And Dusty, just like f**king Dusty, slid right in to take away what was Debbie’s. It might have taken her twenty years but she did it.

And she used Darrin’s death to do it too.

What a bitch.

And Mike, God, she thought, years ago, he’d seen through Dusty’s bullshit when she went all grunge or goth or whatever the f**k it was. But, apparently, just like everyone else, she’d pulled the wool right over his eyes. Fuck, a cop, and he still didn’t see.

Debbie understood, rationally, that she had no intention of going there. Yes, if Mike had walked through the door she opened the day before, she would have been at his house like a shot to enjoy him and that tall, delicious body of his so she could forget all the shit swirling around her. Hell, he’d been a fantastic lover even as a teenager. Maybe not in the beginning but, seriously, even as a boy-man, he learned quick how to use his mouth, his hands and better parts of his body. And even as a boy-man he was driven to make sure she got something out of it too. Again, maybe not in the beginning, but he learned that quickly too and she let him. If he’d walked through that door yesterday, she knew nothing could come of it. She was going back to DC and she’d never, ever call The ‘Burg home again.

But that didn’t mean he was open to Dusty.

Debbie sat in her parked car and watched Mike walk to his dark blue Chevy Equinox vaguely thinking he needed to trade up. She didn’t know cars very well but it appeared his was at least two years old. She thought this as she thought not so vaguely that he’d never lost that sexy as f**k loose-limbed, masculine grace he’d had since high school.

Then she watched him swing in.

Then she watched him drive away.

Then she sat in her car, seething.

Her little sister.

Her f**king little sister.

Jesus, some things never changed.

Even the shit that should.

She switched on the ignition and drove back to her childhood home that she knew was now empty because her family was having brunch with her f**king little sister and she did this to take her Sunday conference call.

*

Mike pulled the Frisbee from his golden retriever, Layla’s mouth and set it to flying.

She ran after it, her paws crunching through the soft white blanket of flakes, sending out tufts of snow.

It was f**king freezing but his backyard was the size of a postage stamp and his dog needed room to run. So he’d taken Layla to Arbuckle Acres Park. He knew she didn’t feel a thing except extreme excitement Dad was taking her on an outing and bringing the Frisbee with him.

With a gloved hand, he reached into his back jeans pocket and pulled out his phone. Layla came back with the Frisbee, waited until his fingers were curled around it then let it go.

Mike let it fly.

She ran and he scrolled down to Hunter Rivera’s name in his phonebook and hit go.

It rang twice then, “Rivera.”

“Hunter Rivera?” Mike asked.

“You got me.”

“You don’t know me. I’m Mike Haines. I’m a friend of Dusty Holliday and a lieutenant at Brownsburg Police Department. Everything is cool with Dusty but she gave me your number because we need to chat.”

“Let me guess. Beau showed at the memorial service and got down on bended knee, offering Dusty an engagement ring in front of her brother’s casket.”

Mike didn’t try to stop his chuckle.

He liked Rivera already.

“Not quite,” he answered.

“Am I warm?” Rivera returned.

“Yeah,” Mike replied. “She’s getting a lot of phone calls.”

He listened to Rivera sigh but heard his voice was alert when he asked, “How many?”

“One yesterday offering to come up and help her with her grief. Three this morning before six thirty. She was out gettin’ donuts and he threw attitude when I picked up and bald-faced lied she was his woman. She lost her mind when she heard, called him and threw a shit hemorrhage but shared with me she’s beginning to get concerned.”

This was met with silence.

“Rivera?” he called.

“Out gettin’ donuts?” Rivera asked.

Fuck.

Before he could reply, Rivera whispered, “Jesus, f**k, shit. Mike. You say your name is Mike? From Brownsburg?”

Mike felt his gut get tight and the feeling didn’t suck. Not even a little bit.

She’d talked about him to her friends.

He hadn’t seen her in over twenty years and she’d talked about him to friends.

“Yeah,” Mike replied. “Mike Haines.”

He heard a whistle.

Then he heard, “Right, dude, I don’t got a vagina so I don’t belong to the club and, lucky for me, that means I can’t get kicked out for tellin’ you this shit but Dusty, she talks about you. I try not to get involved when the tequila appears and Jerra breaks out the margarita glasses because at those times, anything goes and it can get hairy. But that don’t mean I can turn off my ears and the shit I heard is good. I tell my woman you two hooked up, you’re gonna hear her screamin’ all the way from Texas.”

His gut tightened further and he was right. It didn’t suck. Not even a little bit.

“She’s gettin’ donuts, that mean she hooked up with you?” Rivera pressed.

“How ‘bout I let Dusty talk to your woman about that,” Mike poorly evaded.

He knew it was poorly when Rivera muttered, “You two hooked up. Shit, f**k. Awesome.” Then he stopped muttering when he asked, “Please tell me you’re an ex-assassin, current professional wrestler and you’re makin’ plans to come down here and kick Beau LeBrec’s ass.”

Mike grinned, tagged the Frisbee from Layla’s mouth again and let fly, replying, “Unfortunately, no. I’m just a cop. But that needs to be done, I’m on-call to do it.”

Rivera was back to muttering when he said, “Right, well, seein’ as this ain’t your jurisdiction I probably should take the first crack at that ass**le.”

“I take it from your understanding of the situation you’ve had concerns,” Mike guessed what he knew was accurately.

Rivera confirmed his guess. “Dusty says she can handle it and he’ll move on. I went to high school with Beau. The dude looks good, knows it, thinks he’s got the ladies eatin’ outta his hands. Can’t say, ‘til Dusty, he was wrong. Had his pick, loved ‘em and left ‘em. He fell hard for Dusty but learned through years of gettin’ what he wanted just by flashin’ a smile, he could serve up shit and they’d eat it. Dusty Holliday doesn’t eat shit. She showed patience in tryin’ to teach that old dog a new trick. He refused to learn so she got shot of his ass. He’s the heartbreaker, doesn’t know any different. Again, a new trick Dusty’s tryin’ to teach him. He just ain’t willin’ to learn.”