Fireball (Cheap Thrills #1)(32)

Humming, he moved his hand down my arm so he could link his fingers with mine, and kept his eyes on the road.

“You’ve got her feather on you, something she created, but now you’ve got everyone you love, and a rare breed of rose that’s all your mom’s too. She’s linked with your new niece who’s name after her, your new sister, and you. It’s your world all in one place that you can see whenever you want to,” he murmured, finding the perfect words for it.

He was right, it was my world in one area. If I looked at my arm, I’d see the beauty Mom had created. If I looked at my thigh, I’d see the beauty created for my mom, along with my new family. Losing her was still so raw, and I often found myself lifting out my cell to call her, or thinking how much she would have loved something, and I’d start crying. What I didn’t want to do right now though was cry in front of the man sitting beside me. How embarrassing would that be? So, I did what anyone would do in my shoes – I talked shit.

“Do you have to pass an IQ test to become a sheriff?”

He totally knew what I was doing, but he proved yet again what a great guy he was by playing along with it.

“Yup. Dumbasses don’t pass it, they get to sharpen our pencils.”

Turning to stare at his profile in the dim light, I thought about what he’d just said. Part of me knew he was joking, but a large part of me had questions about it – just in case. “You use pencils?”

Giving me a quick glance to see if I was being serious, he grinned and turned back to the road. “Sometimes, but then a lot of the time we use pens so people can’t change what’s written in their notebooks and reports when they’re submitted for the case they’re working on.”

Huh, that made sense. But still. “Ok, I have two questions now,” I told him as I shifted so that my back was to the door and I was facing him full on. “First question – people actually do that to their reports?”

Shrugging, he made the turn onto the street before mine. “Used to. That’s why they make us use pens now. If you do that, it’s considered tampering with evidence and a lot of other things, which means that you get in the biggest pile of shirt you can imagine.” Wow, the little things you know. “What’s the second question?”

Snapping out of the thoughts now zipping around my head including watching some crime shows when I got home or looking up Police procedures online, I tried to remember what else I’d wanted to ask him. “Oh, yeah. So, if you have a sharp pencil in your pocket or on the table when you’re interviewing someone, aren’t you afraid they’ll turn it into a shank and kill you or something?”

Thankfully, we were already at my house when I asked it, because as he pulled into my drive he burst out laughing. “A shank?”

Tilting my head, I tried to think of what I’d seen on TV. “Yeah, isn’t that what they’re called?”

“Can do, baby, but normally they’re called shivs,” he snickered.

“Well, excuse my bad prison lingo. I’ve only ever been arrested twice, and I wasn’t given the opportunity to commune with my jail cell brethren and sisters, meaning the terms they use aren’t familiar with me.” I tried to say it snottily, but I was trying not to laugh too, so it came out slightly shaky and wheezy which made him laugh harder.

With the engine off and both of us still laughing, it was getting warm in the vehicle, so I twisted to open the door, hearing him doing the same thing on his side. I realized that my shorts were now getting intimately acquainted with my butt crack, so as I walked to the front of the truck to meet him, I gave a subtle wiggle, sighing when they went back to normal before I got to him.

“I’ll remember that, baby. Prison lingo.”

“Maybe they’ll write a book and call it that?” I suggested, getting my keys out of my purse as we walked toward the door, the warmth of his hand on the base of my back making my voice tremble with something that definitely wasn’t laughter this time.

He’d done this a lot tonight, every time I’d walked beside him in fact, and each time had me lecturing myself not to trip and fall flat on my face. No one wants that at any point, but with a guy you’ve just met who you’d like to do carnal gymnastics with? Hell no.

Opening the door, we both walked in and I groaned when the cool air from the air conditioner hit me. Night times were easier here, but they were still humid and it felt like I was constantly walking through hot soup or something. Tonight, I had another reason for my body temperature being slightly higher than normal, and he was standing behind me, closing the door.

“Do you want a drink?” I asked, throwing my purse on the couch and walking toward the kitchen. I still had another week before school started, but I had to start my teaching plans and getting my classroom ready in a couple of days, so I was going to enjoy my free time and have a cold beer while I could.

One of the key pieces of advice for any teacher when they first started was to never come to school with a hangover. It wasn’t just the fact you’d lose your job that was a killer, but keeping control of kids and trying to explain things to them when your body was dying and you were trying to keep your stomach contents where they were meant to be? It had to be hell on earth. I’d never tested the theory and never intended to, and sure I had a glass of wine or a beer at night after it, but when school wasn’t in, I enjoyed it that bit more knowing I could have a second one if I wanted to.