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1
Joe
Mrs. Wilson is mowing the lawn again. Without pants on.
Sighing heavily, I lift the two-way radio to my mouth. “Dispatch, why do I always get sent on these calls?”
“Because you’re always on the clock, sheriff,” chirps the voice on the other end. “You never take any time off for yourself. When was the last time you sat on the couch in sweatpants and binged a show on Netflix?”
My lips feel stiff when I respond. “About a year ago.”
A long, heavy silence follows, and I wish like hell I’d just made a joke, instead. Now it looks like I’m fishing for sympathy, which is definitelynotthe case. Hell, I’m allergic to too much compassion. I’m also mad at myself for using the passing of my wife, Aileen, as an excuse for working myself to the bone. Because it’s only a small part of the reason I stay out of the house as much as possible these days.
The main reason isthem.
The two stepdaughters she left behind for me to contend with.
When an uncomfortable weight settles between my legs, I clear my throat loudly and sit up straighter. Nope. Not thinking about Bella and Charlie when I’m trying to work. I might only be the sheriff of a small town, but I take this job seriously. And I’ve got a pants-free lawn mower on the loose.
“Sorry about that, Joe,” says the dispatcher. “I know it’s been a tough year.”
“It’s fine.”
“And those dang girls aren’t making it any easier.” A sniff on the other end of the radio. “Hellraisers is what they are.”
That might be true, but I don’t react well to my girls being called names. I’m the only one who gets to call them hellraisers. Which, incidentally, is exactly what they are. “They lost their mother. They’ve had a tough year, too—”
“Streaking down Main Street topless last night. Breaking into the diner and stealing the leftover pie for all their friends. Spray painting male genitalia on the Welcome to Portsmith sign. And that’s just a week’s worth of shenanigans! They’re running you ragged, Joe, not to mention every other member of this town’s law enforcement.”
“They’re just bored and restless, waiting for college to start. Two more weeks and they’ll be somebody else’s problem.” I ignore the rough churn in my stomach that I get when I think about them leaving. Off at school where I can’t guard them, feed them, care for them. Bail them out, lecture them, attempt to punish them.
Give in to their tears.
Apologize for yelling.
Feel their bodies against mine when they give me one of their famous double hugs.
I hold the two-way radio away from my mouth, so it doesn’t capture my winded groan.Goddamn you, Bella and Charlie.I shouldn’t be having these thoughts and feelings about my stepdaughters. At forty-two, I’m more than twice their age. I met and married their mother during a whirlwind courtship when they were eighteen and recently graduated from high school, but when Aileen passed away last year after a workplace accident at the local car factory, they took a gap year from college to grieve. We’ve been sharing a roof since then.
I’ve gotten closer with Aileen’s daughters out of necessity. They needed a shoulder to cry on after the tragedy that took their mom. They needed someone older to give them stability and reassurance. I was the only one left to do the job. But the more time passes, the more their soft skin against mine makes my pulse pound. The more their soft kisses on my cheek and mischievous smiles make my cock uncomfortable.
I’m ashamed of myself. That’s why I stay out of the house. Away from them.
Maybe I should be arresting myself instead of Mrs. Wilson.
Two more weeks. I can make it two more weeks.
“Joe, we’ve received two more calls about Mrs. Wilson’s bare beaver.”
“Jesus,” I say, disgusted. “I’m on it, all right?”
“On her beaver? Or on the job?” one of my deputies quips over the static two-way connection. “Just looking for clarification, boss.”
“Sure, let me clarify. You’re fired.”
“Ah, come on, Joe.”
I hang up the two-way radio without responding. Getting ready to push my door open and go handle the situation, I catch sight of my reflection in the rearview mirror. My graying black hair brushes the ceiling of my patrol car, on account of my height of six-foot-six. There are dark circles beneath my eyes wherenone existed, once upon a time, when I was the town football hero. Now, I’m an exhausted widower with a little extra weight around the middle and rapidly fading tattoo sleeves.
