Page 3 of All I Need (Hearts of the South)
The waitress brought their drinks and tossed four straws in the middle of the table. Emmett squeezed lemon into his water and took a long sip.
Troy Lee jabbed a straw into his unsweetened tea. “You’re graduating this semester, right?”
“Yeah.” Emmett relaxed as much as he could in the straight chair. He stretched his leg out to the side so he didn’t crowd Bennett across from him. “In December.”
“Calvert posted the jail administrator job this morning.” Troy Lee spun his glass in a slow circle. “You should send your resume.”
“Yeah.”
“Dude, you’re cross-certified in corrections, you have your road experience, and you’re about to have your master’s in administration. You’re qualified.” Troy Lee pinned him with the steady look that brooked no argument. “You’ve got to take a step.”
“Easy for you to say.” He wouldn’t get pissed with Troy Lee. None of his problems were his friend’s fault, and he wasn’t going to fall prey to displaced anger. “After the wreck, you were out, what? A couple of months, then back on the road.”
“You’re right. It is easy for me to say. Even easier for Clark.” Troy Lee paused while the waitress arranged their plates on the table. Once she’d walked away, he clapped Bennett’s shoulder. “That’s why I brought him. He’s the one who had to start all over again.”
Emmett shifted his attention to Bennett and narrowed his eyes. “So what’s that first step like?”
“Oh, it’s a bitch.” Bennett grinned, tanned skin crinkling around his green gaze. “Worth it, but a bitch.”
“It’s a step, Em.” Clark’s quiet voice set him on edge. Man, he hated when they ganged up on him like this, even when it was for his own good. “Administration experience, which you need and don’t have.”
“I don’t have any jail experience either.” He resisted the urge to slam his fork down next to his basically untouched plate. He wasn’t a ten-year-old boy, and he was damn well going to act like a man.
“No, but you can learn. Everybody knows what kind of cop you were—are—and you’re hella smart.” Troy Lee continued to eye him steadily. “Singleton will give you a good reference and you know it. Go in and convince Calvert you can do the job. What do you have to lose?”
“My pride.” Which was still smarting at the word “were”. Past tense, like everything he’d worked so hard for was gone for good. He wanted back in a car, was working toward it every day—but he needed a realistic backup plan in case that never happened. Before, he’d have hashed out that plan with his sister and Clark, but Landra hadn’t talked to him in months. That left him with Clark and Troy Lee…and maybe Bennett.
“Pride is overrated.” Bennett trickled a stream of hot sauce over his pulled pork. “Trust me on that.”
“There’s also a 911 dispatch job open.” Clark bit into his smoked-turkey sandwich.
Emmett pinched the bridge of his nose, aware Bennett was watching him. Bennett rested an elbow on the table and leaned forward, voice low. “Starting over as something else, especially when you didn’t choose to start over, is hard. You can’t stay in one place, though. You get stagnant, and there’s no life in that.”
Mouth tight, Emmett glanced from Troy Lee to Clark. “I’ll polish up my resume.”
“Great.” Troy Lee reached for his tea glass. “And join us to play Saturday night.”
“No.” He hadn’t played since a week before the shooting. “I can’t stand up that long in one place. It still hurts if I try.”
“We’ll get you a stool.”
“I’m out of practice.”
“You have two weeks. We’ll do old favorites.” Troy Lee shrugged, a grin lurking at his mouth. “Be ready.”
Emmett stabbed his fork into his potato salad. “I really hate you sometimes.”
Bennett nodded, his face set in solemn lines. “Yeah, me too.”
“It’s unanimous.” Clark glanced at Troy Lee and chuckled. “I bet Chris would vote with us.”
“Some friends you guys are.” Shaking his head, Troy Lee flipped all of them the finger, and rich male laughter hovered over the table throughout the remainder of their meal.
* * * * *
Southwest Georgia’s summer heat lingered into late September. Leaves turned straight to brown and dropped to sidewalks that radiated the sun’s warmth even in early evening. Sweat trickled down Savannah’s spine and formed damp pools under each breast in her sports bra. She slanted a wry look at her sister, walking beside her. “Tell me again how this is better than yoga?”
“Maybe not better than yoga.” Amy brushed her damp bangs away from her forehead. Perspiration glistened on her upper lip, and she lifted her water bottle for a long swallow. “But you’re not supposed to talk during yoga. We can have a conversation while we do this.”
