Page 46 of Sirens
“When did you and the sheriff screw each other’s brains out?”
Maggie pulled ahead again as McGarvey stopped in his tracks. When he saw that she had no intention of waiting forhim, he closed the distance, his hand landing on her shoulder to arrest her momentum.
Maggie whirled on him, shrugging away his sanity-stealing touch.
“Hey,” he said, his eyes soft and his voice a calming rumble. “What’s going on?”
Maggie stepped closer, searching his face. His jaw was tight, eyebrows knitted ever so slightly.
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
He hesitated, shoulders slumping as he exhaled in resignation. “It was one time. Before she was the sheriff and after the department Christmas party. Someone came up with the brilliant idea of a drinking game where we had to take a shot every time Ethan tried to steer the conversation to something work-related.”
“And this was a lot, I’m guessing?” Maggie asked, folding her arms beneath the shelf of her breasts.
“Judy in dispatch ended up horking about a pound of fudge into the Galatea fountain. Deputy Baker got alcohol poisoning and fell down the uptown stairs. Motherfucker isstillon administrative leave.”
The blindingly beautiful smile slowly wilted from his face as McGarvey realized his attempt at levity had gone over as well as a turd in the punch bowl.
“We both regretted it nearly the second it was over, and we’ve only ever been colleagues since.” Trent reached for her hand, but she pulled away, the image of him tangled in bedsheets with Kiki Forrester searing itself into her brain. Probably her thighs didn’t even get tired when she rode reverse cowgirl.
“Look, it’s none of my business, okay?” Maggie said. “But next time, at least do me the favor of asking before you decide to dump the details into the lap of one your one-night stands.”
“I was only trying to?—”
“I don’t need your help,” Maggie snapped. “And I certainly don’t need your pity.”
“Pity?” McGarvey’s brows rose in surprise. “No. It’s not?—”
“And it never will be,” she finished for him. “I need to get going. Thanks a metric fuck-ton for your help.”
Without another word, she turned and headed for the exit.
She’d be damned if she let them see her cry.
The bellabove the door announced Maggie’s arrival at the Lady Garden, her pocketbook slung over one shoulder and a chip the size of Fenway Park on the other.
“And if you use the oscillate setting, its little ears vibrate like this.” A tiny, gray-haired, granny-aged woman jiggled a hot-pink schlong-shaped vibrator in size donkey at a pair of wide-eyed, middle-aged women whose expensive but pristine gorpcore screamed Midwestern ladies’ trip.
Moving past a display of nipple clamps, Maggie paused in front a delicate confection of floor-length peachy silk and lace.
“And what can I help my favorite bartender with?” a buttery, British-accented voice asked.
Maggie turned to see an elegant woman with silver-blonde hair smiling warmly at her.
“Hi, Vivian,” Maggie said, feeling a rush of genuine affection. “I was actually hoping to engage your expertise on a topic of a historical nature.”
“First of all, I insist that anyone who’s engaged in illegal activity with my wife call me Vee,” she said. “Second, that would be a most welcome change from lecturing hapless men on the mysteries of the G-spot.”
Maggie glanced down at her Manolo Blahnik satin pumps. “I’m sorry about the illegal stuff part. But in my defense, Gabe didn’t tell me he’d engaged her expertise.”
“Oh, pshaw,” Vee said. “It’s a service you’ve done me, actually. If the opportunity for good trouble doesn’t present itself to Myrtle, she’ll most assuredly manufacture her own. And believe me when I say that her aptitude in this regard is truly remarkable.”
“I believe you.” Maggie laughed, her chest tightening at the obvious fondness in Vee’s expression.
Vee’s warm, silky hand found Maggie’s forearm and squeezed. “Why don’t you come on back to my office and I’ll make us some tea.”
“That would be delightful.”
