Page 32 of Sirens
A soft sound escaped his lips as he held up a particularly daring pair of lacy panties, contemplating the woman who wore them with such unabashed confidence.
“Having fun there, deputy?”
The sound of Maggie’s voice made him jump, and he hastily dropped the underwear as if it were on fire and whirled around. Vee, Myrtle, and Maggie stood in the doorway, grinning like Cheshire cats at Trent’s obvious discomfort.
When was the last time someone snuck up on him?
Trent couldn’t remember, it’d been so long.
“Mayor Stewart didn’t press charges,” Myrtle announced triumphantly. “He just gave us a warning to leave his building alone, so my wife came to collect us.” She squeezed the Helen Mirren-esque lady next to her and kissed her shoulder.
“Great,” Trent mumbled, flushing. He scrambled for a way to explain his presence in Maggie’s apartment—and more importantly, in her underwear drawer. “I was just… Uh…”
“Doing my dishes?” Maggie raised an eyebrow, gesturing to the now-spotless kitchen counter.
The room fell silent, the tension thick enough to slice through like one of Myrtle’s prized organic tomatoes. Maggie’s eyes narrowed, scrutinizing Trent as if she were peering through the lens of a microscope, dissecting his intentions layer by layer.
“Deputy! Caught with your hand in the cookie jar.” Myrtle cackled.
“Or should I say the panty drawer,” her wife, Vee, added with a smirk.
Straightening up to full height and attempting to salvage his dignity, Trent reached for whatever his brain spit up as an excuse. “You granted me access to the premises. I was searching for probable cause.”
“PSA, Deputy Pervy Pants,” Myrtle replied, “but you don’t usually find probable cause during a panty raid. I take one photo of you with my smart phone and you’ll be canceled faster than an Armie Hammer dinner reservation.”
Maggie went to the fireplace and scooped up her dog, who nestled into her warm neck with a sigh that made Trent unnervingly jealous. “Just what evidence are you looking for, Deputy Trent McGarvey?”
“I’ll tell you what I found,” he said, gritting his teeth against the defensiveness in his tone. “Why don’t we have a chat, Miss Michaels… Or should I say, Mrs. Charles Wiggins.”
SIX
On the rocks
SERVED WITH ICE, TYPICALLY IN A ROCKS GLASS
THE NEXT DAY
“Fucking Pacific coastlineand its stupid fucking hills.”
Maggie wheezed out breath as she trudged up the steep incline toward the highest point in Townsend Harbor, cursing the founding fathers for their poor urban planning skills with every step.
Stopping to rest a hand against the stitch in her side, she mentally calculated the distance between her and Mayor Stewart’s lair.
Somewhere between ten yards and forfuckingever miles.
Her Chanel overcoat was now sticking to her back, beads of sweat trickling from her armpits down her ribcage like lazy insects.
“Why can’t anything ever be fucking easy?” Maggie asked the universe at large, forcing herself to resume her uphill battle.
The blisters already forming on her heels stung with each step, mocking her choice in footwear. The worst part? Her black leather Jimmy Choo riding boots had been her favorite pair once upon a time.
A time before her dumb fuck of an ex—okay,almost-ex—had somehow managed to reach his pasty, trucker-tanned arms through the bars of Queensboro Correctional Facility all the way to this tiny tourist hamlet.
And onto the laptop screen of one Deputy Trent McGarvey.
Or should I say, Mrs. Charles Wiggins.
A hot flush crept up her neck at the flat, businesslike way McGarvey had pronounced the name that hung about her neck like a balding albatross.
