1
The car rolled to a stop, and I peered through the rain-studded windshield. A high chain link fence rose between us and the warehouse parking lot.
“There it is,” I said. The headlights pooled on the pavement, illuminating our prize.
“Jackpot,” said my greasy-haired companion. “Just where you’d said it’d be.”
“Of course,” I snorted. I was a little drunk. “I only worked here since I was sixteen.”
“How do we get it out? Climb the fence?”
“No need. The lock is just for show. It doesn’t work.”
“You’d think he’d lock it up tighter.”
“Mr. Roberts is a trusting guy.” I felt a pang, remembering when I’d been one of the people he could trust. “Come on.”
“Wait.” My companion—Benji? Barry? I couldn’t remember his name—picked up his blunt. He took a pull before offering it to me.
Wrinkling my nose, I took it and mimicked him, pulling the sweet smoke into my lungs. The whiskey was wearing off, and a little marijuana would take the edge off my self-disgust. If I was lucky, it would keep me from wondering why I was drunk and getting high. Why I was with a loser about to rob my former employer. It was a night of firsts.
“Here goes nothing,” I muttered, and exited the car. The first foil came when I saw the shiny new lock and chain on the gate. That hadn’t been there a few hours ago.
“What’s wrong?” My partner in crime still hadn’t left the car.
“It’s locked,” I called back. “I’m going to climb the fence, see if there are bolt cutters or something.”
I faced the fence with more confidence than I felt. As I hooked my fingers into the links and prepared to hoist myself up, the heavens opened. Rain poured down as if to say,this is a bad idea.
Two feet off the ground, my legs weakened. I shouldn’t have had that last shot.
“Oi,” I called to the pothead behind the wheel. “A little help here?”
A police siren came alive behind me. The shock nearly gave me a heart attack. I fell from the fence and sprawled on the ground. Blue and red light washed over me with the rain.
My partner in crime put his car in reverse and hit the gas. The getaway vehicle’s doors flapped open as it squealed past the cop car.
“Hey, wait!” I got to my feet, only to squint into flashing lights as the sheriff’s vehicle rolled closer, cutting off my escape.
I could only stand there, squinting into the headlights. It probably was Officer Smith or Officer Johnson. Both knew me from my mildly delinquent days as a frustrated teen who sometimes cut school. I could already imagine their smirks.
“What are you doing here, Regina?” came a deep voice.
Oh no. No, no, no.
Instead of porky Smith or flatulent Johnson, Sheriff Townsend unfolded from his vehicle.
I’d known him as a kid and he’d always been serious, stern, and an absolute stickler for rules. Age hadn’t softened him. Not that he was old—twenty-eight, only six years older than me. Not that old at all.
He’d entered the academy at eighteen and worked his way up through the force, and though some say he won the sheriff election by luck, most would agree he deserved the office. He was hardworking, humble, even as he radiated quiet power.
Oh, and he was hot. The hottest man for three counties, maybe more. In high school, I heard of girls who’d speed just so he’d pull them over. He’d call the girl’s parents, and they’d invite him over for dinner.
He’d always had a gentle and firm authority that made the most protective fathers offer their daughter’s hand in marriage. He was perfect.
Damn him.
Cole’s long legs carried him a few feet away from me. The light outlined a fine, strapping chest and arms that could probably bench press Smith and Johnson. He had a waistline that had never met a donut in its life.
