Rumble on the Bayou by Jana DeLeon Page B

popped the top on a bottle of beer and slid it across the counter. "Word has it you saw the sheriff today. Did he put his daughter straight, or did he put you straight?"
     
    Now Richard did sigh. "If you already know I saw the sheriff, I'm sure you also know what happened."
     
    The bartender grinned. "'Course I do, but it's much better hearing the story from the losing end. They usually have a creative way of putting a spin on the whole thing. Kind of like a fish story, you know?"
     
    Richard downed a quarter of the beer. "Not exactly. But I guess stories about the one that got away are fairly popular here."
     
    "You have no idea."
     
    Since the bartender was pleasant enough, Richard decided to go out on a limb. He extended his hand across the bar. "My name's Richard Starke, by the way. I don't think we were formally introduced."
     
    The bartender snorted, but shook Richard's hand. "I'm Pete. This is my bar." He gave a small laugh. "Formally introduced. That's a good one."
     
    Richard laughed also. "Yeah, I guess it didn't take long for word of me to get around."
     
    "Word? Man, except for that locked briefcase of yours, we know everything about you down to your underwear brand. Designer label." Pete leaned over, elbows on the bar, and studied Richard. "Now why does a man want to wear designer drawers when Wal-Mart is much cheaper and no one sees 'em anyway?"
     
    Richard considered the question and his answer for a moment. Was it really worth pursuing? Of course, on the other hand, Pete was being fairly chatty. Maybe if he told the man about his underwear, he'd give him a rundown of the people in the town. It would save him the time and trouble of asking Dorie. Mostly the trouble.
     
    "You see," Richard finally said, "it's like this. The cotton in designer underwear is a much finer fabric. It feels better on the skin and causes less chafing."
     
    Pete narrowed his eyes at Richard. "Finer fabric? You ain't one of them kind of guys, is you? 'Cause I don't want word to get around that I was talking to one of them kind of guys. I gotta live in this town."
     
    Richard stared at Pete, confused. "What exactly is 'them kind of guys'?"
     
    Pete pulled himself upright. "You know-them kind of guys. The kind that like opera and call sewing material 'fabric.'"
     
    Richard caught on and gave the man an amused smile. "No. I'm not one of them kind of guys." Pete gave him a suspicious look and Richard held up one hand. "I promise," he said. "I've never found another man even remotely attractive."
     
    Pete studied him a moment more and finally nodded. "Guess it's all right, then. Not that I agree, mind you. I'll just stick to Wal-Mart or Sears when it comes to underwear. Just don't see a good reason, 'fabric' or not, to pay a lot of money for something that's going to rub on my butt all day."
     
    Richard held in his smile until Pete turned back toward the cash register. In a strange, redneck sort of way, the man did have a point. It wasn't like anyone was actually seeing his underwear-well, except apparently housekeeping at the motel. In fact, it took him a minute to remember the last woman he'd had the pleasure of showing his finer fabric.
     
    Shaking his head, he downed the remainder of the beer, his mind made up. When this was over and Roland was behind bars, he would have to consider a new profession. His work was thrilling and meaningful and made a difference, but ... And that was where the problems were. The but.
     
    Since joining the DEA, Richard couldn't remember a single relationship that had lasted more than three months. Women didn't like a man disappearing for long stretches of time, especially when he was unaccounted for. It was the stuff of nightmares for anyone with a suspicious mind. And Richard hadn't met a woman yet that didn't have a suspicious mind.
     
    In the beginning, some had said they understood the work, but all had eventually left, claiming they couldn't exist in a one-person relationship. They