Page 36 of Road Queens
She saw his knuckles whitening on his malt glass, reached out, relieved him of it, set it down. “Of course you would. You strike me as a good-looking brother. Good, I mean. A good brother.” Her blunder made him laugh, thank God. “Is that why you became a cop?”
“Yeah. How’s that for stupid?”
“What?” She drew back, surprised by his bitter tone. The guy had done nothing but smile and shrug and give off casual vibes for all the hours she’d known him; the mood shift was interesting. “I don’t think that’s stupid.”
He picked up his malt, pushed the straw aside, and just gunned the rest of it down his soon-to-be-frostbitten throat. “You’re just being nice,” he slurred.
“I promise I’m not.”
“Aggggggghhhhh.”
“That’s what you get for bolting a malt. Open your mouth.”
“... what?”
“I can fix it. Open your mouth.”
“You can fix brainfrrrrrrrrrn?”
She had leaned in and pressed the ball of her thumb to the roof of his mouth. “Okay, if you do this to yourself—”
“Nnnnnnn?”
“Stop trying to talk; there’s a thumb in your mouth. When you try this at home, hold your thumb there for a good fifteen seconds, and it’ll speed up the recovery. I don’t know why. Probably a thermal energy thing.”
“Nnnnnn?”
His mouth was warm, and his lips were soft, and up close, he smelled even better, like cotton and chocolate, and she was doing her darndest not to wonder how his lips would feel on her neck, the tender spot behind her ears, her nipples. Other places. “But it’s not like we need to understand the science to enjoy the benefit. Right?”
“Nnnnn.”
“Right. See? My friend’s mom showed me when I was a kid. Iris Rivers, as a matter of fact. She was a physician assistant before she went to prison; maybe this is a trick they all learn in school.”
“Nnnnn mmmmm.”
“Doesn’t it feel better already?”
“Mmmmmfff.”
Good God, her thumb was still—“Sorry! Sorry.” She retrieved her digit. “But it does feel better.” She waited. “Right?”
“Yes.” Excruciating pause. “Thank you.”
“So you became a cop to help people like your sister. Noble intent!”
He rewarded her enthusiasm with a snort.
“Let me guess: you found it unfulfilling because the nature of the job dictates that cops are reactive, not proactive. You can’t stop someone from getting hit; you can only try to fix it so it doesn’t happen again.”
“Nutshell,” he replied glumly.
“I stand by what I said: noble intent.”
“Shouted,” he said with a small smile. “You stand by what you shouted.”
“Don’t tone police me. Or volume police me. When did you chuck the badge?”
“June of 2020.”
