Small Town Girl

One His badass days were over. Flynn Clinton rubbed his whisker stubble with his damaged left hand and gazed over the dance floor of lithe, gyrating bodies. He might be bad, but he sure the hell wasn't young enough to make an ass of himself anymore. The thick smoke of the bar seared his eyes and throat. He'd forgotten that North Carolina was tobacco country. Smoke never used to bother him. Hell, he wouldn't have noticed a bomb exploding when he had music pounding through him. Like a narcotic, music had blinded him. Withdrawal hurt, but he could see clearly now. Music was as addictive as cigarettes, more lethal than narcotics. He was here because he didn't know a better place to start searching for the writer who'd scribbled that unforgettable rhyme on the envelope he carried in his back pocket. He was just about positive the scrawl didn't belong to his two-timing partner. He had to know the depth of the crook's dishonesty, even if it set his gut on fire thinking about it. But he didn't know how to be a detective, which was why he was fretting over losing his sexy instead of taking care of business. Surreptitiously, Flint brushed his hand over his hair to reassure himself that it hadn't receded farther. He even had friggin' gray threading through the chocolate brown the ladies had once run their hands through. At least months of working out his frustration in a gym had kept him wiry, even if he hadn't been able to punch bags while wearing the cast. Maybe he'd grow a paunch to prove he was a staid old man. Then his kids would really laugh at him. He winced, remembering the painful scene at his parents' house earlier today. He supposed he deserved every bit of their castigation. His sons had totally ignored him while his parents had laid out the ground rules for getting the boys back into his life. Basically, if he wanted his sons to come home, he had to change his ways. He definitely wanted his sons back. He remembered each of their births with shocking exactitude, the awe and responsibility and love that had welled up in him the first time he'd held those tiny lives in his wicked hands. He'd made promises then that he hadn't kept too well. Looked like fate had caught up with him, and he had no choice except to grow up and start keeping those promises. Flint turned his back on the stage and the bright lights and signaled the bartender. Once upon a time he would have been in the center of that crowd of hot bodies performing mating rituals to the music of a rocking band. He would have had a beer bottle in hand and been howling along with the songs as he two-stepped with the best-looking lady in the bar. He took a long pull on the cold beer the bartender set in front of him. Dirk was an old friend who'd known him back in the days, but like any good friend, Dirk had the good sense to keep his tongue in his head. "How's Betty Sue?" Flint asked to open the conversation. It wasn't as if he were here to have fun. Dirk's bar was a place to start searching for answers. Flint fully expected the answers to be painful, but shouldering responsibility was part of his new maturity. He had a feeling he wasn't going to like adulthood. "Betty went back to school and sells real estate now. Hardly ever see her." Dirk dried a wineglass and set it on the rack. "What are you doing back in these parts?" Flint wasn't much inclined to share his troubles, so he shrugged and took another swig. Tomorrow, he was moving to a dry town to become the staid owner of a coffee shoRice, Patricia is the author of 'Small Town Girl ', published 2006 under ISBN 9780345482600 and ISBN 0345482603.