6. Sirens and Sparks

SIRENS AND SPARKS

N ight patrol in Oakwood Grove usually meant nothing more exciting than making sure old man Jenkins remembered to lock up the hardware store. The crickets provided better company than my radio most nights, their steady chirping mixing with the soft purr of my cruiser's engine as I made my rounds.

The clock on my dashboard read 11:42 PM.

Another hour until my shift ended, then home to an empty house and whatever leftovers Nina had forced on me earlier. She'd been doing that more lately, claiming I looked too thin. Like anyone could look thin in a sheriff's uniform.

Main Street stretched out before me, peaceful in the way only small towns could be after dark. Sarah's Diner still glowed warm despite being closed, the kitchen lights on while she prepped for tomorrow's breakfast crowd. The Watering Hole hummed with quiet conversation, Nina's fairy lights twinkling like earthbound stars.

My radio crackled, startling a barn owl from its perch on the church steeple. "Sheriff Thompson, we've got reports of a black sports car entering town limits from the south. Speed clocked well above limit."

Well, shit. There went my quiet night.

"Copy that," I responded, already turning my cruiser around. "Any description besides color?"

"High-end vehicle, possibly European. Mrs. Henderson says it's 'the kind of car that belongs in a magazine, not on our streets.'" The dispatcher's voice carried a hint of amusement. Trust Mrs. Henderson to be awake and watching at this hour.

The engine growled as I accelerated toward the south entrance. We didn't get many speeders in Oakwood Grove - mostly just locals who knew better or lost tourists who slowed down the moment they saw town limits. Someone in a sports car burning rubber through our streets? That was different.

My headlights caught the "Welcome to Oakwood Grove" sign, its paint slightly faded but still welcoming. Beyond it, the road curved through farmland before disappearing into darkness. Somewhere out there, someone was treating our quiet town like their personal racetrack.

The radio crackled again. "Vehicle spotted passing Miller's place, heading toward town center."

Perfect. That road had only one way in or out. Whoever our mysterious driver was, they'd have to pass me to leave town. I killed my lights and pulled over, positioning the cruiser where the road narrowed between old oak trees.

The night settled around me, familiar and comfortable. Moths danced in the moonlight, and somewhere in the distance, a dog barked at whatever creatures stirred in the fields. This was my town, my responsibility. Some hotshot in an expensive car wasn't going to disturb its peace.

A low rumble grew in the distance - the unmistakable sound of a high-performance engine being pushed harder than it should be. Headlights appeared around the bend, and even in the darkness, I could tell Mrs. Henderson hadn't exaggerated. The car was definitely magazine-worthy, its black paint gleaming like liquid shadow.

Time to remind someone that speed limits applied even in towns they'd never heard of.

I flipped on my lights, watching the sports car's brake lights flare red in response. At least they had the sense to pull over without making this difficult. The gravel crunched under my boots as I stepped out of the cruiser, flashlight ready.

Something told me this wasn't going to be just another routine traffic stop. In Oakwood Grove, nothing ever was quite that simple.

The expensive car sat on the shoulder like a predator taking a break - all sleek lines and barely contained power. Must've cost more than I made in three years. We didn't see many vehicles like this in town; most expensive cars around here were trucks owned by the ranch hands, worn but well-maintained. This thing looked like it had rolled straight off a showroom floor.

My flashlight beam caught the license plates - out of state, naturally. Some city slicker probably thought our town roads were his personal playground. The engine ticked as it cooled, still hot from whatever speed he'd been pushing before my lights caught him.

"Dispatch, I've got the vehicle stopped on Old Mill Road," I radioed, more out of habit than necessity. Like anything happening in Oakwood Grove stayed private for long.

The driver's silhouette showed through the tinted windows - head high, shoulders squared. Not the usual tourist posture of apologetic shrinking. This guy had backbone, or maybe just an attitude problem. Either way, something about him set my instincts humming.

As I approached, details emerged through the glass - ginger hair that probably cost more to style than my whole uniform, an expensive watch catching my flashlight beam. But it was his eyes that caught me off guard - green and sharp as broken bottles, staring straight ahead like he was still on whatever mission had brought him to our quiet corner of nowhere.

My knuckles rapped against the window, the sound harder than I'd intended. Authority was a language all its own out here, and I spoke it fluently. The window hummed down, releasing a wave of leather-scented air conditioning into the summer night.

"License and registration." I kept my voice level, professional. The same tone I used for everyone.

He turned those green eyes on me, and fuck if there wasn't something familiar about them. Not like I'd seen him before, but like I recognized the look in them - defiance masking something raw underneath. Like looking in a mirror from years ago, back when I thought attitude could fix everything.

"Of course, officer." His voice carried that city polish, but there was steel under it. His movements were deliberate as he reached for his documents, nothing rushed or nervous about them. "Or should I say, Sheriff?"

My badge caught his dashboard lights, and I noticed his hand was bruised, knuckles scraped like he'd recently hit something harder than they were. "Sheriff Thompson," I confirmed, studying the license he handed over. "Mind telling me why you're treating our roads like a racetrack?"

A muscle twitched in his jaw, something dark flashing across his face. "Force of habit," he said, the words coming out more bitter than flip.

The name on the license said that his name was Elliot Blue.

"Mr. Blue." I let a hint of warning creep into my tone. "Oakwood Grove isn't your personal speedway. We've got kids and wildlife on these roads."

"I know." He scrubbed a hand through his hair, messing up that expensive styling. For a second, the polished facade cracked, showing something tired and honest underneath. "Look, I'm sorry. It's been a shit night, but that's no excuse."

The admission surprised me. Most people who are rich like him were used to getting their way. They'd be dropping hints about knowing the governor or their lawyer's number right about now. Instead, he just looked lost. Like a man who'd driven off his own map and wasn't sure he wanted to find his way back.

I knew that look. Seen it in my own mirror more times than I cared to count.

"First time in Oakwood Grove?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. A guy like him would've stood out in our town like a peacock in a chicken coop.

"Yeah." His eyes drifted to the town lights below us, something almost wistful in his expression. "Didn't even know it existed until tonight."

Neither of us mentioned why he was out here, what he was running from or toward. Sometimes silence said more than questions ever could.

Something about him got under my skin in a way I couldn't explain - maybe it was that defiant tilt of his chin, or the way his green eyes seemed to challenge every word out of my mouth. I'd dealt with plenty of arrogant outsiders before, but this was different. This guy radiated an energy that made my chest tight and my uniform feel too warm, despite the cool night air.

"Speed limit's clearly posted," I said, keeping my voice level despite the strange tension building. "Or do those signs not apply to fancy cars in your world?"

His head snapped up, anger flashing across his face. "Having fun playing traffic cop, Sheriff? Not much else going on in this town?"

Fuck, but he was irritating. Good-looking in that polished city way, sure, but irritating as hell. And why was I even noticing how he looked? Must be the late hour messing with my head.

"Small town," I replied coolly. "We take traffic safety seriously here. Especially when someone's trying to break the sound barrier on our roads."

"Right." His laugh held no humor. "Because this place has so much else going on? What's your usual excitement - catching kids toilet-papering houses?"

"At least our kids know better than to endanger lives with reckless driving." I stepped closer to his window, using my height to my advantage. "This isn't your personal racetrack, Mr. Blue. These are my streets, my people to protect."

"Your people?" He matched my intensity, leaning forward. "What makes them yours? That shiny badge? That air of small-town authority?"

The scent of his expensive cologne mixed with leather seats drifted up, making it harder to maintain my professional distance. Something sparked between us - anger, challenge, and something else I didn't want to examine too closely.

"What makes them mine is that I give a damn," I shot back. "Unlike some people who think they can just blow through town without caring who they might hurt."

His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking beneath the skin. "You don't know the first thing about me or what I care about."

"I know enough." I let my flashlight beam sweep over his bruised knuckles again. "Rough night, Mr. Blue?"

"Observant, aren't you?" Those green eyes narrowed. "Bet that comes in handy keeping the peace in..." He made a show of looking around. "Whatever this place is called."

“I am pretty sure that you’ve seen the sign but it is Oakwood Grove." Why did his dismissal of my town bother me so much? "Population small enough that we notice trouble when it rolls in."

"And what kind of trouble do you think I am, Sheriff?" The question carried an edge, but something else too - almost like he was genuinely asking.

I studied him for a moment, taking in the expensive clothes that couldn't quite hide his tension, the way his hands gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

"I think you're the kind of trouble that's running from something," I said finally. "And I think you picked the wrong town to use as your escape route."

His facade cracked slightly, surprise flickering across his face before he masked it. "Quite the psychologist for a small-town sheriff."

"Part of the job." I shrugged, trying to ignore how those green eyes seemed to see right through my own professional mask. "Along with keeping city boys from treating our streets like their personal therapy session."

He opened his mouth to argue, then surprisingly, laughed - a genuine sound that transformed his whole face. "Fuck, you don't back down, do you?"

"Not in my job description." I found myself fighting a smile, which was absurd given the situation. "Neither is standing here arguing with stubborn rich boys at midnight."

Something dark passed behind his eyes at that, but he didn't correct me. The moment hung between us, heavy with unspoken stories.

I should write him a ticket and send him on his way. Instead, I found myself wanting to understand what had driven this man to my quiet corner of the world.

Damn it, Thompson. Focus.

"Look," I said, forcing myself back to professional distance. "Whatever you're running from, whatever brought you here - that's your business. But in my town, we follow the rules. Clear?"

He held my gaze for a long moment, that strange tension crackling in the space between us. "Crystal, Sheriff." A pause, then: "Any other rules I should know about?"

The question carried a weight I wasn't ready to examine. "Just one," I managed. "Don't make me regret giving you a warning instead of a ticket."

His smile was quick and sharp. "No promises. I'm not great with authority."

"I hadn't noticed." The dry response came automatically, drawing another laugh from him.

Something in that laugh caught me off guard - a rawness that didn't match his polished exterior. The bruised knuckles, the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes kept darting toward the town like he was weighing options I couldn't see. None of it added up to just another rich guy joy-riding through small-town America.

I'd seen that look before, in the mirror during my darkest days. The look of someone running on empty, searching for somewhere to land before they crashed completely.

Fuck. I was going to regret this.

"Listen," I said, keeping my tone professional despite the odd pull I felt to help him. "It's late, you're obviously dealing with something, and Oakwood Grove isn't the worst place to catch your breath."

Those green eyes snapped back to mine, suspicious and curious all at once. "That your professional opinion, Sheriff?"

"Actually, it's my professional concern that you'll wrap that expensive car around one of our trees if you keep driving tonight." I gestured toward the town lights below. "We've got a decent inn just off Main Street. Clara's Place. Clean rooms, no questions asked."

He studied me for a long moment, that earlier defiance softening into something more complex. "Why do you care?"

The question caught me off balance. Why did I care? This guy had done nothing but challenge my authority and mock my town since I'd pulled him over. Yet something about him...

"Part of the job," I said finally, though we both knew that was bullshit. "Besides, paperwork's a bitch if you crash in my jurisdiction."

His mouth twitched. "Always the dedicated lawman?"

"Something like that." I shifted my weight, suddenly aware of how close I was still standing to his window. "Look, take the suggestion or don't. But if you're running from something, sometimes a quiet town's the best place to figure out your next move."

"Speaking from experience?" His voice had lost its edge, genuine curiosity replacing the earlier challenge.

I met his gaze steadily. "Maybe. Or maybe I just don't want to explain to Clara why I let some city boy in a Porsche drive himself into trouble when I could've prevented it."

Another laugh, softer this time. "You always this pushy with strangers, Sheriff Thompson?"

"Only the ones who look like they're one bad decision away from doing something stupid." The words came out more honest than I'd intended.

He flinched slightly, like I'd hit closer to home than he wanted to admit. "That obvious, huh?"

"Let's just say I recognize the signs." I pulled out my notepad, scribbling down directions. "Clara's is two blocks past the diner. Tell her Jake sent you - she'll give you the local rate."

He took the paper, his fingers brushing mine for a fraction of a second. The contact sent an unexpected jolt through my arm that I firmly ignored.

"Jake?" His eyebrow raised. "Not Sheriff Thompson?"

"Don't push it, Mr. Blue." But there was no heat in my words.

"Elliot," he corrected. "If we're dropping titles."

The night air felt different suddenly, charged with something I wasn't ready to name. His eyes held mine, and for a moment, the professional distance I'd maintained cracked slightly.

"Right." I stepped back, needing space from whatever was happening here. "Well, Elliot, the offer stands. But if I catch you speeding again-"

"You'll throw the book at me?" The challenge was back in his voice, but playful now rather than angry.

"Something like that." I tapped his car door lightly. "Drive safe. Town's pretty at night, but the roads can be tricky if you don't know them."

He nodded, something shifting in his expression. "Thanks. For the warning and the... recommendation."

"Don't mention it." I meant it literally, but it came out softer than intended.

The change in Elliot's posture was subtle but unmistakable - a slight lowering of his shoulders, a loosening of his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. Like someone who'd been running full throttle finally easing off the gas.

"Clara's Place," he repeated, glancing at my hastily scribbled directions. His voice carried a mix of resignation and relief that seemed to surprise even him. "And she won't ask questions?"

"Not her style." I kept my tone matter-of-fact, professional. "But she does make breakfast for her guests. Better than Sarah's, but don't tell Sarah I said that."

A ghost of a smile crossed his face, softening those sharp edges. "Your secret's safe with me, Sheriff."

"Just remember what I said about the speed limit." I tapped his car door one last time, letting my badge catch the streetlight. "I won't be so understanding next time."

"That a promise?" The challenge was still there, but lighter now, almost playful despite his obvious exhaustion.

"Consider it a friendly warning from Oakwood Grove's one and only sheriff." I stepped back, giving him space to pull away. "Drive careful."

He nodded, that expensive car purring to life beneath him. This time, he kept his speed reasonable as he headed toward town, like maybe he'd finally heard something in my words beyond just authority.

I shouldn't follow him. Had no reason to make sure one lost stranger found his way to Clara's. But something about his bruised knuckles and haunted eyes nagged at me. Besides, it was my job to keep the peace in this town, wasn't it?

My cruiser stayed well back as he navigated Main Street, his brake lights reflecting off the empty storefronts. He drove like someone used to faster speeds, more open roads, but he was trying to behave. Had to give him credit for that.

The car slowed near Sarah's Diner, probably noting it for tomorrow's coffee run. Then past Nina's bar, where the fairy lights still twinkled invitingly. Finally, he turned onto Oak Street where Clara's Place sat waiting, its porch light a welcoming beacon in the night.

I parked in the shadows, watching as he sat in his car for a long moment. Whatever battle he was fighting played out in the tense line of his shoulders, visible even from this distance. Then, like he'd made some decision he couldn't take back, he grabbed a bag from his trunk and headed for Clara's door.

Clara must have been waiting up - the door opened before he could knock, spilling warm light onto the porch. I couldn't hear their conversation, but I saw her welcoming gesture, the way she ushered him inside like a lost lamb finding shelter.

Something in my chest loosened. Clara would look after him, in that no-nonsense way of hers that somehow made everyone feel at home without making a fuss about it.

The porch light clicked off, leaving just the glow of upstairs windows. In one of them, a shadow moved - Elliot settling into whatever room Clara had given him. For a moment, I imagined him standing there, looking out over our quiet town, maybe feeling that same peace that had drawn me back here years ago.

Fuck. What was I doing, sitting here watching some stranger's window like a rookie on his first stakeout? I had rounds to finish, a town to patrol, actual work to do.

But as I pulled away from Oak Street, I couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted tonight. Like Oakwood Grove had drawn another lost soul into its orbit, the way it had done with me when I needed it most.

My radio crackled - a reminder that the real world was still turning. "Sheriff Thompson, everything quiet out there?"

I keyed the mic, eyes flicking to my rearview mirror where Clara's Place was disappearing into the night. "Yeah, all quiet. Just a routine traffic stop."