Page 80 of Moonshine Kiss
I did as prescribed. And after collapsing on the cool tile floor and laying there for a few minutes with Bowie mopping my forehead and playing with my hair, I did indeed feel better.
I’d yell at him later, go back to mad once I was back on my feet, I decided.
“I have to go to work,” I whispered.
“Jonah’s getting your care package ready. Ginger ale, coffee, and a breakfast sandwich.”
That all sounded pretty damn good.
I worked my way up to a seated position, pleased that my head hadn’t snapped right off my neck. With the aide of the vanity and Bowie’s helping hands, I made it to my feet.
“I’m gonna go,” I announced, walking gingerly toward the door. I made it into the hall and decided to try the door that divided our sides of the double. Bowie’s side was unlocked.Damn it. How was I ever going to sleep again knowing that the door that separated us was unlocked?
“Oh, hey, Cass?” Bowie called after me.
“Huh?” I grunted.
“Make sure you return the socks to Jonah. They’re his.”
38
Cassidy
Iarrived at the station five minutes early and very hungover. Thanks to Jonah’s magic cure and breakfast care package, I was at least capable of functioning. Though I fully expected to walk in and be asked to leave.
What kind of a police officer could I be if I couldn’t even be a law-abiding citizen?
I couldn’t believe I’d basically handed Connelly a legitimate reason to fire me. I wanted to blame Bowie or Connelly or someone. But I’d been the one to pour half a gallon of moonshine down my throat last night. I had no one to blame but me.
Bubba refused to meet my gaze when I entered.
“Mornin’,” I croaked.
“Mornin’,” he said, busying himself by shutting down his desktop.
There was a tall stack of files on my desk. The sticky note on top said Scan. I fought the urge to shove them off my desk and make it rain decades-old police reports. At least it wasn’t a friendly “You’re Fired” note. I owed Bubba big time.
The conference room was empty this morning. He was probably off digging up Jonah Bodine’s corpse, trying to get a confession out of it.
“Mornin, all,” my dad called as he strolled through the front door. “Any trouble last night?”
Bubba glanced my way.
“Not a lick of trouble, sheriff,” he said finally.
I didn’t know how long Bootleg Springs could hold on to the juicy nugget of the sheriff’s wife and two daughters getting hauled downtown along with half of the rest of town for a brawl. But I was grateful for today at least.
Dad looked in my direction, and I looked everywhere but his face. I was okay at lying, but my defenses were down, swamped in hangover stew.
My desk phone rang, and I pounced on it, eager to put off any interaction with my father until much, much later.
“Bootleg Springs PD, Deputy Tucker speaking,” I said in my most professional tone.
“Is your father giving you any long, broody looks today?” my mom asked on the other end of the call.
I glanced his way. “Sure is, ma’am.”
She blew out a breath. “That sneaky son of a bitch has instincts. I’ll give him that. He must have asked me twenty times how last night went. You don’t think Bubba told him, do you?” She was talking about two decibels lower than usual. Which meant Nadine Tucker was traveling with me on this delightful hungover journey.
