18. Sam

18

SAM

"Mind yer own biscuits, and life'll be gravy." ~ Archie "Witty" Whitlock

I hadn't been to the Tipsy Cow since before my accident and surgery. This might have been the longest stretch I'd gone without visiting the local watering hole. I usually stopped by several times a week. One visit was typically social, and the other two were while I was on duty and Kenna was working. I liked to make sure the idiots she was serving knew there was a police presence around.

Tonight, as I opened the door and hobbled inside, I instantly clocked three targets sidled up to the bar with their sights set on the sexy redhead behind it. All three men were staring at Kenna like she was a gazelle, and they were lions in the Savanna. I didn't recognize any of the trio, which meant they were from out of town since I knew everyone in Wishing Well.

Since I didn't know their names, I nicknamed them Curly, Larry, and Moe because they were as silly as the Stooges if they thought they were going to get somewhere with Kenna.

Larry wore his hat backward, which was fine if you were under twenty-five, at a barbeque, or working outside, but this man had gray in his beard. He was old enough to know better. He was probably hiding a bad hairline.

Next up was Curly, a six-foot-six beast of a man with a shaved head and neck tattoos.

And finally, Moe was rocking a bowl cut. In fairness, there weren't a lot of men who could pull that particular look off, but he actually didn't look as comical as he should have with the style. His strong jawline and jacked arms detracted from his shitty haircut.

All three subjects were drooling over Kenna like they were on death row, and she was their last meal. I'd been protective of her before I found out that she was a virgin. Since acquiring that knowledge, my protective instincts had increased significantly. Internally, I was growling and snarling as I limped past the trio of predators. Externally, I was giving them all the same death glare Kenna had given me at the festival.

When I sat down on an empty bar stool in front of Kenna, she was holding the soda gun, filling a glass. As soon as the amber liquid reached the top, she sat the pint of Coke in front of me.

If I was going to sit here and watch Larry, Moe, and Curly salivating over Kenna, I was going to need something stronger than a soda.

"Can I get a beer?"

"No," she stated firmly.

"You're not going to serve me?"

"No. You're on pain medication."

Fuck. She was right. I'd forgotten about that. In fairness, my head hadn't been right today. I'd spent my first day back at the station behind a desk and couldn't focus on any of the paperwork I was meant to be catching up on for shit. All I could think about was the bomb that Kenna dropped on me. Or that I sort of dropped on myself since I'd read her diary.

And then there was last night. I'd gone over to make sure that she was okay. That was it. I honestly hadn't planned on bringing the V subject up at all, but she started it. In fairness, she started it by saying don't , but still. The talk had been going fine up until I decided to do a little show-and-tell. The way she'd watched my hand had nearly caused me to come in my sweats. I'd gone from half-chub, which I'd been at because I was lying in Kenna's bed and we were talking about sex, to a full-blown, rocket launcher erection. I got so hard so fast that it made me lightheaded because all the blood in my head rushed to my cock.

I'd had to abruptly turn over and say goodnight because I was scared that if the blanket touched me, or if Kenna breathed in my direction, or she continued to watch my demonstration, I was going to shoot like a popped fire hydrant. I'd laid there for hours with throbbing blue balls, cursing myself for crawling in bed with her and talking about sex.

But, in the light of day, I came to the conclusion that my pain and agony had been worth it. I had a lot more intel on Kenna's situation. I knew that not only was she a virgin, but she'd also never crossed the finish line at the hand of another, or the mouth, or the tongue.

That knowledge made me feel and think things I had no business feeling or thinking. Things like the first hand, mouth, tongue, and other body parts to make her come should be mine.

A customer at the end of the bar called her name, and she headed down to help him. When Curly saw she was headed in his direction, his lips curled in a wolfish grin, and he winked at her. I wanted to stand up and introduce my fist to his face.

"Hey, man, how's the leg?" Bryson, who owned the bar, asked as he dumped ice from a bucket into the refrigerated steel basin, snapping me out of my punching-Curly's-lights-out fantasy.

"Better."

Bryson and I had always gotten along. I'd briefly dated his little sister Jade when we were in our early twenties, which hadn't gone over particularly well with him, but we'd squashed that beef a long time ago. She was now happily married to her childhood sweetheart, Hayden Reed. And, shocker, they had started a family.

"Kenna said you got the all-clear."

"Yep." Which meant I should stay at my house tonight. I should have stayed at my house last night. The problem with that was that I'd tried to sleep at home last night, and it didn't feel right. Not anymore. Being in Kenna's bed felt right. It felt like home.

When I woke up this morning, Kenna was gone. She'd left a note saying she had errands to run for her parents' anniversary party tomorrow night. That might be true, but I felt like she'd left early because she was avoiding me because of our NSFW late night talk.

"How's Witty doin'?" Bryson grabbed a shaker and doused a shot of tequila in it before adding sour.

"Good." I'd stopped by to see him today, but he was out with The Senior Striders, a walking group he belonged to. I swear, that man had a busier social calendar than I did.

Bryson nodded as he filled two highball glasses with the contents of the shaker. "Tell him I said hi."

I nodded. "Will do."

Bryson moved down the bar to deliver the drinks, and I sat nursing my soda and watching Kenna and the Stooges out of the corner of my eye.

"Hey, Sam." A woman's voice purred from behind me as two hands landed on my shoulders.

I looked down and saw bright pink acrylic nails sliding down my chest. I turned my head and saw Miranda Banks. I'd hooked up with Miranda a few years ago before she married Howie Baxter. I'd heard rumors that the two of them were getting divorced, and from the lack of a ring on her finger, I figured they were true. My entire body swiveled around toward her, causing her hands to fall from my chest.

"Hey, Miranda. How are things?" I asked plainly, without an ounce of charm.

"Good. I don't know if you heard, but Howie and I are not together."

"Sorry to hear that."

"Don't be." She reached out and touched my left thigh, then left her hand there. "How are you? I've been so worried about you."

"I'm good."

"Are you in a lot of pain?"

Yes .

"No, not much," I lied because I didn't want to encourage her flirty sympathy.

"You don't have to be a tough guy." Miranda's full lips tilted in a grin as she kept her hand on my leg, leaned forward, and whispered against my ear. "We can get out of here, and I'll kiss it and make it better."

I shifted away from her. "Kenna has actually been taking great care of me, but thanks."

She straightened up, and I could see the tinge of pain and rejection my attitude had caused her. I felt a niggle of guilt. I wasn't trying to be a dick, but I wasn't in the mood for pointless flirtation. I didn't want to lead anyone on.

"Oh, good." She nodded. "Well, see ya around."

"See ya."

Miranda walked away, and when I turned back to the bar, Kenna was behind it, glaring at me.

"Why are you here?" she snapped.

"I hope that's not how you treat all your customers."

"You're not here to drink, and you're clearly not here to hook up."

"How do you know that?"

"Because Miranda was throwing herself at you, and you shut her down."

"Maybe I didn't want to go home with her."

Kenna crossed her arms. "Since when have you ever been discerning?"

"I haven't hooked up with anyone in over a year."

"That's impossible." She shook her head. "Yes, you have."

"No. I haven't."

"What about Molly Calhoun?"

"Nope."

"Rebecca Spence?"

"No."

"That brunette that you took to Kane and Ruby's wedding."

"Camile? No. Nothing happened."

She stared at me for a beat, and I could see that she was having a difficult time believing me. But before she could press the issue further, a rowdy group came through the front door and headed straight for the bar.

I watched as Kenna greeted the men and took their orders. Two of the guys out of the half-dozen were clearly into her. They were laying it on thick. Kenna handled it like the professional she was. She was friendly but not flirty, which was a tightrope walk that she'd mastered. I'd witnessed her balancing on it for years.

Tonight, however, I saw her encounters through a different lens. Instead of being dudes who wanted to hook up with her, they were men who might be her first. That thought set off alarm bells in me. It made me want to go behind the bar, throw her over my shoulder, and carry her out of there like a caveman.

That was wrong. This whole thing was wrong. All day I'd been trying to pinpoint what I'd been feeling, but seeing Larry, Moe, Curly, and the frat boy dickheads drooling over her brought it into clear focus.

None of those guys loved her like I did. If anyone was going to be her first, it should be me. It had to be me.