Page 10 of Brewbies
In what was perhaps the most shocking turn of events so far, Deep Dicking released his fists and calmly stepped back into line.
Or what was left of it.
Two of the other patrons had mysteriously vanished, apparently uninterested in being pummeled by the coffee bouncer should they ask for an extra shot.
The third seemed completely unfazed.
“Knew Sheriff Townsend had that in him somewhere,” she said, wiping lipstick only a shade darker than Darby’s fuchsia hair from her top teeth.
Darby’s heart skipped a beat.
SheriffTownsend?
No.
No way.
No way in hell that the man who’d had her leaving dental impressions in a plywood headboard clocked into a county job.
Darby’s face prickled with the awareness of his gaze.
“Morning, Myrtle,” she said, refocusing on the task before her. “What’ll it be?”
The older woman squinted at the menu through the thick frames of her bifocals, the white wisps of her spiky hair glowing like light bulb filaments in the sun. “Can I get a double D Dirty Screw? Oh! And can I add a cream pie to that?”
“One Oreo Frappuccino with a double shot and extra whip coming right up,” Darby said, grateful to have something for her hands to do.
“You can hardly blame poor Ethan after that business between Roy and his mother,” Myrtle said conversationally.
“I’m sorry,” Darby said, scooping cookie rubble into a compostable plastic cup. “Who?”
“Ethan Townsend. The guy who just made Roy’s coin purse crawl into his colon.”
Sheriff Ethan Townsend.
This was not the name of a man who gave you rugburn.
“Course, he may not be the sheriff much longer,” Myrtle said in a conspiratorial tone. “Rumor has it, he’s not the favorite to win.”
Though she’d only rolled into town a couple months ago, Darby had quickly learned that gossip was a cornerstone of Townsend Harbor’s civic structure. “Well, if he doesn’t get elected, I can always hire him to do security.”
Darby glanced up from her hand blender in time to see—Ethan? Sheriff Townsend? Whatever you called a man whose cock you could sculpt by memory, but to whom you hadn’t been properly introduced—making Roy jump just by scratching his jaw stubble.
“If you’re looking for help, I’d fill out an application. I know how to work a crowd.” Myrtle rose onto the toes of her sassy red mules to peer through the window. “I used to be a dancer, you know.”
“Is that so?” Darby asked distractedly.
“Oh, yes,” Myrtle warbled fondly. “In Paris. It was a long time ago, but I still have some of my costumes. They might need a sequin or two replaced, but they still fit. I haven’t gained an ounce since my wedding day,” she pronounced proudly.
On the contrary—she looked like she’d yielded a good deal of adipose tissue and muscle mass to the thieving ass-wrinkle of time.
“Of course, I only danced at the Moulin Rouge before I met my Frank, even though I almost never had relations with my customers. The French are such passionate men,” Myrtle said on a wistful sigh.
Darby was so stunned by this new information that she glanced up and involuntarily caught the sheriff’s eye over Myrtle’s bony shoulder.
He no longer looked angry—he looked like he wanted to retract his head and legs into his ribcage and roll down the road like a sea anemone.
Darby put both Myrtle and Roy’s coffees on the counter and took a step back. “I’m not looking for help at the moment, but I’ll certainly let you know if that changes.”
