Beneath Blackwater River Leslie Wolfe (me reader txt) 📖

then on the brim of that cowboy hat. She imagined herself reaching up and bringing his face down to hers, feeling his lips crushing hers in a desperate, demanding kiss. Alcohol buzzed in her ears, boosting her courage, driving her senses insane.

Then she heard a loud holler coming from the bar and looked up. Through the smoke-fogged window, she saw Deputy Scott dancing on the table, his shirt gone, wearing a sweat-stained, sleeveless undershirt. A wifebeater.

How fitting.

Reality yanked her forcefully with the strength of thousands of bad memories. Her father, coming back home drunk and horny, beating on her mother, on her and Jacob, his hands grabbing at Pearl, even at her, the lewd urgency in his eyes revolting.

Yet here she was, drunk, in a parking lot, about to grab Elliot and kiss him, driven by the same urges. The proud daughter of her father.

Bile rose to her throat and she promptly dropped to her knees, unloading her stomach contents by the rear wheel of her SUV. Elliot held her hair gently, keeping his cool palm on her forehead for support as she heaved.

The rest of the evening, the drive home in Elliot’s vehicle spent in silent, mortifying embarrassment, and how she’d managed to get into bed was all a blur. She’d never been so humiliated in her life.

This morning, the coffee pot spilled over with water, while she was still lost in her thoughts.

“Crap,” she muttered, taking the pot to the coffeemaker and pouring the water into the machine. She spilled at least a third of it on the counter, her hands shaking badly, perhaps from embarrassment that lingered around her, sticking to her soul like an oil stain, or perhaps from unshed tears threatening to overflow. Then she tried to set the pot in its place, under the filter, but it didn’t seem to fit anymore. She’d done it many times before, but the darn thing just wouldn’t go back in its place.

“Get in there, you miserable, good-for-nothing, piece of pathetic shit,” she said, her voice rising with each word that marked yet another attempt to force the pot in its place, each new attempt more forceful than the previous ones.

“Whoa,” Jacob said, entering the room barefoot and wearing crumpled, mismatched pajamas.

Startled, she turned to look at him, while her hand shoved the offending pot against the edge of the counter by mistake, smashing it to bits.

She stared at the shards littering the floor, still holding the broken pot’s handle. “The heck…” she muttered, squeezing her eyes shut, as if to force the image away. Looking at her brother, she tried to apologize. “I’ll get us a new one today, I promise. This thing was old—”

“Are you okay?” he asked, grabbing the broom and dustpan and approaching her.

“No, stop right there,” she urged him, taking the broom from his hand and staring at his bare feet. “You’ll cut yourself.”

She swept the floor carefully, collecting all the shards on the dustpan before emptying it in the trash. Then she moistened a paper towel and swept the floor, collecting all the tiniest, barely visible specks of glass that might’ve escaped the broom.

“There,” she said, putting the broom back in its place. “But, thanks to me, there’s no coffee.” She attempted to be humorous, but the sadness in her heart was too pervasive.

“What are you talking about, sis?” Jacob said, pushing her gently to the side. “Take a seat, you’ve done enough,” he added, and they both burst into laughter. “I’ll make us some coffee, hillbilly style.”

“I’ve done enough, haven’t I?” she asked, laughter already gone, replaced by unwelcome tears.

“Who woke you up on the wrong side of the bed today?”

She bit her lip, afraid to share what was bothering her, afraid she might bring misery and unwanted memories to her brother’s heart. He didn’t deserve it. But tears filled her eyes, and the words blurted out, “I’m just like he was,” referring to their father, knowing Jacob understood. “I go out, I get a few drinks in me, then I want to—” She stopped, choking on the words. “Just like he was… drunk and horny, looking to get laid.”

Her brother’s hand found her shoulder and squeezed gently. She leaned against him, hiding her face in the sleeve of his pajamas.

“So, you’re human after all, sis, who knew?” Jacob’s words were unexpectedly soothing, nonjudgmental. “And you chose well. That Texas Ranger of yours is a good man.”

“He’s not a Ranger, Jake. He’s a detective. And he’ll probably never go out with me again.”

Jacob’s grin lit his eyes. He stepped away from her and found an empty bottle in the cabinet, then proceeded to wash it thoroughly. “This might come to you as a big surprise, Dr. Sharp, but men are quite flattered by female attention, drunk or sober. If only you’d specialized in behavioral psychology, then you’d understand.”

Irritated and at the same time amused with his sarcasm, she slapped him jokingly, then watched him fit the bottle with a funnel, setting a coffee filter in, followed by two scoops of coffee. Then he filled a small pot with water and set it on the stove to boil.

“I puked on the man’s boots, Jake,” she confessed, staring at the floor and feeling her cheeks catch fire.

“And a cup of this strong coffee will wipe all that bad taste from your mouth. Just give your brother a chance, will you?”

He waited for the hot water to drain through the filter, then removed the funnel and poured coffee from the bottle into two cups. Handing one to her, he added, “He’ll be back, you’ll see.”

“No, he won’t,” she replied with a long sigh. “By the time I get to work, he’ll already be transferred back to Texas or somewhere as far away from me as possible.”

The first sip burned her lips, but it was just what she needed. She didn’t get to take a second one before her phone chimed. A message from SSA Strickland was asking about Nicole Scott’s case.

She typed her reply