“Come on now, Grace.” I go around and take Mr. Green’s wrist. If I can lead him away, Grace will start to diffuse. “You don’t want to come down to the station with us.”
“We’ll put you in the same cell,” Wilson goes on.
“Good!” Grace shrieks. “I’ll beat him. I’ll beat him to death this time!”
I wave my hand in the air, dismissing her. It’s the same old song and dance and it happens two or three times a month. The Greens have a daughter, but she can’t be bothered with her parents anymore, not that I blame her. Mr. Green has been an unfaithful drunk for as long as I can remember.
I get Mr. Green around my car, and he doubles over and pukes on the grass. Score for me. I hate when we have to ride back to the station with a car full of vomit. I make sure he’s done before putting him in the back, and Wilson deals with Grace and her shotgun.
Just a typical day on the job…which makes me want to run for sheriff even more.* * *
Owen: Getaway tonight. Drinks on the house.
Me: You always say that, yet I always end up paying my tab.
Dean: WHAT!? YOU’RE ACTUALLY GOING OUT?
Me: No.
Logan: Isn’t the hot nanny there?
Dean: I’m sure she is, and that’s why he’s not going out.
Owen: If I come over and misbehave, will she spank me?
Me: Grow the fuck up.
Dean: I take that to mean she’s as hot as her photo made her seem.
I roll my eyes, silencing my phone. Another slew of text messages come through that I ignore. My brothers and I have had an ongoing group text for years that we mostly use for hurling insults or sending crude GIFs to each other.
Putting my phone in the top drawer of my desk, I take care of the rest of the paperwork and grab a coffee from the breakroom. After leaving the Green residence, we had one minor car accident, teenagers trying to shoplift at one of the two gas stations in Eastwood, and ended the shift by helping Betty Perez round up her goats that broke out of their pasture.
I close the file and take it to Sergeant Lopez’s office, dropping it off on her desk. Sipping my coffee, I get my phone out to check on the house once more and see I have fifteen missed texts from my brothers and one from Mom. Knowing the texts in the group message Owen named Bros before hoes are most likely bullshit anyway, I ignore them for now and see what Mom had to say.
Assuming she’s asking about the nanny, her words almost take me by surprise. She wants to make sure I’m okay and not sad…and I have no idea why. Usually she’ll text me and ask me that same thing—in the exact same wording every time—when the subject of Daisy is brought up. But we haven’t talked about my almost ex-wife recently, nor is it our anniversary or any—oh shit.
Today is Daisy’s birthday. It wouldn’t have crossed my mind if Mom hadn’t texted me. I respond back to her, telling her I hadn’t even realized what day it is and yes, I’m fine. I put the phone down again, thinking that it’s time to move on from this and file the paperwork after all.7ScarletCome on, get it together. I inhale and open the fridge, trying to find something to make for dinner. My first day as Jackson’s nanny is almost over, and it did not go as planned at all.
Today wasn’t miserable. Time didn’t crawl, and I didn’t want to claw my eyes out or drown myself in a bottle of wine. Instead—dare I say it—I had fun. I didn’t expect to like Jackson. I hoped to mildly tolerate him while I formulated a plan on how to con his dad out of a large sum of money, but events unfolded differently.
Jackson isn’t a spoiled and entitled brat. I can tell teaching Jackson manners is important to Wes, and even though he comes off as a mean old grump, I sense he’s a gentleman at heart. After only a day, the kid is growing on me, and I need to press pause—if not rewind—on this whole situation and go back to not giving a shit.
But, dammit, I can’t.
“Do you want help making dinner?” Jackson asks, little feet slapping against the hardwood floor behind me.
“Uh, sure. What do you want?”
“Chicken nuggets and mac and cheese and pickles and maybe a cupcake for dessert.”
I laugh. “Well, we can do the mac and cheese for sure.” I grab butter and milk, setting them out the counter. “Pickles too,” I add when I see the jar. I preheat the oven, glad there’s a bag of dinosaur-shaped nuggets in the freezer.
It’s not exactly a home-cooked meal, but the kid’s not going hungry tonight. That has to count for something, right?