I stormed through the kitchen and out to the dining room where I found my brothers spread out in booths and tables, laughing, and shoving pie into their faces.
The whole scene was absurd, and it was absurd because the diner looked like cupid had puked hearts all over the restaurant. Jesus, it was barely the end of January, there was still a shit ton of snow on the ground and this woman had decorated her diner like some kind of shrine to Saint Valentine himself.
“Time to go,” I ordered.
“But Dusty’s got a fresh pot o’ coffee on,” Gizzard said with a mouth full of pie. Gizzard was in his mid-sixties, twice divorced, and had two grown daughters he adored. He was an ex-con who didn’t take shit off anyone, and everyone knew he had a sweet tooth a mile long, but more than that, he had a notorious addiction to baked goods. Try to get between him and his favorite pastry and you might lose a finger, or a limb.
“I don’t give a fuck,” I growled.
I heard him mutter under his breath, “But it’s French roast.”
“Bring it with you,” I said.
“On my bike?” he challenged.
“Gizz,” I growled.
“I’m also gettin’ to know my pretty new friend here,” he countered, nodding to Dusty.
Rocky pushed out of his seat and made his way to me. “I think we have the time to finish our food, right?”
I dragged my hands down my face. “Do whatever the fuck you wanna do. I’m outta here.”
As I turned to walk out the front door, the local sheriff walked in, and his hand went immediately to his holstered weapon.
As did mine.
Goddamn Oren Sanders. He was as crooked as they came.
“Sheriff,” Dusty greeted. “Got your usual seat all ready for you and I just brewed a fresh pot of coffee.”
“You havin’ trouble, Dusty?”
“Customers heartily enjoying my pie arenevertrouble, Oren,” she said with a chuckle, defusing the situation.
Dusty led the sheriff to his seat at the bar just as Rowan walked back out to the front, meeting my eyes with a glare before focusing on the sheriff. “Oh, Sheriff Sanders, I’m so glad you’re here. I could sure use your help with something.”
“Anything for you, sweetheart, you know that.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
The absolute last thing this woman needed was Sheriff Sanders in the middle of whatever this shit show was.
“Hey there, Rowan, one more thing,” I said, trying to brighten my voice enough to sound like an old friend as I forced my way behind the breakfast bar.
She let out a quiet squeak. “What are you—?”
I wrapped my arms around her waist and lifted her off her feet, carrying her backwards through the kitchen and into her office, closing the door before she had a chance to object.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she hissed, shoving at my chest, and I released her. “I’m going to scream for the sheriff.”
“Please, don’t,” I begged. “Look, I get that you don’t know me, but that man out there is a dirty cop. He’s on the take from at least three local gangs and I’m certain he’s involved with the people who murdered my brother, Scrappy. I swear to Christ, he will not help you without expecting something in return. Especially if he finds out about the money. Either way, it’ll be a price you won’t be able to afford.”
She sighed, biting her lip. “Okay, I don’t know about him being a dirty cop,” she said. “But I’ll concede he’s a little creepy.”
“He hit on you?” I asked, surprised to find myself instantly angered at the thought of that slimy pig coming anywhere near her.
“He’s asked me out a couple of times,” she admitted. “I’ve obviously declined.”