Page 5

Chapter 5

Tobias

Two hours. That's how long it took me to get home after my shift ended. Two hours of breaking up fights, taking statements, and getting beer thrown at me. I'm damp, I stink, and I'm bone-deep exhausted, the kind where even my eyelids feel weighted.

Walking through the garage into the house, I strip down at the washing machine without ceremony. The smell of stale beer and bar fights clings to my uniform, turning my stomach. I carefully empty my pockets and turn everything inside out before dumping it all into the washer. Normally, I'd stay up to hang the uniform properly—wrinkles in a sheriff's uniform invite disrespect—but not tonight. I wish it was just the bar fight that drained me.

The shower's spray hits my shoulders with blessed heat, easing muscles knotted from tension. As steam fills the bathroom, my mind drifts back to earlier in the evening, before the call. To Ruth's shop. To her eyes, wide with hurt and confusion. To her lips under mine. Then the crashing truth of her thinking it's her, the way she looks.

"Man, I really fucked that up, didn't I?" I mutter, working shampoo through my hair with unnecessary force. "Why didn't I just tell her? Better yet, why did I stop?"

My brain answers before I can silence it: You stopped because you care about her.

"No, I don't," I argue aloud with myself. "And even if I did, I can't. It's not acceptable."

Always having to do what's right, be the sensible one. Joan's voice materializes in my memory, as clear as if she were standing in the shower with me. I blow out my breath. Fuck it's been fifteen years since I held her hand as she passed. I miss her.

But my mind isn't having anything to do with warm fuzzy nostalgia. Shit, I can still hear her disapproval. The memory of our biggest fight surfaces. The county fair, the carousel.

"It's a carousel, Tobias. A carousel. Who gives a shit?" Her exasperation still stings across the years.

"I do. People will see us."

"So? Someone will see you having fun with your wife."

"Someone will see me riding a child's ride." I can still feel the stubborn set of my jaw as I'd refused.

"And?"

"And they will ask themselves, why is the Sheriff riding the kiddie ride?"

"I highly doubt that anyone cares if you ride the carousel at the fair."

"What if one of the guys saw me?"

"And what if they did? Are you afraid to have your guys see you having fun with your wife? Afraid it will ruin your intensely composed reputation?"

"YES!"

"For the love of Pete! Is it really that hard for you to have some damn fun? Why do you always have to be the rigid rule spouting one?" She stomped away from me.

The fight had dragged on for two days. Eventually, we just dropped it, neither of us willing to concede. But the damage was done. That night at the fair was the first time I saw real disappointment in Joan's eyes—not anger, not frustration, but pure disappointment. It was also the first time I'd felt that cold knot of regret that's now so familiar.

I've carried that guilt for fifteen years. Joan wanted one simple thing—a moment of carefree joy with her husband. But I couldn't unbend enough to give it to her. Too concerned with appearances, with what others might think. That someone might find me silly and not serious.

I'm a pillar of the community. The face of safety and security. I've always felt the weight of maintaining composure in all things. It was drilled into me by my parents. Mom had daily lists and set timers to make sure everything was done with precision. Dad was the same way, only worse. I guess habits become ways of life.

The others—my deputies, business owners, ordinary citizens—they can laugh loudly, make fools of themselves, have public romances. But if I were to step outside my carefully constructed image? The whole town would talk, judge, and question my leadership. Worse yet, vote someone else in and I would be out of a job. And then what would I have?

I've worked too hard building the department into what it is today—a tower of strength for the community. I can't and won't risk undermining that for personal desires.

Shutting off the water, I methodically dry myself, following the same routine I've maintained for decades. Towel-dried hair first, then face, torso, legs, feet. Predictable. Sensible. Safe.

Sliding between cool sheets, I will sleep to come, but my mind churns with thoughts. The usual suspects: my deputies, then, where is that bastard Michael, on to the fight. And finally like most nights, Ruth. I close my eyes and allow the tropical scent of her hair, like an ocean breeze carrying exotic flowers, to flow over me. The silken feel of those copper strands flowing through my fingers. The softness of her body against mine, contradicted by the hardened peaks of her nipples pressing through her blouse.

Damn it.

My body responds instantly to the memory, blood rushing south until I'm achingly hard. I'd been in the same state at her shop, grateful for my utility belt creating distance between us. If she'd pressed against me fully, felt the evidence of how much I wanted her, I'm not sure I could have stopped myself.

I stare at the ceiling, debating my options. I can lie here uncomfortably awake, torturing myself with memories of Ruth's lips, her curves, her challenging gaze. Or I can take care of the problem and hopefully get some sleep.

With a resigned sigh, like all those other nights, I reach for my nightstand drawer, extracting a bottle of water-based lubricant. I'd been using lotion until a woman I briefly dated after Joan died extolled the virtues of proper lube. The relationship was over before it started. Two incredibly awkward dinners and several one-sided phone conversations where she talked and I half-listened. She was full of all sorts of advice. The one about lubricants stuck with me. An Amazon order later, I discovered she'd been right about that, at least.

I squeeze a small amount into my palm, the cool gel a welcome shock against my heated skin. Settling back against the pillows, I close my eyes and wrap my hand around myself. The first slow stroke sends a shiver up my spine. The coolness of the lube makes everything more intense, more alive.

I've developed a routine over the years. Long, firm strokes from base to tip, then special attention to the head, which has always been particularly sensitive. I cup my palm over the crown, fingers extending down the sides, moving in a pattern that would probably look ridiculous to an observer. Like some kind of strange jellyfish undulating around my cock.

With my eyes closed, Ruth materializes unbidden. Those light brown eyes holding mine, full of challenge and desire. At the park that day, I'd watched her lick her lips, a quick dart of pink tongue that had haunted me for days afterward. In my mind, that tongue is exploring me, tracing patterns across sensitive flesh. Those full lips wrapping around just the tip, her mouth warm and wet as she takes me in.

My grip tightens involuntarily. I imagine her straddling me, her weight settling on my thighs as she positions herself. The mental image of her sinking down onto me, taking me inch by inch into her tight warmth, has me gasping. I can almost feel her surrounding me, her internal muscles gripping as she begins to move.

My free hand moves to cup my balls, rolling them gently as my breathing quickens. The fantasy is so vivid I can hear her soft moans, feel the weight of her breasts in my hands.

The pressure builds rapidly, my hips lifting from the mattress of their own accord. My legs straighten, toes curling as the tension coils tighter and tighter. When release finally comes, it's with Ruth's name caught behind my clenched teeth, my body shuddering through waves of pleasure that leave me boneless and gasping.

After catching my breath, I clean up with the paper towels I keep beside the bed—another benefit of living alone, arranging things exactly as I need them. Tossing the evidence in the trash can, I settle back, Ruth's face still floating in my mind.

"Shit," I mutter to the empty room. I need to put some serious work into not thinking about her like this. Because like it or not, I can't be with her. She's too young for me, thirteen years is a big difference. Five, I could live with. Ten, even. But thirteen, people will talk and think I'm not respectable. Not to mention what it will do to her reputation.

I have to keep her at arm's length, not allow her business to suffer just because I want her. Fuck, No don't think that. I don't want her. I can't want her. I won't want her. No. No. No.

Turning onto my side, I punch my pillow into shape with more force than necessary. Sleep will be elusive tonight, with Ruth's hurt expression fresh in my mind and the ghost of Joan's disappointment lingering in the shadows.

I get out of bed, heading to the living room, maybe some television will help.