I make a noncommittal noise. Of course, Kenny has no idea what Sebastian is or why he’s here. That’s on a need-to-know basis, and the only ones who need to know are myself, Dalton, and Mathias. And Sebastian is, in his way, a good kid. At least he’s trying to be, and in Rockton, that’s what counts.
Sebastian knows what he is, and he’s spent years in therapy for it. He’s continuing his rehabilitation here with Mathias, the town butcher who used to be a psychiatrist specializing in psychopathy and sociopathy … and who may be an expert on the subject in more than just a professional sense.
It’s Rockton. Everyone has a story. Everyone has shadows in their past. It’s what they do here that matters. Sebastian is a model citizen. Others are not, and they don’t have his excuse of mental illness.
Up here, what you were before—and what you are at heart—is not nearly as important as what you choose to be. At least for now, Sebastian chooses this path, and we’ll let him have it, while we stand watch in case that changes.
I head to the Roc. It’s one of two bars, which may seem unwise in such a small town. Northern communities often struggle with substance-abuse issues. Long cold winters. Limited entertainment options. The isolation and subsequent cabin fever. Rockton deals with that by regulating alcohol even more tightly than other commodities. Part of regulating it is having two bars. Two places to enjoy a social drink while being monitored by staff who will cut you off fast, because if you start a drunken brawl, both you and your server will spend a week on chopping duty.
There are also two bars because the Roc serves dual purpose as a brothel. Yes, brothel. Right now we have a hundred and forty men and thirty-two women. I’m still not convinced that “brothel” is the way to handle that disparity, but I’m a lot more willing to concede the possibility than I was when I first moved in.
It isn’t a perfect solution. It leads to an expectation that, if some women take credits for sex, maybe they all will, if the price is high enough. I dea
lt with my share of offers when I first arrived, and in the early days of my relationship with Dalton, plenty of residents suspected I hooked up with him just to put a very big barrier between myself and the male population.
However, I will admit that Isabel regulates the sex trade as tightly as she does the booze. Part of that regulation is making damned sure every woman who does it wants to do it, is safe doing it, and can say no to any client. And woe to the man who asks twice once he’s gotten that no.
At this time of day, the Roc is closed. It’ll open at five, and Isabel’s “girls” won’t be on duty until nine. That’s a recent development, as Isabel tries to make the Roc more accessible to female patrons. I’d pointed out the unfairness of having half of the bars virtually off-limits to female patrons. Isabel saw my point, and we negotiated the nonbrothel early-bird hours.
I open the doors and walk into the Roc, which looks like a Wild West saloon. I’ll admit that part of the “female-friendly” schedule changes are totally selfish on my part. The Red Lion can be stuffy. The Roc is a place where you can grab a drink and park yourself at any table and be welcomed into the conversation.
Right now, the inside is dim and cool and smells of pine shavings. The shavings cover the floor, both for atmosphere and easy cleaning at night’s end, shavings swept up in the morning and fed back into that evening’s fire as kindling. We are conservation kings in Rockton. Also, the shavings smell nice and add to that old-time saloon atmosphere.
I walk behind the bar to the most secure door in Rockton: the liquor safe. It’s closed, and I raise my hand to knock just as a noise sounds from overhead. The very distinctive sound of bedsprings squeaking … along with other distinctive sounds that often accompany that one.
I could leave and come back in an hour. That would be the right thing to do. My business with Phil isn’t urgent. Not as urgent as his current business. However … Well, really, this is just too much fun to resist.
I take a jug of iced tea from the underfloor cooler, pour a glass, and wait. The sounds subside after just enough time for me to finish my drink. Then I head upstairs, calling, “Isabel?”
I reach the top of the steps. “Isabel? It’s Casey. I’m looking for Phil, and I was told he was here—”
The door at the end opens, and a woman steps out dressed in a wrapper. Isabel Radcliffe. Former therapist. Current bar and brothel owner. And while I’d love to claim the title of most powerful woman in Rockton for myself, I have to concede it to her. She controls the booze and the sex, and that makes her the queen.
Isabel is forty-six years old and quite possibly the most glamorous woman I have ever met. She’s full-figured and attractive, but it’s more than that. It’s confidence and style, and she oozes both. Brilliant. Manipulative. A sheer force of nature, one I have butted heads with since I arrived, which doesn’t stop me from now considering her one of my closest friends. Nor does it stop the head-butting. We’d hate to lose that.
“I found Phil, didn’t I?” I say as she pads barefoot down the hall.
Her smile answers for her. It’s wicked, and it’s very, very pleased with herself, and I can’t help laughing. She’s had her eye on Phil since he arrived, which I’d been glad to see. She’d spent the last year in mourning for a lover—claiming she was over him, while not so much as glancing at another man. This is a welcome turn of events.
I’m about to comment when footsteps sound behind me. As Dalton comes up the stairs, I say to Isabel, “So, was he worth the chase?”
“Definitely,” she says, leaning against the wall. “I’ll admit I was concerned about that. He’s very pretty, and too often, men use that as an excuse for lackluster sex. Women do, too, I presume. So it’s a relief to get a partner who is both pretty and proficient.” She glances at Dalton. “Am I right, Sheriff?”
Dalton arches his brows.
“Just say yes,” I say.
“Considering I don’t know what she’s talking about, that seems unwise,” he says.
Isabel smiles. “Oh, believe me, it’s wise. Unless you want to say that Casey here is lovely to look at but terribly dull to bed.”
Dalton looks at me and jerks a thumb toward the closed door down the hall. “Phil?”
“Yes,” I say. “And Isabel assures us he’s both pretty and good in bed.”
“Just what I wanted to hear.” He strides down the hall and bangs his fist on the door. “Phil? Get your pants on. We need to talk.”
“Don’t keep him long, please,” Isabel says as she heads downstairs. “Twenty minutes would be optimal.”