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CHAPTER 1
Derrick
I’ve donemany terrible things to get where I am today. Being the ally, betrayer, and now nemesis of a mafia boss is just the most recent one.
I swirl the whiskey in my glass, careful not to hunch my shoulders or look down on my luck. I’m just a man enjoying a peaceful night at Olympus, a high-end lounge, not a corrupt sheriff with regrets to drink away. Never mind that my thoughts have been a jumble of paranoia for the last six months.
When I first ran for sheriff of this city, I imagined myself as a pinnacle of justice, as a man that people would look to for security, would look up to for his integrity.
But you can’t build a castle on a pile of shit and not expect it to smell.
My fingers tighten on my glass. It’s a twitch of my muscles, one I quickly master.
The stool beside me scrapes back, and a woman sits on my left.
“A White Russian please,” she says, with a smile so bright it flashes in my periphery. “And can I get a dessert menu?”
She has long, thick black curls that end in pale lavender, and her matching dress leaves the majority of her curvy legs bare.She leans forward over the counter, her chin tilted high with confidence, her dark red lipstick so fresh her mouth looks wet. The bartender rushes to fulfill her request, which I can’t blame him for. There’s no way she’s not propping her breasts on her forearms unintentionally.
I take another glance over the rim of my glass, watching her accept the menu and peruse it casually. She bites her perfect lip. Coils her thick black hair idly around her finger. Performs classically alluring moves you’d expect from any 50’s beauty. This woman looks like one of the faux statues lining the walls, adding to the Greco-Roman aesthetic of the lounge. Gorgeous. Almost ridiculously so.
And she also looks… familiar.
“Have I met you before?” I say it without meaning to, but now the words are out. The woman turns to me, just a little, looking up through her dark lashes with hazel-green irises. Those lashes blink, and for a long moment, she just studies my face. I imagine she recognizes me from some commercial or flier. But then her head tilts just so, her eyebrows crinkling, her lips pursing.
Every muscle in her face looks choreographed.
“I think I’d remember a face like yours,” she says, turning to face me, propping her elbow on the bar. “So probably not.”
Her pose, the tilt of her head, the shape of her lips when she speaks- the more she moves, the more I realize that every move is controlled. Does she go through the world with this level of purpose all the time? Or is she here at the bar looking for something specific?
I decide to test that theory, and chuckle in response. “Was that a compliment?” I test.
Her eyebrows quirk up, completely unimpressed. “Why, are you looking for one?”
That gets a genuine laugh out of me, and I raise my hands in surrender. I can’t decide if she’s flirting back or calling me out. “You caught me,” I say, leaning into the boyish charm that won me so many female votes during my election- the boyish charm that I perfected during my early days as a cop. “I’ve been searching high and low.”
The woman smiles at me for the first time, awakening a dimple in her round right cheek. How… fascinating. I’ve got one in my left cheek, making us a match.
“Well sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry in the slightest, “but I’m fresh out.”
All right, my interest has been piqued. This woman is stunningly gorgeous, she’s fun-loving. After all, we both know these lines are absurd, but we’re still throwing them back and forth just to see if the other keeps playing. And, most importantly, she seems to be an excellent liar.
Early in my career, I moved up the ranks of the police department quickly, and I did it by accepting bribes from the local mafia boss, Thomas Warwick Sr.. After he died, I took them from his son. I outed my own colleagues who also took bribes, making myself look like a shining example while stabbing others in the back. And later, I won my very first political campaign with money donated to me by Thomas Warwick himself.
Unbeknownst to him, I wasn’t just doing the legwork for Thomas- but I was also doing it for his mafia rival Morgan Speare. And soon after, my plans to pit the two families against each other failed. Thomas came out on top, and he let me know in no uncertain terms that he didn’t appreciate my attempts to level his playing field. Understandable. But he let me live, showing a twisted sense of mercy by obligating me forever to his service.
Since then, I could’ve been focusing on a job that I’ve worked hard for- despite the bribes and questionable donations- sinceI was a teenager regularly thrown out of my own home for the night. Being sheriff just under the age of forty could have made getting dates as easy as showing any woman a business card. I could’ve been building a more balanced life for myself.
Instead, I’ve stuck to paperwork and going on patrol when I get especially restless. I’ve put all my political aspirations on hold, just in case I draw Thomas Warwick’s ire again. I’ve even bought a 1957 Corvette with a custom paint job, in true mid-life crisis fashion.
Tonight, I came to the Olympus lounge not to drown my sorrows, but to pretend like I’m someone better than the person that I am. That I’m younger, more successful, less corrupt. That I can have a drink at the end of a fulfilling day and go home to bed, at peace with myself. It’s a charade I’ve played out many times, and I imagine I’ll keep having to do it until Thomas decides I’m insignificant enough to forget about. But I still haven’t bothered with women.
Maybe it’s about time I change that.
“If I take a number, will you let me know when you’ve got a fresh batch?” I ask. I show her my own dimple, the one that makes a pair with hers.
The woman laughs, and it sounds familiar to me because it’s my own false chuckle thrown back at me. “It doesn’t work like that,” she says. “If you take my number, how am I supposed to call you?”
