Trouble (B-Squad 2.75)

1

Leah

Fort Worth

It was the boobs. It was always the boobs.

They weren't like the-plane's-going-down-emergency-flotation-device big, but they were large enough that Leah Camacho was used to idiots who never looked her in the eyes trying to buy the girls drinks—or, in this case, upgrade her compact rental to a luxury Aston Martin DB9.

"You're the one hundredth customer today," the guy behind the car rental counter said. "It's totally legit."

Leah looked around. The place was empty. It was ten in the morning. There was no signage saying anything about a luxury upgrade contest. Sarah—according to the guy's name tag—was the only one working. He had a thick mustache, shaggy blonde hair, and the company shirt he wore was about three sizes too small, barely making the stretch across his broad chest. Her bullshit meter was off the charts. She glanced out the front door, ready to walk back out into the July Fort Worth heat—it wasn't a dry heat or a humid heat it was just an oppressive, thank-God-someone-invented-air-conditioning face-of-the-sun kind of heat—and Uber her way to another car rental place when the black sports car parked outside snagged her attention.

It was all sleek lines and badass beauty. She'd make the three-hour trip from Fort Worth to Catfish Creek in half the time. Of course, that may not be a plus. It's not like she was all that excited to return to her small hometown for her ten year high school reunion. If it wasn't for the opportunity to see the cute cheerleaders who'd made her life hell back then now looking like life had bitch slapped them around, she probably would have ignored the invite. Petty? Absolutely. However, anyone who said that wasn't at least part of their reasoning for attending a high school reunion when high school had been one of Dante's lower levels of hell was a big, fat liar. Anyway, there was no denying that this car would make a helluva better impression than a silver compact with zero pickup and a tinny horn. Plus, her best friend Gray would go ape shit. A mechanic and total gear head, he'd probably pet the damn thing and whisper sweet nothings into its intake manifold.

Decision made, Leah turned back to the man behind the counter who had developed a slick sheen of sweat on his forehead. Boyfriend here was nervous.

"And what do you want from me?" She dropped her gaze to his name tag. "Sarah?"

He shoved the printed contract across the counter to her along with a pen. "Just your signature."

"Same price?"

He nodded and pushed the paperwork another two inches toward her.

What the hell? If her boobs were gonna give her a backache and ruin her for strapless dresses unless she wore the mother-of-all-industrial-strength bras, she might as well get something out of them besides catcalls and unsubtle leering. She picked up the pen and signed.

Three minutes later her suitcase was in the tiny trunk, her purse on the passenger seat and she was behind the wheel, the rental contract still in her hand. Reaching across the dashboard, she popped open the glove box and pushed the paperwork inside. One corner didn't slide in easily. She patted her hand around inside and pulled out a small, hot pink satin bag with a cartoon unicorn stitched onto it. Something hard was in the bag. She tugged open the strings holding it closed and spilled out the contents into her palm. It was a diamond-shaped paperweight or kid’s toy, she couldn't tell. Obviously, the last people who rented the Aston Martin before her had forgotten it. No doubt, some poor kid was seriously bummed out.

She turned the key in the ignition. Then, she pictured a little kid with her eyes all puffy from crying because her parents had forgotten the kid's prized possession. Damn. It sucked being let down by the people around you—no one knew that better than Leah. There was no way she could hit the road with some kid's fake diamond. She cut the engine.

Sighing, she got out of the car to turn in the bag so the rental people could contact the previous renters, but the building had gone dark. The open for business sign had been changed to Out For Lunch Back At with the little clock on the sign reading eleven thirty.

Great.

She got back in the car and tossed the bag back in the glove compartment and closed it. She'd remember to turn it in on Monday when she returned the car. Unable to delay the inevitable any longer, she turned the key in the engine and let the car purr for a minute before pulling out onto the road and heading to the one place in the world she'd sworn she'd never go back to--funny how fate just loved to laugh at declarations like that.

Drew

Catfish Creek

For the fifth time that week—and hopefully the last in his quickly dwindling tenure, Sheriff Drew Jackson knocked on Beauford Lynch's front door, standing off to the side just far enough that if the old goat let loose with his shotgun the blast would miss its target but not so far to the side that Beauford's wife, Betty Sue, would think Drew was being rude. The situation pretty much described life in Catfish Creek: smile and protect your balls.

The door opened, revealing Beauford in a pair of pressed jeans and a God Bless Texas T-shirt. The shotgun was nowhere to be seen. Some of the tension leaked out of Drew's shoulders.

"Morning, Mayor."

The other man crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes, taking in Drew's worn jeans and plain white T-shirt. With only a few days left as Catfish Creek's sheriff, since he lost the election, he'd become sheriff in name only—except, of course, for paying house calls on the mayor.

"Sheriff," Beauford said with a curt nod.

No shotgun, but no welcome either. Looked like it was going to be one of those mornings. "Maisy Aucoin filed a complaint this morning, she says you've been harassing her cat."

"The damn thing keeps coming in my yard," Beauford sputtered. "Am I supposed to just welcome invaders with open arms?"

Drew managed not to laugh. It wasn't easy. The town's perpetual mayor for life was acting as if he was fighting terrorists or the East Coast liberal elite. "It's a tabby cat."

"It's my property," the other man shot back, an ugly red flush starting to climb its way north from his T-shirt collar.

"Does the cat destroy any of your property?"

"Not the point."

Drew sighed. This was ridiculous. God give him the patience to make it to five p.m. Friday, only four short days away. "Couldn't you just ignore the cat?"

The other man threw up his hands in frustration. "And this is why you lost the election."

"My even-handedness?" Drew asked, keeping his tone casual even as his heart rate sped up.

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