Page 2 of Bred By The Deputy
Before I get out of the cruiser, I take down all the details I can. License plate, color, make, model—a Porsche 718—where I first spotted them and the mile marker they pulled over. Climbing from my car, I shut off the sirens and lights as I head towards the car. My pulse kicks up as I place a hand on my gun, taking it off just long enough to press my palm to the back of the car, just in case.
“Good evening. Going a little fast back in town,” I start as I reach the driver's side, the darkly tinted window sliding down slowly. “Can I get your….”
Trailing off as the driver tilts their head back, black and pink hair falling off her face, I swallow hard. Bright golden eyes gaze up at me, a shimmer of mirth in their depths. Reaching out, she hands me a driver's license from Miami, insurance, and the registration before I finish asking for them.
My heart pounds faster, the normal adrenaline I would feel at any traffic stop. Only this is not any traffic stop. This girl is not from here, is driving a car worth more than a year of my salary and looks as poised and polished as any woman I have ever seen. Back at my car, it takes me a minute to calm my breathing as my shaking hands type in her information.
“Calm down, Dole,” I curse myself, tapping at the keys anxiously. I pull up a clean driving record, but there are some hits for arrests. I pull them up, laughing when I see them. Of course, she’s one of those.
Last winter Quinn VonMuth and her best friends—and fellow rich girls—came to town to protest the logging landing. They were known philanthropists who truly used their money and power for good.Usually.They found out quickly that Felle Landing is one of the most sustainable logging companies in the world.
Quinn and her friends gave up their protests, at least at Felle Landing. That may have more to do with Quinn getting hitched to one of the lumberjacks up there. They decided they liked it here in Driftwood and Quinn and her friends set up shop, opening that fancy new coffee shop Mrs. Murphy usually complained about.
It would seem this speed demon is here to join the ranks. Many of her arrests match up to protests I know Quinn, Lennon, and Brielle were involved in. Only know that because Keller had me do checks on all the girls when they kept showing up at the landing. It seems they all like to stick it to the man, or something along those lines, this one included.
Della Crest. Daughter of Leonard Crest, billionaire newspaper mogul.
I imagine the many stories he had to print in his newspapers about his daughter’s antics have something to do with her winding up here in Driftwood. Rich girls seem to wind up here seeking some kind of redemption. It worked for her friends. I suppose it could work for her.
“Ms. Crest,” I start as I approach her again. “You know why I pulled you over, I assume?”
“Yes, I was going too fast. I forget how fast this thing goes. I was rushing for no good reason. My father always said I started life in a hurry because I was two months premature. Officer, I understand I made a huge mistake. How can I make it right?”
Glancing down at her as she beams up at me, I stop lying to myself. My heart skittering has nothing to do with the usual adrenaline. I am excited. I want to give her a ticket, I want a chance to see her at the courthouse. I want any shot at seeing her again. Her light eyes stare up at me in the twilight, a smile turning up her perfect pouty lips.
“I have to write you a ticket, Ms. Crest,” I answer gently.
“Della. Call me Della,” she pleads with a bigger smile, her eyes narrowing on my badge. “Dole…like…the pineapple and bananas?”
“No, ma’am. It means destiny, to fulfill it. Not that I mind pineapples or bananas.”
“Oh, that is much better. I do like pineapple though. Have you ever had the dole whip at Disney? It isdivine. Am I going to jail, Dole?”
Chuckling, I shake my head at her. “No, Della, not tonight.”
“Well, take me to dinner then. I have no idea where to eat.”
“What? Right now, take you to dinner?”
“Yeah. Could you? I promise to pay for any ticket. I plan to be in town for a while. I am starving with no idea where to get some mashed potatoes. You have a place like that here?”
What could it hurt, taking a little rich girl for some mashed potatoes?
Chapter Two
Della
Mashed potatoes may be the best thing man ever invented.
Well, after the French fry, if we’re talking potatoes. I love a good French fry. Who doesn’t? Hand cut, fried just right, a heavy hand of salt, and a pool of warm ketchup. That is a slice of heaven if you ask me. Add some beer-battered onion rings and it doesn’t get much better.
These mashed potatoes could be the best I have ever had. And at a tiny diner on the edge of a tiny town, I am impressed. The gravy is thick, warm, and dark with a rich flavor. I ask the waitress for a bowl of it to dip my steak in and she obliges with a polite smile.
“You weren’t lying about being starved.”
Flushing as I shove a bite of creamy gravy-soaked mashed potatoes and steak, I nod. I do a lot of stupid things. Drive too fast. Drink too much. Date the wrong men—which is why I ended up here in Driftwood. But I never lie. Not even about simple things. I don’t know if I know how to lie.
“I was. I am. This is amazing. I had a bag of hot Cheetos and a Red Bull earlier. This is what I needed. A good meal at a good place, with a good person. Am I making you uncomfortable? People say I do that.”
