Hix’s body locked.
“God, you’re the sheriff, Dad,” Shaw said low. “You’re like, the president of McCook County or somethin’. People, they . . .” He hesitated then forced out, “Know about you. About us. They pay attention and would even if you weren’t the sheriff. But it’s more because you’re sheriff. And her? You just . . .” He did a quick shake of his head. “Whatever and then scrape her off? Folks think you’re like a god or something. And you’re a dude and dudes get away with that crap. But her? She does hair. She’s pretty and dresses cool, but she does hair. It isn’t nice, the way it is, people givin’ guys a pass on stuff like that, but it’s not the same for girls. It’s still the way it is. Wendy’s hair is awesome so I know she’s good at what she does. People are still only gonna think she does hair and Mom is who she is ’cause a’ Gramps and Gran and Uncle Cook and Reed and you. And you’re the sheriff. So they’ll think you work, bein’ with Mom. They’ll also think, you hook up with her and scrape her off, she’s nobody. She just does hair.”
“I’m not sure it would help matters, and it wouldn’t be cool to her if I made her or anyone else think what happened was something it wasn’t,” Hix explained.
“Okay, so . . . go listen to her sing. You don’t have to take her home and bone her. Just be her friend. You’re her friend, folks’ll get how it is and everyone will just settle into that. Not think she’s just a hairdresser but also some slut or something that maybe other guys can have a go with and treat her the same way.”
Hix drew in breath through his nose slowly and let it out just as slow, wondering if he was more troubled about the conversation he was having with his son or the fact his son somehow got to be so damned smart it was a little scary.
“You should take care of her, Dad. I know it’s totally not fair, but girls at school that put out . . .” He again hesitated before he muttered, “I hope Mom’s up in Corinne’s face about not putting out. It isn’t pretty.”
“You hear other boys saying shit about girls, you shut that down,” Hix ordered.
And he himself would have a word with his girl, no matter that he was looking forward to that a lot less than he was enjoying his current conversation, and he’d pretty much rather be anywhere than right there talking about what he was talking about with Shaw.
“Uh, duh, Dad.”
And his son had respect.
He was glad of that but he wasn’t surprised.
He’d learned that from his dad.
But now what was Hix teaching him?
Shit.
“I’ll go. Have a drink with her between sets. But then I’ll be right back, Shaw.”
“Okay, or you can stay. I’m here. It’ll all be cool you wanna go out and do something for yourself for once. I’ve got it covered.”
“You’re lucky you’re such a good kid,” Hix muttered. “If you weren’t, I’d probably be more ticked at whatever your geography grade is gonna be.”
“Brains come in a lot more forms than being able to call out the country when you see the flag for every team that comes out in the opening of the Olympic ceremonies,” Shaw replied glibly.
“Whatever,” Hix murmured, feeling his lips twitch. “Go to bed.”
Shaw, obviously relieved at how their conversation had gone, faked a salute then turned down the hall.
He didn’t get to his room before he called quietly, “Have fun, Dad.”
Hix wasn’t going to the Dew Drop to have fun.
He was going because his son was right, and Greta was too about Hope being on the warpath and he had a statement to make that should be declared to a larger audience than just Greta in the back room of the salon.
She was not a piece of ass. She was not open to be played with and speculated about.
She’d had his cock but she also had his regard.
He was not going to try to make her his friend. It had been a long time but he knew enough about his reaction to her, and had already had a taste of her he knew he wanted more of, that that would last about a second before he’d be trying to find ways to get her back into bed.
But people didn’t need to know that.
They just needed to know he thought she was what she was.
A beautiful, funny lady who could sing really freaking great and could make jeans into a fashion statement and should be shown respect.
“Go to bed,” he said to his son who was hesitating in his doorway.
“’Night, Dad,” Shaw replied.
“’Night, kid,” Hix returned.
His boy’s door closed behind him.
Hix turned and rested his shoulders against the wall.
Then he pushed from it and walked down the hall to his room in hopes of getting a change of clothes and not waking his girls.
When Hix hit the Dew Drop, he didn’t select a table like he did the last time.
He took a seat at the middle of the bar.
This made him still visible, but when he spoke with Greta, the intimacy of one of those little tables with their shaded lamps would not be there nor would it be communicated to anyone watching them.
Nor to Greta.
It wasn’t lost on him he had a lot of attention as he made his way to the bar.
But that was why he was there so it also didn’t bother him.
He was just glad Greta was obviously between sets, because soft jazz was playing in the background and the stage was empty. It gave him a chance to continue the effort he’d expended on his way there to get his shit together so he’d be able to hold it together when the time came they had their chat.
After he took his seat at the bar, he glanced at the bowl of hot nuts the bartender set in front of him, ordered a beer and surveyed the scene.
It was Saturday night, all the tables taken, all the booths, most of the stools at the bar, a few folks standing and talking, but no one at the bar waiting for a drink. This was because Gemini Jones kept plenty of servers on hand so his patrons could relax in their seats without worrying about when their next drink would come.
Hix also noted what he’d noted the first time he was there years ago with Hope.
There weren’t a lot of places or occasions in McCook County that made you give up your jeans. Church. Weddings. Graduations. Anniversary parties. Jameson’s Steak House in Dansboro.
And the Dew Drop.
So he, along with most of the other men, was wearing nice trousers and a dress shirt. The men not dressed like him wore suits.
That was the respect you showed the Dew Drop. There wasn’t an official dress code. Then again, no one would ever dis the Dew or Gemini Jones by showing up in a way that would be frowned upon.
“Sheriff.”
He turned his head and saw Jones himself standing beside him, looking at the bartender and lifting his chin at him for some reason.
“Gemini, I’m off-duty, but even if I was on, most times folks just call me Hix.”
Gemini turned his attention to Hix and slashed a white smile at him.
“Then . . . Hix.”