Bad Boy Blues - Jessica Lemmon Page 0,6

teenager. Hell, his grandparents had assumed he would wind up on the opposite side of the law he now served.

The year his grandmother passed away of cancer had changed both Brady and Emory. His grandfather had been heartbroken, and while he’d lost that glimmer in his eye, his good-natured outlook on life rarely wavered. He’d loved and encouraged Brady more fiercely than before.

Gramps had never remarried or dated, which was why Brady insisted on dropping off Lila on the days he went to work. Leaving the dog alone at home for twelve hours was too long, and Gramps had leaped at the chance for canine company. Brady had thought they’d be good for each other, and he was right.

The old man was a playful, smiling burst of sunshine in Evergreen Cove, and since adding Lila to the mix, he’d become more of those things.

“Eat something,” his grandfather demanded, sliding another pancake onto a plate of sloppily stacked flapjacks.

Lila, tail wagging, her eyes on the spatula in Emory’s hand, gave an excited bark.

Gramps leaned down to the blond-and-white dog and patted her head with one hand. “You’ll get one, Pancake. It’s your namesake.”

“You’re spoiling her.”

“Spoiled you,” Gramps shot back, pouring batter into the pan. “You turned out fine.”

Brady ate a plate of pancakes as instructed, even though carbing up wasn’t a preferred morning activity. He would’ve liked to go for a run, stop by Cup of Jo’s, and then head into work.

Instead, he skipped the run but made the stop at Jo’s. An hour later, he was hunched over his desk, finishing reports he’d been putting off, his cup of coffee a memory.

“What are you up to tonight, Hutchins?” Fellow officer Darrin Strickland asked as he ambled by.

“Glorified bouncer. Patrolling Endless Avenue. You?”

“Night off. I’ll be looking for a summer hottie to be the next contestant in Who Wants to be Sexually Satisfied?” Darrin grinned. “You spot me in one of those bars you’re patrolling, brother, stay back and let me do my thing.”

“Why? Afraid she’ll like me better? I will be in uniform.” Brady gave Darrin an exaggerated eyebrow waggle.

“Everyone knows I’m better looking than you.” Darrin straightened his collar.

“I guess if I see you tonight, we’ll find out.” Brady stacked the report he’d just finished on top of the others. Thank God, that was done. His eyes were crossing. He was ready to be outside doing something useful.

“Be safe out there, man.”

Brady liked Darrin, though his bragging about prowess was exaggerated. He’d bet Darrin struck out way more than he hit home runs in the dating department. As for Brady, he didn’t date. He preferred mutually agreed-upon hookups that allowed him to resume his life as usual after. He’d had enough upsets in his life to try and put anything permanent in place. He was more comfortable knowing things would come to an end.

He refilled his cup of coffee with a less-than-desirable brand from the break room, his thoughts back on the woman he’d helped out Sunday night. Elliott, with her large eyes and larger chip on her shoulder had lingered in his periphery, even though he hadn’t seen her around since.

“What are you smiling about?” Faye, one of their dispatchers, asked as she strode by.

Answering honestly—that he was smiling over a memory of dark hair and cautious eyes—would only get him into more trouble, so he called out, “Mind your business!”

Faye laughed.

Outside, Brady scanned the road as per his habit. He saw no Beemer with one spare tire. From a purely curious standpoint, he wondered what had put the shadow in Elli’s eyes. It seemed different than the one that’d haunted him after his parents died, but no less poignant.

His cell rang. Anthony’s name lit the screen. A kick to the chest that could be caution or excitement preceded his greeting. “Ant, what’s up.”

“Elliott’s tire’s still here.”

“She hasn’t picked it up yet?”

“Nope.”

“She shows up, I’d appreciate a last name.”

“It’ll cost you,” Ant said, a smile in his voice. “Pick out a piece from my stash. It’s getting crowded in here.”

Ant made unique, sturdy furniture and was an amazing chainsaw sculptor. But… “Not exactly a high-end-furniture kind of guy,” Brady told his friend.

“You want a last name, Hutch, you’re going to have to become one.” Ant hung up.

Brady grunted a laugh. They’d been friends since they were both shithead teenagers. They might not be as infamous as the Penis Bandits—the nickname Evan and his friends earned for covering the library in spray-painted phalluses—but Brady and Ant had torn up