Fatal Justice (Jack Lamburt #1)(2)

“Sure. Anytime.” She blew me a kiss, flashed her killer smile, and went off to pour a drink for one of her many fans who spent their nights across the bar from her, getting drunk and savoring the eye candy. Everybody loved Debbie. I couldn’t blame them. What’s not to like about a beautiful woman who laughed at all of your drunken one-liners?

Okay. I admit it. When we first started dating, I was a bit jealous at all the attention she received from the male patrons, but I’d grown and I was mature enough to handle it. Sometimes.

We’d been dating on and off for over a year and had talked about moving in together, but neither of us were ready for that, so we killed that idea. My hesitation was from some past relationship baggage, along with a few other issues I had. Nothing major, but they still needed to be addressed before the start of cohabitation.

I wasn’t sure what her reluctance to live with me stemmed from. We enjoyed each other’s company and got along great. Most of the time. We had many mutual interests. Hiking, working out, the great outdoors, dark beer, red wine, gin, whiskey, relaxing with a good book in front of a warm fire on a cold night, Barry White, love of animals, especially dogs. And hot sex. Man, did we light up the planet.

That wasn’t enough for her, though. Maybe it was the age difference, me being ten years her senior? I don’t know. I’m almost six foot six inches and still in great shape. Not as good as when I played basketball at Notre Dame, but still better looking naked than most men half my age. I silently toasted Arnold Schwarzenegger, whom I’d idolized growing up. He’d turned me on to weight training when I was just a kid, and man, does that pay huge dividends. I flexed my pecs, just ’cause I can, and drank some beer.

Maybe Debbie was thinking longer term? As in, when she’s turns seventy, I’ll be eighty? Perhaps, but damn if we weren’t smoking hot together right now. Have I mentioned that? After a glass of red wine and a little Barry White, she looked at me with a sultriness that all my pole dancer friends combined couldn’t equal.

I looked at her one last time before heading over to play some pool, and I regretted it right away. A drunk named Bobby was leaning across the bar, a dirty hand cupped tight to her ear, no doubt whispering something inappropriate. I saw her lean away and laugh right before I rolled my eyes. Jeez.

She played along like a good bartender, and guys like Bobby always left her a big tip before stumbling home, flopping into bed with their flannel shirts and jeans still on, and wet-dreaming of my Debbie.

I grabbed my beer and walked over to the pool table.

“Evening, gentlemen.” I placed a dollar’s worth of quarters next to the money slot.

“Howdy, Sheriff Jack. How’s business?”

“Nice and slow, just the way I like it.” I raised my glass and silently toasted the lack of criminal activity in our neck of the woods. Lots of folks think that being a sheriff in a peaceful no-stoplight town would be boring. They’d be right. But I’ve had enough excitement for two lifetimes, so I’m perfectly fine with my simple existence.

Mary Sue came over to me, put down her serving tray, and gave me a big hug. “How’s my favorite sheriff?” Her mom, Meredith, and I have known each other ever since we went to Richmondville High School together more years ago than I cared to count. Spitting image of her mom, too. A little taller, about five-ten, curvy, dirty-blond hair, and a warm smile that invited everyone into her circle.

“Wow, it’s great to see you.” I grinned and gave her a fatherly hug. “How’ve you been? How’s college?”

“Good. Eh, it’s okay.” She shrugged.

“Boys treating you well?”

“Heck yeah, once I tell them that my Uncle Joe’s a sheriff.” She loved digging on me about Frances’s inability to remember my name.

“That’s good. Tell ’em about my gun collection too.” I winked at her.

“Oh, don’t worry, I do.”

“Mom and dad good?”

“Yeah, they’re fine. They just left for their annual Florida jaunt.”

“Key West?”

“Yep, fisherman’s paradise. You know my dad and his fishing.”

“Yeah, I do. Kindred spirits, he and I.”

Stuart is a well-known cardiac surgeon and works in Albany, a fifty-mile trek up Route 88. They live in a spacious but modest two-story colonial on over sixty acres that adjoin Clapper Hollow State Forest. When he’s not mending broken hearts, he’s planning his next fishing trip to the Keys.

“That’s true,” she said. She smirked and turned a little snarky on me. “He’s almost as bad as you and your hunting trips.”

“Hey, don’t be jealous now. Just ’cause I pack up my rifles every summer and fly all over the place killing ferocious animals, that doesn’t make me a bad person. At least I feed the needy.” I raised my mug and toasted my annual meat donations to the local food banks.

“Yeah, that’s swell of you, but you disappear for like eight weeks at a time.”

“So? Wait a minute… You miss me, don’t you?”

“You go by yourself and nobody knows where you are. What if something happened to you out in the wild?”

“Aww. You worry about me. That’s sweet Mom.”

She laughed at my teasing. “Fine. Be that way. I have to get back to work, see you in a bit.” She grabbed her tray and went to take an order from a young couple two tables away. What a great kid. Her parents did a fantastic job raising her.