talking while she listened, laughing and nodding. Fritter’d been handing his mother a grocery bag, and when she took it from him it startled him. Without looking at his mother he was stalking towards Sharon, the weirdest buzzing in his head.

  She saw him and her smile faded, then her eyes widened in alarm. “Fritter?”

  He stopped right in front of her, likely too close but he couldn’t help it. “Who the fuck’s this?” He kept his voice low.

  She shot a look of alarm to her dinner companion. “I beg your pardon?”

  She was getting pissed, and that set him off, too. “Who the fuck’s this? Little young, even for you, ain’t he?”

  As her mouth dropped open and the guy with her made a sound of protest his jealousy quickly turned to confusion. Really looking at the guy now, up close like this, he second-guessed the long hair, jeans and T-shirt. The kid was barely shaving. Nah, she couldn’t be.

  “Are you fucking insane?” she hissed, stepping away.

  “Who is he?”

  She took the kid by the arm and started walking away.

  “Who is that, Sharon?”

  “Dude, she’s my mom,” the kid shot back, sounding a proper amount of pissed off.

  That stopped him in his tracks. “Wait, you have a kid?”

  She spun on him, ready to let him have it and he had to admit he was immediately a bit turned on. Then she held her tongue, eyes flashing to the kid. “Brayden, wait in the car.”

  “You sure?”

  Fritter might have laughed if he didn’t know this was her kid. The scrawny shit looked ready to kick his ass; if he’d been a suitor Fritter would have dropped him for that. Her son acting like her protector had him wanting to smile. Which he didn’t do, because now he felt stupid.

  “I got this, go wait in the car.” Sharon clearly didn’t appreciate his concerns.

  With another scan the kid turned to the blue Focus hatchback at the curb and took his time getting in the driver’s seat. Once the door was shut Fritter turned his attention back to the Sheriff.

  Shit, she looked good. She had on cut-off jeans and a distressed T-shirt with a nice low V-neck. Her hair was in a low ponytail, the end pulled over her shoulder.

  He was hard, just from jeans and a T-shirt.

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?” Her eyes got all squinty when she was pissed, but she was watching the volume. “He’s even working at the Grainger’s garage. Are you that out of touch?”

  Fritter had to blink. He knew Jolene had hired a kid to do detailing because she hated that part of the business, but no one mentioned that it was Downey’s kid. But whatever, not the issue here. “I’m sorry. I just saw him and ...”

  “And what? What happened inside your head that you thought you could walk up to me and call me out? My kid or any other guy?”

  She was right, of course.

  “I just ... I guess I got jealous,” he said it softly, like it was a swear word and the teacher might overhear.

  “Jealous? You got jealous?” That amused her, and he felt a bit of anger. “We had an arrangement, and it worked. You tried to change it, you tried to make me talk about my job. And then you called me an old lady.”

  His eyes got wide. “I never called you my old lady.” Fuck, had he? He couldn’t remember. Shit. His heart was racing.

  “You implied I was old,” she said through gritted teeth, and that settled his heart.

  “Thank fuck.”

  “The point, Fritter, is that there’s nothing to be jealous of anyway. Remember?”

  His head was whirling, trying to remember what he’d done to piss her off in that motel room however many weeks ago it was. “I was expressing my concern that the club could affect your chances in the election.”

  “And we don’t talk about those things, remember? For example, I didn’t bring up the Sachettis. Or the Castillos. And I won’t bring up the twenty-seven fucking homicides that the FBI is now investigating in my county.”

  That made him pause. “FBI?”

  As pissed as she was, she paled just two degrees. “Fuck. Forget I said that.”

  “It’s forgotten. Look, I’m sorry, okay? I just don’t want to cost you your job.” Not him, the club. Idiot. “The club, that is. We don’t want to hurt your chances.”

  “Then don’t come barreling down on me on fucking Main Street like a jealous boyfriend.”

  He put his hands on his hips, knowing this is where he should walk away. But he’d liked that last night they’d spent together—before the fighting. He’d liked seeing her let her hair down, laughing with him and talking about whatever. It made him wish she didn’t dart out of the room before the condom was off every time before that.

  Like a girlfriend, come to think of it. Fuck, he was an idiot.

  Fritter nodded, running a hand over his head. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Never do it again. I just ... I got jealous. You’re right.”

  For a second—a split second—her face softened a little. Then she slammed the mask back in place. “Jealous of someone else hanging around with me? That’s fucking rich. Tell me right now you haven’t been balls deep at the clubh
ouse every single night.”

  She had him dead to rights and she knew it. She didn’t wait for his answer, she just turned for the car and he spun on his heel to stalk back to his Ma’s pick-up. She was waiting, leaning on the front bumper, feet still up on the curb, watching him with intense interest.

  “Where we gotta go next, Ma? Bakery?” He held his hand out for the keys.

  With her jaw out to the side she studied him with shrewd, squinted eyes. The effect was somewhat ruined by another small coughing fit.

  “What? What are you looking at me like that for?” He ignored the coughing.

  “Sheriff Downey?”

  Snatching the keys away, he groaned. “Don’t start, Ma.”

  “The club could kick you out for that, son. That or worse.”

  “Ma, get in the truck.”

  “And she could lose her job if the wrong people found out.”

  “Ma?” He yanked the driver’s door open, then jerked his head across the cab when she didn’t move. “The bakery, Ma. Before they close?”

  She straightened up and faced him but didn’t move any closer to the passenger side. “You have to stay away from her. For both your sakes.”

  Fritter closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead. The fucking women in his life, honest to Christ. Not that Downey was in his life, obviously.

  Or was she? Or did he just want her to be?

  Shit. Fuck.

  “We gotta get to the bakery before that whole wheat you like is gone, Ma,” he tried again, gently.

  “Okay,” she relented, finally circling around to her side. “But remember what I said. Don’t fuck up her life.”

  Fritter settled behind the wheel and the door squeaked as he pulled it shut in time with his mother doing the same on the passenger side. “I don’t intend on fucking up her life, Ma.”

  “Good,” she replied, sniffing as a sign of judgment. “I like that woman. More than I like you some days.”

  He grinned as he turned the key and the Chev’s motor coughed and turned over. “You love me, more than life itself.”

  She cackled at that, which was broken off with more coughing. “I said some days I don’t like you. I’ll always love you, son.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Jesus, fuck, Sharon.”

  She opened her eyes with a slow smile, catching her breath as a hundred and ninety pounds of man climbed off of her, allowing the cold air from the hotel’s air conditioning unit to hit her damp skin.

  She sat up, pulling the cotton sheet over herself, watching Terrance Hogan walk to the washroom buck naked to get rid of the condom.

  It had been good. If not for Fritter fucking Horton it might have been the best sex she’d had in years. She settled into the down pillows, closing her eyes and rubbing her temples. She shouldn’t have been thinking of him at that moment but there she was; an example of extreme stupidity.

  What it was that brought her here, to Hogan’s hotel room in the best part of Markham, she wasn’t entirely sure. She hated to think it had been Fritter running her down on Main Street, accusing her of sleeping with a sixteen year old.

  Okay, so she knew that had been it. His reaction to that whole situation confused the fuck out of her, and she was pissed that it pleased her to see him jealous. So here she now was, fulfilling the very thing that would legitimately make him jealous.

  An hour ago she’d literally walked up to this hotel room’s door, knocked on it, and smiled at Agent Hogan as he’d answered, completely shocked to see her but obviously glad. And then she’d jumped him.

  No impulse control. At least, not when it came to sex.

  Hogan returned, sliding between the sheets next to her with a grunt and settling on his back, mirroring her position. After a deep sigh he said, “Well, that was unexpected. But appreciated.”

  She turned her head to him, smiling. “Sorry. I attacked you.”

  His laugh was instant and authentic. “Anytime. Really.”

  “Things have been ... heavy lately.”

  He nodded. “I heard about the radio ads.”

  Archie Turnbull’s friends had bought him a radio ad campaign calling her out on the way she let “known criminals” skate by, turning Markham into a “one-percenter playground.” She was waiting to get the call that Turnbull had been found with his throat cut, and she wouldn’t even bother opening an investigation.

  “Yeah, those were a shock.”

  “They’re bordering on slanderous. You should get yourself a lawyer.”

  In her mind she’d already lost the campaign, but she didn’t see herself losing her job. It was as though she was waiting for some miracle to come along, like Archie Turnbull getting hit by a speeding semi, which would result in her keeping her position. Denial, maybe.

  “Can’t afford a lawyer. I’m just a country sheriff,” she mused up at the ceiling, feeling how funny that was.

  “He has no idea what job he’s applying for, does he?”

  She shook her head. “Nope.”

  “If you lose, and I’m hoping you don’t, I promise to ride his ass on every drug charge that crops up in Markham.”

  She turned to her side, smiling. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  “It kinda pisses me off to see you already defeated, though.” He rolled up to one arm, too.

  “We had that public debate and ... it wasn’t like everyone was booing and hissing every time I spoke. But when he did, they were all nodding along, like they agreed with all his bullshit, even when he was calling me out on the club.” She frowned. “Is it bad that I let them handle so much shit on their own?”

  She never discussed this with anyone, but something about Hogan assured her he wasn’t a by-the-book stickler.

  “Not at all. We all know the funding that a sheriff’s office in a county this size receives. If they take care of their own bad guys you’re free to deal with the stuff you can actually deal with.” Hogan sighed, running his hand up and down her arm. That was nice. “You should be working on a police force. You’d be chief before you were fifty-five.”

  Sharon had to laugh. “I did the municipal PD. I was traffic. They wouldn’t put me anywhere else.”

  “They were stupid. Your department really respects you.”

  Now her eyes were starting to sting. “They’re a really good group.”

  “Shit, don’t get upset.”

  She laughed and swiped at her eyes roughly. “Sorry. But that’s my worry. The town and my officers under that idiot.”

  “They’ll manage, I’m sure. What will you do see yourself doing if you’re not sheriff? I prefer to think of you keeping that title, though.”

  She shrugged. “I honestly have no idea.”

  He moved closer, face serious. “Then you gotta fight. I’m detecting a bit of giving up from you, Sharon.”

  That made her set her jaw and she pulled away, sitting up and bending her knees. She wrapped her arms around her legs.

  “Not trying to piss you off. My point is that it’s out of character.”

  “I know,” she replied, trying not to be pissed off.

  “You’re good at this. That’s all.” There was a loud flapping as he threw the covers back and got out of bed.

  “I know. Shit, I’m sorry. I don’t respond well to people calling me out on shit.”

  He half-turned, face cracking into a smile. “I know. I’m just taking a piss, Sharon.”

  That made her bark out an unexpected laugh as he shut himself in the bathroom.

  Hogan was right, of course. The poor me routine would get old fast, and as much as she appreciated Brayden taking it on himself to set up social media campaigns for her, she needed to do more. She still thought that her training was her biggest asset, along with experience. She pushed that as much as she could. Perhaps it was time to start paying for advertising.

  With what, though? The only one offering to give her money was Jayce McClune and she didn’t think that was a good idea. Brochures paid to be inserted int
o the flyer run couldn’t really cost that much, could it? She had no idea.

  She was brought out of her number-guessing by her phone buzzing and bouncing across the nightstand. Leaning over with a groan she scooped it up and answered, trying to sound professional as she said, “Sheriff Downey.”

  “Sheriff? You available to help with something?”

  Deputy Sheriff Kerry Troy rarely asked for help. Something in his tone made her sit up, cold seeping into her stomach.

  “What? What is it?” Please, not more abused children. She couldn’t take more of that.

  “We got a call reporting gunshots. It was at Grainger’s Garage.”

  She took a moment to swallow, then got out of bed and went searching for the remnants of her outfit. “And are you there right now?”

  “Yeah, I am.” Jesus, he sounded totally out of it and confused. What the fuck could cause that?

  “Talk to me, Troy. What’s going on?” Success—she found underwear. Now her shorts.

  “We got ...” he swallowed, she actually heard it over the phone. “We got a body.”

  “Okay.” She wedged her phone between her cheek and shoulder, buttoning up the fly of her shorts and grabbing her bra next. “Just one? Who is it?” Her heart was racing. Fuck, please don’t let it be—

  “Mickey Grainger. He’s ... he’s fucking dead, Sharon. I don’t know what to do.”

  There was intense relief that it wasn’t Fritter. Still, her stomach did a sharp drop and she sat on the edge of the bed as her knees gave out. “You’re ... you’re sure?”

  “He’s beaten pretty bad. He was shot through the temple. Fuck ... what do I do?”

  “Start taping off the scene, process everything.”

  He didn’t reply.

  “Troy?”

  “He was a nice guy, Sharon. He fixed my bike.”

  She closed her eyes and breathed through her nose for a second, fighting back the prickle in her eyes. “I know. Shit.”

  “And it’s him, it’s totally him. He’s got that tattoo on the inside of his arm that says Jolene.”

  Fuck, Jolene. “Is Jolene there?”

  “No, someone will have to tell her.”

  “First thing’s first; start processing that scene. Did you call the coroner?”