Just a whole lot of Nebraska filled with farmland sprinkled with farmhouses, or ranchland with ranch houses and the occasional town that wouldn’t ever get uppity enough to consider declaring itself a city.
That place was where city cops went after a bad case that twisted their shit in a way they couldn’t face even the possibility of another one.
Or where metro cops went to lose their minds.
Of tedium.
There were a few drunks who did stupid shit because they were drunk. There were some kids who did stupid shit because they were kids. There were whisperings of domestic violence or child abuse that not a soul would report because “that doesn’t happen here,” but if it got out of hand, the concerned parties went to their pastor, not their sheriff.
There was pot.
That was it.
The last death that was suspect ended up being a suicide, and that was twenty-three years ago.
And the only criminal element there was a man who had a crew who operated a meth lab that Hix couldn’t find any legal reason to raid. Not to mention the former sheriff had had a good-ol’-boy arrangement with him that he could make his shit in their county, but he couldn’t sell it in their county.
An arrangement that criminal held true to, to that day.
Reason one why Hix couldn’t find a legal excuse to raid his lab.
And when that sheriff retired two years into Hix and Hope moving back, and Hope didn’t let up on pushing him to run, he’d run for sheriff unopposed, thus won.
He’d been opposed the last election. A deputy from the next county over moved in and tried to move in on Hix.
Hix had taken ninety-eight percent of the vote.
This was because McCook County didn’t like change. The last sheriff had held his post for thirty-three years. He’d endorsed Hix his first election, when he didn’t need to, and his second one, when he only kind of did.
And Hix might have been born and raised a Hoosier, but Hope was Cornhusker to the bone, even if she’d finished fucking up her degree (thus not graduating) at Purdue (her third and last hope).
Nebraskans just played it that way if your momma pushed you out on their soil, but definitely if both your parents, and all their parents, hit Lincoln for their higher education.
And Hope’s kin had, and so had she, the first try.
But when Hix was grown enough to quit wanting to be a superhero, then a fighter pilot, after which he thought he’d settle for an astronaut, he got serious.
This was precisely at that time when he was eleven years old, sitting in that parking lot in the car with his mom, and that gaunt, jittery man had knocked on the window.
She’d gone all funny, telling him to lock his door, locking her own just in time as the guy went for the handle, and she got them away with the man shouting after them.
He’d never forget how pale her face was or how tight she held on to the steering wheel as she drove them home, saying repeatedly it was all right. She’d only fallen apart behind her bedroom door with his dad after his dad got home, and she did it not knowing Hix sat outside, listening.
After that, all Hix had ever wanted to do was be a cop.
It wasn’t about making a difference. It wasn’t about righting wrongs.
It was about finding bad guys and making them pay for forcing women, or anyone, to be that damned scared.
But now, Sheriff of McCook County, Nebraska, he didn’t do dick.
If his deputies threw a drunk in the tank, he dried out and they let him go. He screwed up and got behind a wheel, Hix sat in a courtroom months later while their county judge gave him or her a lecture in responsibility and a slap on the wrist, even if that lecture was repeated . . . repeatedly.
This being because that judge was always related one way or another to the drunk.
It just wouldn’t do to make Thanksgiving uncomfortable.
Forget about it with the kids messing around. They were all far more scared of their parents than Hix and his deputies.
Then again, it wasn’t about kids in his county driving new cars, having the latest smartphone, wearing designer clothes and looking to score ecstasy or Rohypnol to better enjoy their night on the town.
If they got in trouble, they might not be home to help work the fields.
So they’d get laid out by Dad, or Mom, in a way that Hix never saw them again unless it was at a school event where they would mind their manners, all “yes, sir,” and “no, ma’am,” and he’d see them open their date’s door so she could get in the car.
He understood it was unhinged that it seemed like he missed crime.
But it wasn’t that.
He missed feeling relevant.
He was forty-two years old but he felt like an ole timer with nothing better to do than flip the sign on the door so it didn’t say Open. It said, Gone fishin’.
There were a good many places to fish in Indiana, and if you wanted to make a thing of it, you’d go up to Wisconsin and get the really good shit.
Hix hated fishing.
He didn’t share that in those parts, or the fact he wasn’t a big fan of hunting either.
He watched his son play football. The school year wore on, he’d watch his son at first base for the school’s baseball team.
He also watched his daughter play volleyball then take a break before soccer season hit.
And his baby he watched dance.
Other than that, now that he no longer had a wife and only had his family every other week, he sat at his desk and listened to his deputies ask him how to deal with Mrs. Schmidt accusing her neighbor, Mr. Christenson, of stealing the tomatoes out of her garden. He worked out at the gym. He hung with his boys at the Outpost to catch a game or three. And he watched a shit ton of TV.
And last Saturday he’d gone to the Dew Drop out on Country Road 65, and he’d listened to Greta sing.
Between sets, after he bought her a drink, they’d chatted.
After she was done, he’d taken her home.
And after that, he’d made love to her.
He hadn’t fucked her.
He’d made love to her.
It started off differently, hot, heavy, wet, desperate.
Then for some reason, it had changed.
No, not for some reason.
He knew the reason.
He’d nipped her ear with his teeth and she’d turned her head, dislodging his mouth, and in the light of the moon, he’d seen her face.
She’d looked turned on. It was hot and he got off on the fact he made her look that way.
But she’d also been smiling.
She liked what he’d done, how it made her feel, all he’d done and how it felt.
But she also just liked him.
And he’d liked that.
He hadn’t had a woman since Hope had told him she wanted him to leave, and when he argued that she was making a massive mistake, for her, their kids, their family, him, them, and she didn’t let up, he’d left. Through a year’s separation, the whole time he thought he’d get her back and he wasn’t going to screw that chance any way he could.
But even if it had only been his hand and a lot of good memories he could make even better in his head, with Greta, no matter how long it had been since he’d been inside a woman, he’d taken it slow. He’d taken his time. And he took them both where he’d been with only one woman in his life.
His wife.
And it had been better than it had ever been with Hope.
Far better.
Beyond anything he knew could happen.
He knew why too.
Because Greta with the great voice, great hair, beautiful face and ample curves knew what she liked too.
But what she liked wasn’t about getting what she wanted.
It was about giving.
And Hix had never had that. Not like that. Not unadulterated. Pure. It being about her getting off on giving to him even as he got off giving to her.
Not once in his marriage. N
ot once in any relationship.
He gave.
He didn’t get.
Except from his kids and they gave him everything he needed by simply breathing.
He was down with that too. He loved his wife and he was the kind of man that thought that was his job, to pull out all the stops to give his wife what she needed, what she wanted, what made her happy.
He knew no other way mostly because he’d have it no other way.
Until he had it another way.
“Boss?”
When Bets called him, Hix realized he was standing just inside the door not moving.
Shit.
He moved to the swinging half door and swung through it, and as usual with Bets, dealing with her the only way she forced him with her crap to deal with her.
He held her eyes only as long as was necessary to say, “Mornin’.”
He walked down the center aisle between the desks as she replied, “Mornin’. Have a good weekend?”
He walked right past her, muttering, “Yup.”
And he had, for the first time in about a year and three weeks.
Or at least he’d had a good Saturday night.
Until he’d screwed it up.
He went to his office, then to his desk, tossed his phone on it and rounded it, hitting the button to boot up his computer.
His desk was at the side of the room, his back to the wall beyond which were the cells.
He did this because he didn’t want his desk facing the window. It would imply to his deputies he was keeping an eye on them. He also didn’t want his back to the window, not because he didn’t want his back to the door, that window was bulletproof too. Because he didn’t want his deputies to see his computer screen or watch him when he wasn’t aware.
So to the side it was. They had their privacy of a sort, as did he.
He was standing behind the desk, about to sit his ass in his chair, when Bets’s voice came from the door directly opposite him.
“Heard you hit the Dew Drop.”
Another thing he didn’t like about small towns in not-very-populated counties.
Without much else to do, everyone got up in everyone else’s business.
And without much else to focus on, everyone’s business was easy access.
But with him, for some reason, even before he became sheriff, everyone thought he was their business. Him and Hope and their kids.
It was worse that it was Bets hitting his door first thing on a Monday morning sharing this.
Shit.
Here we go, he thought.
She walked in and Hix beat back a sigh.
“I’ve been there a couple of times. It’s pretty cool,” she noted.
He’d been there only once before last Saturday, years before, on a night out with Hope.
And Bets was right. The Dew Drop was cool. Out in the middle of nowhere, plenty of parking because everything around it was a field, the building looked like a shack.
This was because, back in the day it was a shack where the few African Americans in McCook County and its surrounding ones, and the few other people who inhabited them who knew cool, could go to listen to jazz or blues played and sung by traveling artists who’d never miss the chance to do their thing in hopes of making their names.
But also, they’d never miss the chance to give the management of the Dew Drop an opportunity to earn a cover charge.
There were a number of people in McCook County who had the respect of its citizens.
But there were only a handful who had the respect shown Gemini Jones.
The man was the fourth generation in his family to own and manage that shack.
And it might have been a shack back in the day, but now, you walked in, you got classy pink and blue lighting, plush semi-circle booths, tables in front of the small, intimate stage with tiny burgundy-shade covered lamps and long rosy-pink tablecloths on them, drinks served in stemmed glassware or heavy lowballs set on thick marine-blue cocktail napkins. Beer was served draft only. And the second you sat down, a small bowl of warmed almonds and cashews was set on the table in front of you.
If that club was in any city in any country in the Western world, it’d be cool as hell and popular to boot.
Instead, it was in the middle of nowhere in Nebraska, and it was cool as hell. But clientele was thin on the ground, so even though it was popular as best it could be, the crowd was only healthy, not what that club deserved—heaving.
“Yup, it’s cool,” Hix agreed, not sitting, just looking into Bets’s eyes.
She made a movement with her body that, if she’d allowed its fullness, would have had her drawing the toe of her boot across the floor.
Hix sighed again.
Bets spoke.
“Hear they have a new singer.”
Okay, it wasn’t even eight in the morning and he was having a bad day.
But even if he wasn’t, this shit had to end.
That shit being Bets having a crush on him.
She’d had it before his wife divorced him. But the minute she’d heard Hope had kicked him out, it went into overdrive.
Even before, she wasn’t good at hiding it. When she’d convinced herself she had a shot, she didn’t bother.
She got razzed about it by his two male deputies—one in an affable way, one in an asshole way—and she was so deep in the throes of the possibility of something that was impossible, it bounced right off her.
His other female deputy, Donna, didn’t think much of it.
She didn’t razz. She threw glares, then took Bets aside and had chats, and when that didn’t work, she took every opportunity presented her to share however she could that Bets was doing the sisterhood in law enforcement no favors.
Hix had been hoping that Donna, a veteran to Bets’s mostly rookie, would get through. And in the meantime, he made things very clear in every way he could without being an asshole.
That wasn’t working.
And now Bets knew he’d gotten himself some from Greta, which meant others knew as well, which didn’t make him happy.
But her walking into his office first thing on a Monday morning to bring it up in her irritating way made him less so.
All of this pushed him to declare, “Right, Deputy, we need to get this straight.”
He watched her body go still as her focus on him went acute.
“Been tryin’ to make things clear in a way that wouldn’t cause harm,” he shared. “Since you’re not getting that message, I’m afraid I’m gonna need to be more direct.”
“Hix—” she started, beginning to look panicked.
“Right now, I’m Sheriff,” he interrupted her.
Her eyes got wide and he watched her swallow.
He knew why, all of the reasons.
One of them being the fact that he was the sheriff, so he didn’t feel the need to force that down his deputies’ throats. They called him Hix. He called them by their first names. Unless it was an official situation where they needed to communicate they had their shit tight to the citizens they served, that was the way it was. They were a team. He was their leader. They knew that and didn’t need reminders.
Until now.
He kept at her.
“Three things are happening here that make the one thing you want to happen something that is not ever gonna happen.”
He lifted a hand, finger pointed up, and he flicked it out before dropping his hand and continuing.
“One, you’re twenty-seven years old. You’re closer to my son’s age than mine. I’ve lived that part of my life. Had the wife. The kids. The house. Don’t know where my change in circumstances is gonna take me, I just know it’s not gonna take me back there. I’ve done that. What’s next will not be that. Not settin’ up house again to make another family. You got that ahead of you, and if that’s what you want in life, you gotta find a man who’s up to giving it to you.”
“I—”
He spoke over her, lifting his hand again with his fore
and middle fingers pressed together and up, and he flicked it out before dropping it.
“Two, and this is more important, Bets, so listen clear to this. I’m your boss. I’m this county’s sheriff. You’re my deputy. That shit is not gonna happen.”
“If—”
He did the finger thing, indicating three, and again talked right over her.
“Three, mean no offense, none at all, but even if you weren’t my deputy, I wouldn’t go there. As I said, you’re too young. There are men who’re into swimmin’ in a pool they should have vacated a decade before, but that man is not me. Regardless, again, no offense, you just aren’t my type.”
And she was not, even though she was a pretty woman. Dark-blonde hair. Nice brown eyes. Had a perky look that reminded him of an ex-cheerleader.
She was not a perky woman. She could be a badass when the situation warranted, which was something he liked about her. She was diligent and detailed, something else he liked. She did her job, was usually in a good mood and didn’t bring shit into the department, if she ever had any in her life. But he didn’t know if she did because she didn’t bring it in.
She could have had the respect of her colleagues, if she wasn’t panting after her boss, this being the only shit she brought into the department.
But she was never perky.
And right then, she was less so when her eyes got squinty and her face got mean.
This didn’t surprise him. She could get that way and it came easy.
Jesus.
Bets.
“So your type is an old, fat, washed-up, part-time lounge singer and most-time hair dresser?” she asked snidely.
Greta, fat?
He nearly busted out laughing.
He didn’t.
He thought about the fact he didn’t know Greta did hair.
Not to mention the fact that Bets had been annoying him.
Now she’d pissed him off.
“What you need to get is the fact that what I’m into is not your concern,” he returned curtly.
She shifted her shoulders in a defensive way, losing the hold she had on his eyes and muttering, “Not sure why you’re sayin’ this shit to me, Sheriff.”