“What about you?” I pivot smoothly, reaching for my bourbon. “What brings an officer like you to a college town like this? Seems like a waste of your talents.”
Thatcher’s mouth quirks, but it’s not quite a smile.
“Stepped on some toes back in my last posting,” he admits. “This was supposed to be a timeout. Atemporarytimeout. But trouble seems to follow me.” He shrugs, taking another sip of hisbeer as he glances my way. “Or maybe I follow it. Hard to tell sometimes.”
“So why stay?”
He’s quiet for a moment. His fingers tap against the bottle—index, middle, ring, repeat.
“I was planning to leave,” he says finally. “Had my transfer paperwork all ready to go. And then…”
His eyes meet mine again.
“And then Miss Parker stumbled out of the woods, drugged and disheveled,” I finish dryly.
“Yeah.” He doesn’t look away. “That.”
My phone buzzes a third time.
I take a slow sip of bourbon, letting the burn ground me. Whatever desperate plea Ezra’s crafting, it can wait until I’ve handled this.
“Enough of the small talk.” I set down my glass. “It’s obvious you have questions.” I wave my hand. “Ask away.”
His eyebrows lift, and it looks like he’s suppressing a smile. “You don’t want to call Mr. Barnes first?”
“On Thanksgiving? At the rate he charges?” I scoff. “Look, Deputy, I’m not staying for a third drink.” I lean back on my stool, shrugging. “If there’s something on your mind, now’s the time.”
Thatcher leans in and opens his mouth, but he doesn’t get a chance to speak.
“Professor Rooke!”
Someone jostles our arms, sloshing Thatcher’s beer and nearly sending my tumbler over the other side of the bar. I look to find one of my students—Oscar something, a freshman with more enthusiasm than brain cells—grinning at us.
“Dude, happy Thanksgiving, man!” He’s already slurring. “You gotta do a fucking shot with us!” he bellows, receiving a rousing cheer from everyone around us.
Damn it. I thought I recognized one of the drunken voices around us. I should have taken a table with Thatcher instead of sitting at the bar, but I didn’t want the deputy to think I was being circumspect.
Oscar disappears just long enough to retrieve shots from the group beside us, sliding them onto the bar between Thatcher and I.
I should refuse. I haven’t eaten today—too distracted by Ezra’s messages, by thoughts of Haven and Kai walking into whatever disaster awaits them, by the growing certainty that I’ve lost control of something I never really had control of.
But Thatcher is watching me. Measuring me. And some petty, prideful part of my brain refuses to back down from a challenge, even one as juvenile as this.
“Just one.” I pick up the shot glass.
When Oscar grabs one of the glasses and tries to hand it to Thatcher, the deputy waves him off. “I don’t think—“ he begins.
“Aw, come on, man! Don’t be a fucking pussy,” Oscar whines when the deputy eyes the shot like it might be poison.
“Son, I don’t do shots?—“
Thatcher cuts off at Oscar’s sudden leer. “Keep calling me son, and I’m gonna have to start calling you daddy.”
He gives the deputy a lingering once-over that confirms several suspicions I had about Oscar when he first joined my class.
Bisexual.
Likes older men.
