Brooke: Does he know that?
Annette: Maybe. Not sure.
Brooke: Good. It's good to keep men guessing.
Brooke: But since I have you here, could we talk about a time share arrangement?
Annette: Was I not clear last weekend? I'll fucking end you if you touch him.
Brooke: Okay, all right, fine. It's not a big deal. I'll just shred the documents I prepared.
Brooke: We really did make a hunter out of you.
11
Bun Wash
n. A sugar syrup solution brushed onto yeasted buns on removal from the oven to impart a glaze or assist in the dusting of sugar.
Jackson
I steppedup to the counter at DiLorenzo's Diner and tucked my thumbs under my tactical belt. Before arriving in Talbott's Cove, where the sheriff's department sported tan uniforms right out of the seventies, I hadn't worn a tactical belt in years. Once I'd climbed a few ranks with the New York State Police, I traded in the uniform for suits, but muscle memory always took me back to my earliest days on the job.
Waving to the diner's namesake, Joe DiLorenzo, I turned down the radio clipped at my shoulder. "What's good today?" I called.
"Hiya, sheriff," Joe said. "It's all good. What? You think I'd serve you shabby chicken salad? This isn't New York."
This was our back-and-forth. I asked him about business, he made a playful jab at New York. If I was lucky, I got a side-eyed question about when I was heading back there. These locals, they didn't think I'd last.
"And thank god for that," I replied.
"I'll have your order up in a couple of minutes. Can I get you something cold to drink while you wait?" He glanced at the coffee pots and soda fountains behind him. "I've got a fresh batch of lemonade today. Some iced tea, too. What'll it be?"
"If it's no trouble, could you mix the tea and lemonade? Half and half?" I asked.
"Trouble?" he muttered. "What kinda joint would I be running if I couldn't mix a drink? You think that hack Harniczek is the only one in this town with a good pour? Please."
"I never doubted you." I stifled a laugh when Joe went on muttering about the price of an iced lemonade tea in New York. To his mind, everything outside the Cove was grossly overpriced.
Joe slid a plastic cup and straw across the counter before ducking back into the kitchen, still muttering. This time, he was fed up with taxes. I didn't disagree with him there. His absence gave me a moment of unexpected quiet. When I visited local establishments on non-official business—namely, lunch—I often found myself bombarded with town gossip, safety concerns, and random gripes.
Today was different. The diner's lunch counter was mostly empty and the handful of patrons seated in booths were busy with their food and newspapers. They paid little attention to me beyond a quick nod or wave, and that seemed like a milestone of sorts. Rather than peppering me with questions to ensure I was tending to the town's concerns, they ignored me. Either they were too famished to leave their turkey club sandwiches or they trusted me to do the job.
"If you don't get your fine ass to that bookstore, I'm gonna fuck you up."
Alarmed, I pivoted in search of the low, smoky voice and found Brooke Markham. She stood behind me, hipshot, arms crossed over her chest, and a glare sharp enough to cut glass. I blinked, quickly taking in her impossibly tight pants that cut off below the knee and the baggy tank top that demanded I buy her brunch.
"I beg your pardon, ma'am?"
"Get your ass to the bookstore," Brooke said, biting out each word. "It's not complicated, dude. Go to her. I don't care what bullshit she fed you. She's lying. She wants to see you." She uncrossed her arms and waved them at me. "Also, she's a terrible liar. I'm assuming you're at least minimally competent, which means I'm also assuming you're capable of recognizing when Angel Cakes Cortassi lies her ass off."
"I'm sorry, ma'am," I started, but Brooke was quick to interrupt.
"Save yourma'amfor someone who appreciates that shit," she snapped. "Perhaps the bookstore."
It was my turn to cross my arms and level the glares. "The bookstoreisn't a fan of it either," I replied.
"The bookstore doesn't know what she's talking about," Brooke said, stepping into my space. "I know the bookstore is throttling your bandwidth. The bookstore thinks she needs time to sort through some issues." Her nostrils flared as she blew out an impatient breath. "The bookstore needs a push in the right direction because the bookstore doesn't believe she deserves a slab of prime rib like you."
