1
JT
At this point in my life, I don’t ask for much. Honestly, with the way the past year has been for me, I’m much better off learning to take things in stride. But this is almost too much to bear.
Right now, I want this one thing. A small, trivial request of the universe—and that request is simple.
I want someone to change the fucking channel.
“This caprese bruschetta is everything summer, right? Fragrant Sun Gold tomatoes, beautiful rounds of fresh mozza, some fruity olive oil, and a sprinkle of that Thai basil. All of that dolloped on top of roasted-garlic-rubbed toast points. Summer, in your mouth.”
I narrow my eyes on the TV screen mounted above the bar and watch the celebrity TV chef smile absently as she arranges all that “summer in your mouth” bullshit on a tiny porcelain plate, pours herself a glass of pink wine, and then samples her own creation. One demure bite followed by a purring sound as her eyes fall closed for a beat, her chest rising and falling in a way that fills out the low neckline of her tight sweater. I want to roll my eyes, but then I realize that I should enjoy this tepid erotic display for what it is. I have almost zero chance of drawing those sounds out of a woman in real life these days, so I should take what I can get.
But despite the tight sweater display and all, this is a bar. Granted, it happens to be the bar inside of a chain restaurant, but this is what the outskirts of suburban Tucson has to offer. And while I like bruschetta as much as the next guy, I still believe that a cooking show should never be on in a bar. If there’s a television mounted above a bar, it should be tuned to either ESPN or CNN, and that’s all there is to it. Because no one cares about recipes for bruschetta in a place like this.
That’s when a dramatic sigh sounds from the seat next to me.
“Thai basil? Why is she screwing up a perfectly good bruschetta that way? Thai basil tastes like an old weed dipped in turpentine. And Sun Golds? You’ll waste ten minutes dicing up all those little cherry tomatoes and end up with more skin and seeds than anything. A big Black Krim and some Genovese, that’s all you need. Jesus.”
Well, scratch that. Some people do care about bruschetta. For a second, I’d forgotten who I was here with.
Chris Carr is one of the shrewdest US Marshals I’ve ever worked with, but he’s also one of those certifiably annoying foodies who can turn something like bruschetta into a rant-worthy topic.
These days, the two of us are members of Tucson’s violent offender fugitive taskforce, a team comprised of Marshals who are as tough as they come. Chris fits the part, not only because his skills as a strategist are legendary, but also because he looks like every casting director’s idea of a ruthless mercenary: shaved head, deep-set eyes, and built like a Strongman title contender. Based on the way he looks, people are usually surprised to find out that Chris is just as good in the kitchen as he is in the field. Hand the man a knife and it doesn’t take long to see that his skills with sharp objects are best employed carving a radish into the shape of a butterfly.
Chris is also the reason I’m going to ignore how much I still want someone around here to change the channel. Today was not a good day on the job, for either of us. A previously convicted rapist who recently violated the terms of his parole slipped our surveillance this afternoon and since he’s currently living out of his car, that means he could be anywhere. That leaves us with no option but to wait for him to pop up online again, which will likely be in one of the many chat rooms he frequents to target underage girls.
And waiting is the worst. It sets all of us on edge because that means our target is in control, when it should be the other fucking way around.
To dull that edge a little, Chris needs to watch a cooking show. I, on the other hand, just need to avoid going home for a few more hours. And we both want a beer, so here we are.
“Do the mozza rounds suit you, Chef?” I say wryly, before reaching for my beer. “Or would you prefer that she save those for a nice charcuterie platter?”
“The bocconcini are good. Same goes for her use of roasted garlic. You can’t go wrong with roasted garlic. Ever.” Chris takes up his own beer and looks longingly at the TV screen. “That woman could rub roasted garlic on me and I’d just lie there and take it. I mean, so long as she’s wearing one of those low-cut shirts when she does it, and when she’s done with me, I get to return the favor.”
“If that’s where your sexual fantasies are at these days, you need to stop watching so many cooking shows. And you need to get laid.”
Chris keeps his eyes glued to the television, watching intently as his roasted-garlic fantasy nimbly sheaths an asparagus spear with a piece of prosciutto in a way that almost seems indecent for a family-friendly cooking show.
“I am getting laid. You’re the one who’s in a dry spell that just won’t end,” he mutters.
I choke a little on my beer before muttering a fuck you in his direction. A split second later, I fully process what Chris just said.
“Wait. What the fuck does that mean? Are you dating somebody?”
I don’t even have to wait for an answer. It comes by way of Chris rubbing his thumb across the spot where his wedding ring once sat. I let out a sigh, long and loud.
“Shayna? Really? Do either of you even understand the point of a trial separation? You’re supposed to be sep-a-rated, not fucking each other.”
Chris shrugs a shoulder. “I don’t want to be separated. I want to be with my wife and my kids. So if Shayna digs us sneaking around a little bit, I’m happy to go along with her on that. If she needs me, then I’m there. Me not being there enough is part of the problem.” A flicker of a smirk works its way across his features. “So I’m working on that.”
The smirk isn’t some adolescent-type tic, or the look of an asshole who likes talking publicly about things he shouldn’t. Instead this is a man who loves his wife, knows he’s close to losing her, and is enjoying every victory along the way to getting her back. Since I wasn’t able to manage the same in my own marriage, I can’t help but respect a guy who’s somehow making it work.
Chris drains his beer, and a full pint glass replaces the empty within moments. Courtesy of the cute brunette bartender with the bright green eyes who easily remembered us, even though we’ve only been in here a couple of times. Our hard-to-miss US Marshal jackets probably have something to do with what makes us memorable. Plus, Chris’s mercenary look is impossible for most people to forget, and my tattoos—full sleeves on both arms—usually leave their own impression.
“How about you?” The bartender walks her fingers across the bar toward my glass, then taps one of her cherry-red manicured nails on the coaster beneath. “Ready for another?”
“Not yet,” I say, lifting my gaze to hers. She grins, says she’ll be waiting, and then walks away with a sway in her hips I’d have to be blind not to notice.
Chris reaches for his fresh pint, only to stop halfway when his phone vibrates on the bar top and a text lights the screen. Next thing I know, Chris is yanking his coat on and digging out his wallet, dropping a twenty-dollar bill on the bar.
“Gotta go. All three kids are down for the count with some sort of stomach bug. Shayna needs backup.”