I shoved it down. Ignored it. Told myself I had it under control.
Until I didn’t.
Until it came out sideways, sharp and ugly, and now we’re here.
And all that’s left sitting in my gut is shame.
I’ve screwed this up. Badly.
There’s a tightness in my chest that won’t ease, a low, creeping dread settling deeper the longer I sit with it. What if she leaves because of me? What if I’ve made this place—what’s supposed to be safe for her—feel like something she needs to escape from? What if she walks away before she gets what she came here for, just because I couldn’t keep my shit together?
I scrub a hand down my face, feeling the rough drag of stubble against my palm, and push out a breath. “We should go. I owe Sierra an apology, and I don’t want her doing something rash before I get there.”
“Sure,” Reid says, already shifting, reaching for his jacket—but before either of us can stand, a chair scrapes loudly against the floor beside us.
The scent hits first. Whiskey, strong and sharp, but not the bourbon we’ve been drinking. Something cheaper.
Clay Dawson. County sheriff.
I don’t even need to look to know it’s him, but I do anyway, turning slightly as he drops into the seat beside me like he owns the place. His movements are a fraction too loose, his head tilting just a little too far when he grins.
“Howdy.”
“Sheriff,” I greet, shifting slightly in my seat as Reid inclines his head, already reaching for his jacket and gesturing for the tab like he’d rather be anywhere else.
Those two have never gotten along. Not since one of Dawson’s deputies decided to make an example out of Reid over a bullshit parking situation in town. Something that should’ve been a quick “move along” turned into a full production—attitude, accusations, cuffs right there on the street. Hauled himin, left him sitting in a cell for over an hour “to cool off,” fined him, then had his truck towed just to round it all out.
Reid had come back from that one wound tight enough to snap steel.
Truth is, though, he’d been like that long before.
There’s always been something in him around cops—controlled on the surface, but never relaxed. A tension that doesn’t switch off. Like he’s constantly measuring distance, exits, angles. Like part of him expects things to turn bad, fast.
Most people probably wouldn’t notice it.
I do.
As Reid shifts to stand, Dawson leans in closer than necessary, close enough that I can smell the stale edge of whatever he’s been drinking layered over something sharper.
“You boys have no idea how much heat you’ve branded on my ass,” he says, words just slurred enough to notice. “Do you know who the fucking mayor of Yellowbrook is?”
“Not a clue.” I flick a glance at Reid, guessing he probably does—he’s the one who actually looks into things—but I never bothered. In my head, the guy’s just another rich asshole with too much time and too much influence. “Who is he?”
“Have you ever heard of the Reismans?”
That gets my attention. “Yeah.” The name lands heavy, familiar in a way that sticks. Old money. Big money. Oil, telecoms, gold—half the damn world touched in one way or another. My mother used to talk about them like they were royalty. She had dinner with Martha Reisman once and wouldn’t shut up about it for weeks, going on about handcrafted fountains and imported stone like it was some kind of religious experience. My father ended up building her a version of one just to quiet things down, and then—because that apparently wasn’t enough—buying her a place in the south of France near Martha’s.
Ridiculous, of course. One of many reasons I’m glad to be out of it.
Funny the things that stick with you.
I haven’t thought about them in years. Haven’t thought about my parents much either, if I’m being honest. We have what you’d call a… functional distance. No fights. No drama. Just an unspoken agreement that we’re better off staying out of each other’s way. I call once a year, keep it polite, keep it short. Make sure they’re still alive, still comfortable, still existing in that world I walked away from. That’s about as far as it goes.
“The mayor’s a Reisman, despite his name being Barnes. Family ties.” the sheriff continues, dragging me back. He gestures loosely with his beer bottle, sloshing a little of it onto the table. “And y’all got his wife tucked away up on that commune of yours like she’s a prisoner.”
“It’s not a commune,” Reid says evenly. “And she’s not a prisoner. She’s free to come and go as she pleases.”
“Oh yeah?” The sheriff leans back, eyeing us both. “Then why didn’t you let us check in on her?”