keep yourself busy. If you wanna watch TV, I don’t have cable.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I know a perfect way to keep us both busy.”
“Perhaps you’d prefer to wait outside on the porch?” I asked.
“I apologize.” His laugh was way too casual for my taste. “I know now why I like you so much, Laney Briggs,” he called as I stomped up the stairs. “You remind me of my ex-wife. A lot of temper mixed with a little bit of sweetness.”
I stopped on the top step and peered over my shoulder. Oh boy . It was a miracle no woman had ever brought sexual harassment charges against him and that he was still on the job, given the amount of sexual innuendo he was slinging at me.
Colt smiled. I gave him a blank stare, and then went into the bedroom, taking a moment to double-check the lock before shucking my nightie and heading for the bathroom. After a much needed potty break, I pulled on a pair of Levis, my sheriff’s uniform blouse with “Pistol Rock” stitched across my left boob, and stepped into my red cowboy boots. When I rounded the stairs, Colt was leaning against the door, hands still stuffed in his pockets, head down and lost in thought.
I cleared my throat. “Are you ready to book?” I asked, strapping my .9mm into the holster around my waist.
He looked up at me. “I’m ready if you are,” he said, backing away from the door.
I picked up my keys off the table, pushed through the door ahead of him, and locked it behind him. “So when we get to Abby Sims’s trailer, please try not to scare the woman away.” I stared at Colt digging at the grass with his boot tip.
He stopped and peered back at me, frowning. “What are you getting at, Deputy Briggs?”
“Sometimes you come across kind of unfriendly,” I stated flatly.
“Sort of like you,” he answered, opening the Jeep door. “Although I get the feeling that I’m growing on you.”
I shrugged. “Not really. I don’t like you that much, either.”
Horseshoe Trailer Park was sort of a community all to itself, a group of people pretty much isolated from the rest of Pistol Rock—mostly because the rest of the town tried to avoid the place like a Baptist preacher does liquor. Seeing how it wasn’t the type of place that saw many outsiders, I witnessed a few curtains part and a couple screen doors crack open as we crawled along the gravel road winding through the trailer park in Colt’s red Jeep.
The last time I’d seen Abby Sims, she’d called in a meth lab complaint on my former classmate, Skinny Picket. Now Skinny was dead, and Abby was standing, a baby on her hip and a cigarette stuck to her bottom lip, at the top of the concrete steps leading up to the door of her trailer, eyeing Colt’s Jeep as it idled outside her double-wide. To add a little curb appeal to their trailer, the Simses had placed an assortment of wilted marigolds on the steps. A mint-green lawn chair sat at the bottom of the porch, and a cooler was tipped over on its side surrounded by what looked like at least an eighteen pack of empty Natural Light cans. Cigarette butts carpeted the ground.
With the fall wind blowing her hair about her sour puss, Abby shifted her weight, took a final drag, and flicked away the cigarette.
“I don’t recall inviting over visitors,” she called in a voice so hoarse it could have chipped paint off drywall.
I shot a look at Colt.
“Thanks for letting me tag along,” he mouthed at me, then shrugged and waved at her.
Wonderful , this is going to go down about as well as a Briggs family reunion .
We bailed out of the Jeep and made our way to the steps. It was Saturday morning, and all bets were off whether Mr. Sims had made it home last night. He was known to hit the bar after the Rattlers lost a football game. I reckoned that had something to do with why Abby was so uncordial.
Colt and I both stopped at the bottom of the steps and gazed up at Abby, who in all honesty looked meaner than shit.
She eyed Colt.
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I know a perfect way to keep us both busy.”
“Perhaps you’d prefer to wait outside on the porch?” I asked.
“I apologize.” His laugh was way too casual for my taste. “I know now why I like you so much, Laney Briggs,” he called as I stomped up the stairs. “You remind me of my ex-wife. A lot of temper mixed with a little bit of sweetness.”
I stopped on the top step and peered over my shoulder. Oh boy . It was a miracle no woman had ever brought sexual harassment charges against him and that he was still on the job, given the amount of sexual innuendo he was slinging at me.
Colt smiled. I gave him a blank stare, and then went into the bedroom, taking a moment to double-check the lock before shucking my nightie and heading for the bathroom. After a much needed potty break, I pulled on a pair of Levis, my sheriff’s uniform blouse with “Pistol Rock” stitched across my left boob, and stepped into my red cowboy boots. When I rounded the stairs, Colt was leaning against the door, hands still stuffed in his pockets, head down and lost in thought.
I cleared my throat. “Are you ready to book?” I asked, strapping my .9mm into the holster around my waist.
He looked up at me. “I’m ready if you are,” he said, backing away from the door.
I picked up my keys off the table, pushed through the door ahead of him, and locked it behind him. “So when we get to Abby Sims’s trailer, please try not to scare the woman away.” I stared at Colt digging at the grass with his boot tip.
He stopped and peered back at me, frowning. “What are you getting at, Deputy Briggs?”
“Sometimes you come across kind of unfriendly,” I stated flatly.
“Sort of like you,” he answered, opening the Jeep door. “Although I get the feeling that I’m growing on you.”
I shrugged. “Not really. I don’t like you that much, either.”
Horseshoe Trailer Park was sort of a community all to itself, a group of people pretty much isolated from the rest of Pistol Rock—mostly because the rest of the town tried to avoid the place like a Baptist preacher does liquor. Seeing how it wasn’t the type of place that saw many outsiders, I witnessed a few curtains part and a couple screen doors crack open as we crawled along the gravel road winding through the trailer park in Colt’s red Jeep.
The last time I’d seen Abby Sims, she’d called in a meth lab complaint on my former classmate, Skinny Picket. Now Skinny was dead, and Abby was standing, a baby on her hip and a cigarette stuck to her bottom lip, at the top of the concrete steps leading up to the door of her trailer, eyeing Colt’s Jeep as it idled outside her double-wide. To add a little curb appeal to their trailer, the Simses had placed an assortment of wilted marigolds on the steps. A mint-green lawn chair sat at the bottom of the porch, and a cooler was tipped over on its side surrounded by what looked like at least an eighteen pack of empty Natural Light cans. Cigarette butts carpeted the ground.
With the fall wind blowing her hair about her sour puss, Abby shifted her weight, took a final drag, and flicked away the cigarette.
“I don’t recall inviting over visitors,” she called in a voice so hoarse it could have chipped paint off drywall.
I shot a look at Colt.
“Thanks for letting me tag along,” he mouthed at me, then shrugged and waved at her.
Wonderful , this is going to go down about as well as a Briggs family reunion .
We bailed out of the Jeep and made our way to the steps. It was Saturday morning, and all bets were off whether Mr. Sims had made it home last night. He was known to hit the bar after the Rattlers lost a football game. I reckoned that had something to do with why Abby was so uncordial.
Colt and I both stopped at the bottom of the steps and gazed up at Abby, who in all honesty looked meaner than shit.
She eyed Colt.
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