I frowned at the bag of flour in my hand before throwing it in the cart and moving on. Perhaps I read too much into it; had to be. Deciding on dessert seemed more important, and a better use of my time—sinful chocolate cake or cinnamon buns?
“Gateau au chocolat,” I muttered, plunking chocolate chips, coffee, and cocoa in my basket. Sugar too.
After a few more rounds, it was time to check out. The other girls were not far behind, a few things piled up in their hands—no cart for them. Determined to make it to the car without using my basket, I lifted one bag, then another, but when I went for another, red and blue swirling lights caught my eye.
Three police cruisers and the sheriff’s car surrounded Mitch’s truck. Mitch and Mick stood with their faces toward the brick exterior, hands up. The sheriff had Brando pinned against the truck.
“Just dandy,” Penny blew her hot, caffeine-laced breath on me. “He’s at it again.”
I squeezed my bags tighter. “What’s going on?”
“Sheriff Stone, he has issues with Brando. He hates him.”
“Why?” I couldn’t look away, hypnotized by the pulsating lights, panic starting to rise.
“Elliott was your brother?” Penny narrowed her eyes at me—the blue eye shadow that decorated her lids seemed like ice in the fluorescent light of the store, and her skin seemed unnaturally tan, like a penny.
“Elliot is my brother.”
“Nick was the sheriff’s kid.” She bucked her chin at the scene.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Nick died. Brando didn’t. He was supposed to go that night. Maybe the sheriff thinks Brando stayed behind because the devil told him to save himself. Who knows what goes on in his head? There’s another rumor. Maggie Beautiful. Her and the sheriff’s brother had been an item before he OD’ed. Strike two against Brando. Then there was a third strike, but I’m sure you’ll hear about that soon enough. And you’re out!”
She stuck the candy she bought in her purse, along with the wine. The stem of the bottle stuck out. She dug around for another minute and then pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
“We’ll be here for a while,” she said, taking out one of the long sticks. “Or the sheriff will beat the shit of him and just get it over with. I’m going to have a smoke. Some advice? Put back those bags of flour and get some things that will make a real difference in a man’s life. Brando’s going to need them.”
“As in…” I pressed my head against the glass. “Bandages?”
“No, booze.” She laughed, going for the back door. “The strong kind. Oh, but you’re not old enough to buy. Right, kid?” She smirked. “Condoms. There’s no age limit on those, kiddo. Works just as well.”
In light of the situation unfolding outside, I ignored her snide remarks. I didn’t mind when Mitch called me kid, a pet name from him, but from her, it sounded like it was intended. An insult.
Sheriff Stone stood with one hand on his belt, the other on his leg. A toothpick rolled around his mouth. He lifted his wide-brimmed cap, assessing Brando.
Brando had his arms crossed over his chest, his back against the truck, standing in his usual way. The sheriff said something. Brando answered. Sheriff Stone smacked him in the face. Brando kept his face turned for a moment, before he offered Sheriff Stone the other cheek. It didn’t seem to be done in insolence. It seemed like Brando felt he deserved it.
Mycheeks burned with anger. The bags dropped out of my hands and I flew out of the door, coming to a halt when the cops surrounding Mitch and Mick pointed their guns toward me. I lifted my hands in surrender, my sweater lifting to new heights. Sheriff Stone narrowed his eyes.
Brando went to take a step forward, but Sheriff Stone turned on him, taking out his gun, pressing it to his chest. “Who do we have here?” he asked in a conversational tone.
“Scarlett Poésy.” I forced my voice to rise over the panic.
“Drop your weapons.” He instructed the cops. They did on his command. He tucked his own gun back into its holster. “Scarlett, it’s nice to see you. But you need to get back in the store, hon.”
I dallied for a moment, crossing my arms over my chest. My thoughts were scattered, but I reeled them in. “I don’t think my daddy would appreciate what you’re doing. Especially after what I have to tell you, Sheriff.”
Everett Poésy—my daddy—had a lot of pull in town. The undercurrent of money my parents provided helped the city. My daddy and his family were old oil money. Not to mention the boutique my mother had opened in town. Sheriff Stone and my father played poker on a regular basis.
I didn’t really know whether my daddy would appreciate what I had to say, but I had to call the sheriff’s bluff.
“Well, now, Scarlett.” He spoke to me as though I was slow. “Everett wouldn’t want you out here with the trash. What do you have to tell me? Did these boys hurt you?”
“Well, now, Sheriff Stone,” I copied his tone. Though it took a while for me to employ it, unless it had to do with Brando, I had a fiery temper, and there were times it possessed my thoughts, therefore my mouth. “Oh, I think he would. My friends and I broke down on a dark road. These gentlemen saw us to the store so thatthe real trashwouldn’t find usandpossibly hurt us.”
“Uh huh,” the sheriff said, nodding his head. He seemed to be thinking the situation through. He looked between Brando and me until I started to get antsy. “I assume your car is working properly now? Yes, well, I’ll be sure to give them a medal for their heroic deeds.”
