He hadn’t fucked her.
He’d made love to her.
It started off differently, hot, heavy, wet, desperate.
Then for some reason, it had changed.
No, not for some reason.
He knew the reason.
He’d nipped her ear with his teeth and she’d turned her head, dislodging his mouth, and in the light of the moon, he’d seen her face.
She’d looked turned on. It was hot and he got off on the fact he made her look that way.
But she’d also been smiling.
She liked what he’d done, how it made her feel, all he’d done and how it felt.
But she also just liked him.
And he’d liked that.
He hadn’t had a woman since Hope had told him she wanted him to leave, and when he argued that she was making a massive mistake, for her, their kids, their family, him, them, and she didn’t let up, he’d left. Through a year’s separation, the whole time he thought he’d get her back and he wasn’t going to screw that chance any way he could.
But even if it had only been his hand and a lot of good memories he could make even better in his head, with Greta, no matter how long it had been since he’d been inside a woman, he’d taken it slow. He’d taken his time. And he took them both where he’d been with only one woman in his life.
His wife.
And it had been better than it had ever been with Hope.
Far better.
Beyond anything he knew could happen.
He knew why too.
Because Greta with the great voice, great hair, beautiful face and ample curves knew what she liked too.
But what she liked wasn’t about getting what she wanted.
It was about giving.
And Hix had never had that. Not like that. Not unadulterated. Pure. It being about her getting off on giving to him even as he got off giving to her.
Not once in his marriage. Not once in any relationship.
He gave.
He didn’t get.
Except from his kids and they gave him everything he needed by simply breathing.
He was down with that too. He loved his wife and he was the kind of man that thought that was his job, to pull out all the stops to give his wife what she needed, what she wanted, what made her happy.
He knew no other way mostly because he’d have it no other way.
Until he had it another way.
“Boss?”
When Bets called him, Hix realized he was standing just inside the door not moving.
Shit.
He moved to the swinging half door and swung through it, and as usual with Bets, dealing with her the only way she forced him with her crap to deal with her.
He held her eyes only as long as was necessary to say, “Mornin’.”
He walked down the center aisle between the desks as she replied, “Mornin’. Have a good weekend?”
He walked right past her, muttering, “Yup.”
And he had, for the first time in about a year and three weeks.
Or at least he’d had a good Saturday night.
Until he’d screwed it up.
He went to his office, then to his desk, tossed his phone on it and rounded it, hitting the button to boot up his computer.
His desk was at the side of the room, his back to the wall beyond which were the cells.
He did this because he didn’t want his desk facing the window. It would imply to his deputies he was keeping an eye on them. He also didn’t want his back to the window, not because he didn’t want his back to the door, that window was bulletproof too. Because he didn’t want his deputies to see his computer screen or watch him when he wasn’t aware.
So to the side it was. They had their privacy of a sort, as did he.
He was standing behind the desk, about to sit his ass in his chair, when Bets’s voice came from the door directly opposite him.
“Heard you hit the Dew Drop.”
Another thing he didn’t like about small towns in not-very-populated counties.
Without much else to do, everyone got up in everyone else’s business.
And without much else to focus on, everyone’s business was easy access.
But with him, for some reason, even before he became sheriff, everyone thought he was their business. Him and Hope and their kids.
It was worse that it was Bets hitting his door first thing on a Monday morning sharing this.
Shit.
Here we go, he thought.
She walked in and Hix beat back a sigh.
“I’ve been there a couple of times. It’s pretty cool,” she noted.
He’d been there only once before last Saturday, years before, on a night out with Hope.
And Bets was right. The Dew Drop was cool. Out in the middle of nowhere, plenty of parking because everything around it was a field, the building looked like a shack.
This was because, back in the day it was a shack where the few African Americans in McCook County and its surrounding ones, and the few other people who inhabited them who knew cool, could go to listen to jazz or blues played and sung by traveling artists who’d never miss the chance to do their thing in hopes of making their names.
But also, they’d never miss the chance to give the management of the Dew Drop an opportunity to earn a cover charge.
There were a number of people in McCook County who had the respect of its citizens.
But there were only a handful who had the respect shown Gemini Jones.
The man was the fourth generation in his family to own and manage that shack.
And it might have been a shack back in the day, but now, you walked in, you got classy pink and blue lighting, plush semi-circle booths, tables in front of the small, intimate stage with tiny burgundy-shade covered lamps and long rosy-pink tablecloths on them, drinks served in stemmed glassware or heavy lowballs set on thick marine-blue cocktail napkins. Beer was served draft only. And the second you sat down, a small bowl of warmed almonds and cashews was set on the table in front of you.
If that club was in any city in any country in the Western world, it’d be cool as hell and popular to boot.
Instead, it was in the middle of nowhere in Nebraska, and it was cool as hell. But clientele was thin on the ground, so even though it was popular as best it could be, the crowd was only healthy, not what that club deserved—heaving.
“Yup, it’s cool,” Hix agreed, not sitting, just looking into Bets’s eyes.
She made a movement with her body that, if she’d allowed its fullness, would have had her drawing the toe of her boot across the floor.
Hix sighed again.
Bets spoke.
“Hear they have a new singer.”
Okay, it wasn’t even eight in the morning and he was having a bad day.
But even if he wasn’t, this shit had to end.
That shit being Bets having a crush on him.
She’d had it before his wife divorced him. But the minute she’d heard Hope had kicked him out, it went into overdrive.
Even before, she wasn’t good at hiding it. When she’d convinced herself she had a shot, she didn’t bother.
She got razzed about it by his two male deputies—one in an affable way, one in an asshole way—and she was so deep in the throes of the possibility of something that was impossible, it bounced right off her.