Page 27 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
As I stand, he adds, “Your boy needs anything, you shout.”
“Thank you,” I say, meaning it.
Back in the hall, David materializes at my elbow like a mischievous cat. “So—goats or geese?”
“Brime Street,” I say.
David winces. “Ah yes. The spa day of law enforcement.”
“Keep making fun,” I warn, “and I’ll stick you on parking meters.”
He clutches his chest. “Cruelty.”
***
The next morning, the cruiser hums like a contented refrigerator as I roll down Brime. Main & Maple is still setting itself out like ayard sale: chalkboards going up on sidewalks, a florist sweeping yesterday’s petals into a bright little funeral, Old Thomas unfolding the newspaper with ceremony on his usual bench and yelling “They misprinted the weather again!” to nobody. He glares at me as I idle by and then gives a little salute as if we’ve agreed to this longstanding feud.
On the corner, Ms. Delia waters geraniums and gives me a curt nod that means she baked too late last night and we’re not discussing it. Across the street, a newly painted sign reads Sunbeam Yoga in someone’s idea of a calming font; the woman inside the window holds a pose that looks like an argument with gravity.
Every storefront is a story: Murphy’s Hardware with the bell that rings twice when you open it; Ridge Books with the free little library out front painted by elementary kids; Scotty’s Diner dead center, neon still asleep, but the blinds throw striped sunlight across the booths like a set designer’s dream.
It’s impossible not to think of Jasmine when I see that awning. Of her face the day in the grocery aisle—tired and furious and bright in a way that made me feel fifteen and dumb again. She thinks I’m a rulebook with feet. I think she’s a fire alarm that goes off even when the kitchen’s cold. We’re both right, probably. And both wrong.
Then I see the motorcycle.
Same one. Same glossy black. But now it’s empty, kickstand down and leaned casual against brick like a cat sunning itself. No riders. No helmets. That’s worse.
If you’re parking in a hurry, you leave the helmets on. If you’re making a plan, you don’t.
I circle the block and park a half-street away, angled so my dash cam gets a clean long view. The morning feels suddenly louder with the burr of a distant mower, a gull that thinks it’s acomedian, the hum in your bones when your body recognizes a shape it’s been trained to fear.
I kill the engine and sit a second, letting my senses rise one notch at a time. Sight: windows reflecting light instead of showing interiors; the door of Scotty’s pulled to, not propped; a CLOSED sign turned to OPEN but tilted, like someone did it fast. Sound: no clatter of pans, no soft diner murmur, just… quiet. Smell: hot oil, sugar, and something else—metallic? No, that’s adrenaline.
I key my shoulder mic low. “Dispatch, Sheriff Vaughn, ten-eight on Brime. I’ll be on foot at Scotty’s for a minute, copy?”
Carla’s voice comes back, cheerful static. “Copy, Sheriff. Want me to ping Quick and Joel to swing through?”
“Negative for now. I’ll advise.”
I step out, shut the door softly, and cross the sidewalk like a man walking into a church where he hasn’t been invited.
The bell over the door announces me with its bright, innocent ding. The smell hits first—coffee and fryer oil and cinnamon. And under it, the stale tang of fear.
Two men stand at the counter. Big. Broad through the chest in leather jackets that look too hot in this weather. One is bearded with a scar that hooks his jaw like punctuation; the other’s clean-shaven with the sort of gym arms that like to prove a point. Their heads snap as the bell dings.
Jasmine is behind the counter, hands flat on the laminate, face pale and furious in equal measure. Her eyes meet mine for the briefest flicker—hope, warning, a hundred things I don’t have time to read.
The guns are out. Semi-auto .9s from the shape, aftermarket shine. “Police!” I bark, drawing a sight picture in one motion. “Drop your weapons! On the ground, now!”
There’s a second, the kind where time stretches in a bubble where maybe they listen. Maybe we all go home, maybe I tell this story later like a warning about compliance.
The bubble pops. They don’t listen.
“Dispatch,” I say, low and fast. “Unit one at Scotty’s.10-95 in progress, two armed suspects inside, send code three.” I don’t sayhurry. Carla hears it anyway.
Beard squares his shoulders. “Or what, Sheriff?” His voice is gravel in a bucket.
Clean-shaven takes a step forward, gun angled low in that cocky way people hold them when they’ve watched too many movies. “How about you turn around, walk out, and we call today a good day?”
