Page 34 of Brewbies
McGarvey glanced over as Ethan hooked a thumb to where Cypress “Cy the Tree Guy” Forrester had fastened himself to a redwood almost twenty feet off the ground by a sling and the strength of his legs. He didn’t wear his blue-black hair in a long braid, like his father, but his ochre skin gleamed with a burgundy undertone as he topped the tree for the sake of a view.
Cy, the town’s premier arborist, was a gentle giant, until you said something about one of his sisters. Come to think of it, no one knew exactly how many sisters Cy’s had. Anyone who thought they knew all the Forresters seemed to find themselves introduced to one they hadn’t met before.
“Kiki Forrester is the chief of police over the S’Klallam tribe, which is technically part of the county.” He tossed his head in the westerly direction, where a thirty-minute drive along the jagged coast would land you in Bryn, a picturesque inlet where the Strong People, or S’Klallam tribe, had turned a reservation into a resort that would rival almost any place on Victoria Island or even Alaska.
“Hmm.” Trent nodded, the chilly spring sun gleaming off skin like polished obsidian as he flashed his brilliantly white smile. “Sorry, boss. Might have to vote for her.”
Trying to push even half of his heart into a laugh proved too much effort. So Ethan barked out something he hoped passed for genuine, and returned to churning up the earth around the lawn sign so summer blooms could be planted beneath the towering, newly bare bushes.
Ethan searched for something to change the subject. He always evaded any talk of elections to his deputies. He never wanted them to feel pressure not to vote their conscience. He never made signs. He didn’t raise money. And any funding he dumped into his pitiful campaign was from his own trust.
He used to be proud of the fact that his name, alone, made him a de facto winner in this town. That his family’s subsidies to the fairgrounds, community sports, music programs, and tourist boards would do his talking for him.
Now, while looking at Deputy McGarvey and his kind-if-wary eyes, or thinking about how much he respected his colleague Kiki Forrester and her entire family, a wedge of shame propped open the door he wanted to slam on the glaring reality of his immense privilege.
“You ever been to the reservation?” Ethan asked, landing on a subject. “It’s stunning. A great place to take visiting family or a date if they get sick of small-town entertainment.” On top of their five-star accommodations—or the next-door three-star hotel for the budget conscious—they offered what so many in the U.S. could not. Legal and recreational marijuana, magic mushrooms, a gleaming, tasteful casino, skiing on the Olympic Mountains, hunting, fishing, hiking, and dining that would impress the most finicky of epicureans.
“Yeah,” Trent said, karate-chopping a flower into little pink confetti. “They really lucked out in the reservation department.”
Ethan cringed. “Not speaking from lived experience, obviously, but I don’t think any Native considers their rez good luck.”
“You’ve never been to the Southwest,” Trent said, giving effortless side-eye.
Humiliatingly aware that he looked like a television Viking come to rape villages and pillage women—not to mention he came from a long line of wealthy colonizers and captains of industry—Ethan opened his mouth to apologize for every un-melanated human alive when a sharp sound cut him off.
“Oh my Gawd!” squealed a girl with aqua hair and a bow tie who waved a disposable coffee cup with a bright pink lid. “Which one did you get? Mine’s the Tiramisu Toffee Tits with a shot of dark desire!”
An Asian kid traveling in a pack of youths toasted her with an identical paper cup, and raised her squeal with a glass-shattering squawk. “Honey almond Hard Hump. But my favorite is Salted Caramel Quickie.”
“So cute, right?” asked the first.
“So fucking cute!” agreed her new friend.
“Mama, what’s a quickie?”
A mother holding hands with a preschooler cast the kids a look of distress and disapproval.
A stab of irritation picked Ethan right in the chest, and he used his shovel to attack the ground with renewed vigor.
Darby’s coffee.
So.
Bury.
Fucking.
Stomp.
Cute.
Dig.
“I bought a Mount Me Macchiato on ice coming into town this morning.” McGarvey picked up the clear plastic cup in which floated half-melted ice and the spiced remnants of betrayal.
“Not you too.”
He shrugged. “Not only is the coffee good, the barista is a smoke show.” He wrapped his lips around the straw and slurped loudly. “We flirted this morning, I think.”
