Page 15 of The Proposal Pact
“Hey there, Sheriff Hot Stuff.” I let out a string of silent curses but otherwise don’t waste my breath on asking her to stop anymore. It won’t work anyway.
Trust me, I tried. I even threatened to fire her. She told me to go ahead and try.
“Did you have a brilliant day today?” she asks with a smile so wide, it’s blinding.
“Marsha, is that a rhetorical question?”
“Nope.”
I drop into my seat. “If you consider breaking apart two ridiculous fights over things like strawberry socks that two grown men apparently can’t live without and the other over the last packet of cannabis seeds—no, Fifi is not out of weed, but that was the last packet with a rainbow on the package. Serving as a tie breaker in a bloody argument over whichThe Doorshit was, indeed, the greatest. Then spending two”—I put up two fingers with a twitch in my eye—“hours taking a statement from Phylis Nima about a string of break-ins at her place, only to learn it’s a work of a lost soul unable to find its way home in the afterlife. Her words, not mine. And then spending another damn hour listening to her demands we bring a medium into our ranks, and a bunch of other small things I won’t even bother bringing up because I’ve already learned that there is nothing I can do to stop Alec and Jacob from testing the limits of their lifespan.” I say it all in one breath and then slump back in my seat with my eye still twitching. “Then yes, I had a brilliant, fantastic day.”
“Sounds like you are settling in well, then,” Marsha says with an amused smile, and I glare at her. “Also, let me know if you want that phone number for a good medium. I got one.” When she sees my unimpressed face, she breaks out in laughter. “No medium, got it. A psychiatrist then?”
“Now we’re talking.” One corner of my mouth turns up into a half smile as I stride away into the break room, dumping my morning coffee and brewing a new one, because although my official shift is almost over I know better than to hope I’ll actually get to leave on time.
Not that I want to anyway.
I’ve been back for four months and yet I still can’t find an apartment to rent. There are plenty of posts about available apartments but as soon as I call them, they tell me it’s been taken.
By whom? Fucking pigeons? Or Mrs. Nima’s ghosts. How many can one woman have?
I haven’t seen any new residence since I came back and yet the living spaces are all taken. I love my parents, I do, but living with them in my thirties isn’t exactly the life plan I had in mind. Especially when they seem to have the most active sex life ever.
Jesus, I shudder at the thought alone.
And don’t even get me started on peace and quiet I love so much. It’s nonexistent in our house. My parents are two social butterflies. It never used to bother me before—in fact, I loved the constant buzz or people at our house. Hell, Luke and Griffin practically lived at my place growing up, that’s how much time we spent together.
Until I didn’t.
Even my own sister refuses to let me live above her café! She might still be holding a grudge over our water fight with Griffin when I first found out the asshole got her pregnant.
Never knew my little sunshine Julie could be so petty. That fucker, Griffin, is definitely a bad influence on her. I even did a painting for their new house. Something I hadn’t done in years, and still she won’t let me move in.
So I’m stuck, and not for the first time I question my sanity and ask why I don’t just leave? I look down at the stack of files again. That philosophical question will have to wait after I’m done with this mess. Which, of course, gets interrupted a million times with ridiculous call-ins before I’m halfway through it. Most can be dealt with over the phone, or I send my deputies, that is until I hear Marsha pick up her phone, answering a dispatch call.
“Callum…”
“Don’t.” I pick up my finger, refusing to look at her. “Don’t say what you’re about to say, Marsha.”
I hear her chuckle, “It ain’t going away, Sheriff Hot Stuff.”
“No,” I deadpan. “No, I refuse to go out there. What is it this time? Another fight at LP’s? Or did Sam Colson and Rick Levine start another contest about who can undress and drink more shots at the same time?” God, I’ve seen it all here. No wonder the countycan’t keep any out-of-town sheriffs here for too long. “And where are Collins and Lendry?”
“They are still dealing with Loveter. Who would’ve thought the man was so kinky?” she says with a whole lot of enthusiasm and appreciation.
See? This is exactly what I’m talking about. Mr. Loveter is a sixty-something-year-old owner of the local theater who apparently decided to spice up his showings.
I shudder, thanking the heavens I wasn’t available to go deal with that.
“Unless you want Fifi to call Fanny for backup—she offered, by the way—you gotta get that booty over there.”
Oh, hell no! The last thing I want to do is arrest the whole Fantastic Four before it’s even midnight here. And yes, if Fifi calls Fanny, all four show up. They are like a package deal. Order one crazy, get three for free. Hell, my mom and Fanny’s boyfriend might show up as a combo deal and my cell is just not that big.
“Fine.” I sigh. “So what do we have here?”
“Fifi called about loud noises coming from next door. Said she heard some death threats.”
“Jesus,” I mutter, rushing out of the chair so fast it knocks over. It’s not often we get a genuine call around here and this sounds like it could be one of them.
