Page 1 of Sofa King Wanted

Chapter One

GEORGIA

The problem with living in a small town is never finding what you need. There are only so many resources, and as the sheriff of this town, I need to do my job productively. Also, I should probably double-check a map because I may be responsible for some surrounding areas too.

“I'm sorry, Georgia.”

“It's Sheriff,” I correct and point to the badge on my chest.

“Your badge is on the other side.”

“Oh shit.” When I glance down, I realize I was right, but Mr. Saunders boops my nose.

“Made you look,” he chuckles.

I do my best to keep a straight face, but a small laugh escapes.

“All right, this is serious.” I smack my hand down semi-forcefully on the counter to make sure I have his full attention. “You own the local grocery store, which means you should have all the things the citizens of Cottonwood need.”

“You tell them,” I hear Mrs. Betty say from somewhere behind me. I swear that woman is everywhere. She moves fast for being in her late seventies.

“Bubbles aren't something people are in dire need of, Georgia.”

“Sheriff,” I huff, not really that annoyed. I'm not sure how I'm the sheriff either, so I can't be mad if half the town isn't taking me seriously.

“Sheriff Georgia.” At least Mr. Saunders is entertaining my nonsense.

“What's the problem?” Mrs. Betty comes to stand next to me at the checkout.

“We're out of bubbles,” he informs her.

“You know you can simply make bubbles,” Mrs. Betty lets me know.

“Oh, right.” Why hadn't I thought of that?

“Why do you need all these bubbles? What are you doing with them?” Mr. Saunders asks.

“I’m the one asking the questions around here,” I say a bit too defensively.

Not everyone needs to know that my gun is fake and that I stole it from the prop department at the high school. It looks real, but when you fire it, bubbles come out. Pretty freaking cool if you ask me.

When I get bored, because there isn’t any real sheriffing to do around here unless you count that one dead guy, I might entertain myself with the bubble gun. I also might have knocked a bottle of bubbles off my desk, and it spilled everywhere. Who knew bubble batter would make such a mess? Wait, is it bubble sauce? Nope, that's not it either. Maybe it’s bubble juice, but that sounds gross.

“Bubble liquid!” I snap my fingers when I get it.

“Bubble liquid?” Mr. Saunders tilts his head, not getting it.

“Never mind.” I tap the counter. “Your next order better have bubbles.”

“Or what?” Mr. Saunders challenges.

“Maybe I won't investigate the next time your house gets TP’d.”

“I have a doorbell camera, Georgia, and last time you helped those little bastards.”

“Don't talk about the girls' tennis team like that. They almost won state.”

“Fifth place isn't almost,” Mrs. Betty chimes in.

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