Page 25 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
Because in this town, we feed each other. Then we fight.
Chapter nine
Asher
“Alright, I’m off,” I call, stepping out of my room and checking my uniform for the third time. Holster snug. Badge straight. Shirt tucked so tight it might be vacuum-sealed. The last thing I need is my deputies seeing their sheriff looking like a man in need of a rescue.
On the couch, Brick is king of a small pillow empire, cereal bowl balanced on his lap. He’s got a documentary paused mid-science fact and a blanket half-cocooned around his cast. For half a second he looks five again, the way he did the morning I taught him to ride a bike and he asked if the sun ever blinked.
“Are you sure you’ll be fine on your own?” I ask for the third time.
He gives me the look—equal parts patience and exasperation. “Dad. Go to work.”
I hover anyway, flicking my gaze from his crutches (leaning within reach) to the water bottle on the coffee table, to the TVremote. “Remember: I’m on speed dial. You call if you feel dizzy, or if your leg aches weird, or—”
He sighs like a martyr. “If a stampede of squirrels breaks in, I’ll call you.”
I try not to smile. “Good plan.”
I step to the door, then back again. “Your crutches—”
“—are right there,” he finishes, deadpan. “Dad. Go.”
The word lands where it needs to. I squeeze his shoulder, pretend my throat isn’t tight, and step outside before I talk myself into staying.
***
Morning in Golden Heights smells like salt and pine and the bakery that starts too early. The sky is so clean it feels like the world finally remembered to wash its face. I start the cruiser and, out of pure anxious habit, tap the home camera app. The living room feed pops up: Brick is exactly where I left him, eating cereal, staring at a paused diagram of a volcano like he’s plotting an experiment.
It’s been a week and a half since the fall. Seven days of fluorescent lights and forms and me pretending not to watch him breathe on the video feed. He’s okay. He wants scones, of all things. He’s tougher than I deserve.
My mind drifts, the way it does when I stop gripping it too tightly, and lands on Rebecca.
If she were here, she’d be the one fussing—colder compresses, better pillows, louder opinions about calcium. I can hear her laugh, that low, surprised sound she made when Brick said something bigger than his age. Two years gone and I still reach for her in the dark sometimes, and it takes a second for the wordwidowerto sink in.
Miami stopped making sense after the accident. Too loud, too fast, too full of places where memories ambushed you at intersections. I wanted quiet. Brick needed quiet. So, we came here: to a town that wakes gently and goes to sleep on time.
I almost shipped him to my parents in Oregon once. I even put his favorite flannel in a suitcase. Then I closed it without adding a second thing. He’s my son. I don’t know if I’m doing any of this right, but I’m doing it with him.
Main Street dips, the street narrows, and Brime Street slides into view. Scotty’s Diner glints ahead, neon off, morning light making the windows into mirrors. My gaze catches on a motorcycle parked two doors down. Sleek. Black. Two riders sit astride it in head-to-toe dark gear—helmets on, visors down. Not talking. Not moving. Looking.
A small prickle begins at the base of my skull.
Brime Street is the soft center of a soft town—porch swings and planters, not trouble. If something ugly’s going to happen, it usually avoids the place where Eloise and Heather argue about crossword clues. I reduce speed anyway, memorize what I can—one rider tall and narrow, the other broader through the shoulders. No plates that I can see from this angle. New bike, clean chain, no rust.
They don’t turn their heads as I pass. That’s what makes me decide to remember them.
***
In the bullpen, the sheriff’s office smells like burnt coffee and paper cuts. My deputies are already loud: mugs clack, report folders thwap, the radio spits out a litany of mundane life.
“Car two, respond to Elm—Mr. Pritchard’s goat is on the porch again.”
“Ten-four,” Gary Quick answers, and someone snorts, “Tell the goat it’s a municipal building; he has to remove his hat.”
Deputy David Joel appears in my doorway with a donut he didn’t ask permission to steal from the break room. “Boss. You look like a recruiting poster.”
“Is that a compliment or a cry for help?”
