Page 4 of The Fall Back Plan
He shakes his head. “They are not, Jo.”
A new person walks in, but I don’t pay them any mind. I’ve got Mary Louise to keep an eye out.
“You heard my bartender,” I tell the Bad Apples. “You’re not man enough for my wussified establishment. Get out.” I don’t raise my voice. The remaining patrons can definitely hear Apple Hat but not me. Not unless Precious or Tina drops the volume on the alt-country music playing loudly enough to give the bar atmosphere without drowning out conversation.
The servers won’t, of course. Like total pros, they’re offering more complimentary champagne to the tables who haven’t asked for their checks yet. We probably ought to be giving them popcorn for the show too.
Apple Hat hears and understands me just fine. He glances at his friends, and when a couple of them don’t meet his eyes, he puffs his chest out and zeroes in on me again. “Who’s going to make me?”
I barely repress another eyeroll. I like a good action flick as much as the next person, but the greatest disservice those films have done our culture is giving the bad guys weak dialogue for unimaginative Apple Hats to parrot.
“I am,” a deep male voice answers before I can.
The whole group turns like their heads are mounted on the same swivel, and my gaze slides past them to realize why Mary Louise didn’t react to the new arrival.
I take in the tall, powerfully built man in a sheriff’s uniform, the firm jaw beneath the short-cropped beard on his startlingly handsome face, and meet the flinty eyes of Harvest High’s legendary holy terror, Lucas Cole, above the badge.
I never asked when I moved back who the current sheriff is. I really should have.
Chapter Three
Jolie
Thereisnorecognitionwhen Lucas Cole’s eyes meet mine before settling on the Bad Apples.
“What’s the problem, Hardin?” Lucas asks.
Here’s what it means if the sheriff of a town the size of Harvest Hollow knows your name on sight: this isn’t the first time you’ve raised hell. Sounds like the Bad Apples turn up like bad pennies.
I can’t see Apple Hat’s face now, but the sneer is clear in his voice when he answers. “I’d like to report vandalism at Sullivan’s. Paint all over the place. Interior defaced.”
“I’ve got this,” I inform Lucas.
He quirks an eyebrow, a subtle sign of disbelief.
“Mary Louise?” I turn my head when I say her name. She pushes away from the wall she’s been leaning against and straightens to her full six-foot-two height. There’s a reason she was the most feared forward in the Valley basketball league. She’s got two inches on Lucas, and he’s taller than any of the Bad Apples.
Mary Louise walks over to stand beside me, her arms folded across her chest. She looks at Apple Hat for two full seconds before she says, “Pay up and go, Shane.”
She knows him, then. I suspect lots of people know Apple Hat now for the same reasons that everyone knew Lucas Cole in high school, none of them good.
Apple Hat, aka Shane Hardin, clearly knows what Mary Louise can do. He looks at his wingnuts and says, “My allergy to hipsters is acting up.” They all produce cash and toss it on the bar, following after Apple Hat as he brushes past the sheriff on his way out.
I turn to address the remaining customers, all seven of them. “Thanks for your patience as we took out the trash, folks. Please enjoy a Cherry Bounce or a pint of our house ale on us.”
This is greeted with low-key applause, and the last of the tension leaves the room. Good. Tension is the last thing you want customers feeling in a bar.
Lucas extends his hand for a shake. “I’m Sheriff Cole. I’ll step out to make sure Hardin and his crew aren’t sticking around, but I wanted to say congratulations on your grand opening.”
“I know who you are, Lucas.” I slide my hands into my pockets, ignoring his outstretched one.
Confusion crosses his face as he studies mine. He’s got a beard now, close cropped and the same warm brown as his hair, no early grays. I see the second recognition strikes when his jaw goes slack, but he catches himself before it drops open.
“Gappy.” His tone is both surprised and certain as he uses my hated high school nickname.
“The one and only,” I agree. I’d knocked out my right incisor when I was ten on a particularly bad night after retrieving Dad from Sullivan’s. His drunken staggering on the icy sidewalk had pitched us both against a garbage can, the kind maintained by the city in a concrete holder. I’d gotten a black eye from that too. But we had no insurance, so after my dad sobbed his apologies and passed out, I googled first aid for black eyes and how to stop your mouth from bleeding. The eye got better. The permanent tooth stayed permanently gone.
On the advice of the woman who’d recruited me to work at the hedge fund, I’d gotten a dental implant with my signing bonus for joining their firm. Got expensive skin care and Invisalign too. Now I looked like I’d come from a wealthy family—the kind who got their kids braces and skin care that didn’t smell like the Irish Spring bar soap shoplifted from the dollar store.
