“We have to go,” I say, almost breathless.
“What? Why?”
“Sirens.”
He curses as he pulls out of me, and I rush to the bathroom to clean up. He’s already stabbing his legs into his pants when I come back out.
“I’ve heard those sirens a total of twenty times since I’ve lived here and never had to go to one of those meetings before,” he grumbles, and I grin as I quickly dress, pulling my hair up too.
“You were never with one of the four corners before. Something tells me this is about you.”
“Me?” he asks, his face paling as he hurriedly pulls on a shirt. “Why me?”
“It was your boat that hit the Malones last week.”
“You stole the boat! With my mother onboard! Now, despite the fact she was bruised and slightly terrified, she can’t wait to come back. She’s coming two more times this year. We may even do Christmas here, for fuck’s sake, if they can get someone to chopper them in.”
His mom totally thinks I’m awesome. I’d fist bump myself if it wouldn’t be weird.
My smile only grows, and he follows me down the stairs, both of us rushing toward the dock. I hop down to the boat first, taking the helm.
He lifts me out of the driver’s seat—expectedly—and deposits me to the seat next to him as he cranks the boat and gasses us toward town. I stand and move behind him, wrapping my arms around his neck as my lips trail up the soft beard that he keeps tamed.
“I love you,” I tell him, sounding all sweet and stuff.
“You’re still not driving my boat ever again.”
Yeah, he hides the keys these days.
“But you love me too,” I remind him.
I feel his smile. “Yeah. I do.” But as he parks the boat near one of the town docks, he turns to roll his eyes at me. “You’re still not driving my boat.”
I mock a pout, and he bends, kissing my lips as his fingers thread through my hair. The boat bumps the dock, reminding us to tie off.
We each tie off an end, and I haul myself onto the shorter dock with ease. Ours have to be higher than the town limits, because of flooding issues.
Our fingers lace together as we walk toward the town hall where the skull-and-crossbones flag is flying high, something you rarely ever see unless there’s an emergency.
Just as we walk in, Benson’s breath rushes out. He looks around as if in awe.
“What?” I ask, tugging him toward our section.
His feet hesitate before he finally starts moving, his eyes still shifting around the room.
“I’ve never seen so many in one place before.”
I laugh under my breath. “Because the Wild Ones aren’t allowed to be together in one place unless there are special circumstances or sanctioned events. But when those sirens sound and that flag flies…you don’t resist the call of the wild.”
I wink, and he rolls his eyes, getting over his momentary awe state as we take a seat in my section.
Vick, our poor, lone officer, stands behind the podium, banging the gavel to get our attention.
“I’ll keep this brief,” he says as my brothers quickly join us, sitting down beside me, “since you all can’t be together too long without mayhem quickly following. The troopers are coming into town in a few weeks.”
Everyone groans, and he bangs the gavel again.
“We know this happens every summer. You get too rowdy, vacationers cause a fuss, and before you know it, the troopers drop in. It’s rarely ever the same ones twice, because, let’s face it, you run them off real good. But remember the rules: don’t be seen, and don’t get caught doing anything illegal. Make them go away without alerting them to the way our town works. Otherwise, we’ll never get rid of them, and no one wants that.”
He clears his throat. Considering he’s the local pot distributor, he’s always worried about trooper season.
Don’t judge. You know by now we aren’t conventional.
None of the locals like troopers. It interferes with our not-always-lawful way of life. In Tomahawk, you make money the best way you can. We do things a little under the government’s radar. Nothing harder than pot allowed in town. Business licenses are iffy at best. And you might find a few unlicensed moonshine distilleries up and down the lake too.
Though it’s legal to have pot in Washington…I’m almost positive it’s not legal to grow it. And we don’t exactly have dispensaries where taxes get a big cut. We have Vick.
Troopers make life hard for about a week. Two weeks has been the record.
“Who wants to start the pool?” Eric Malone asks.
“Two days!” someone shouts.
“One week,” I say, waving a ten in the air.