A Good Day for Chardonnay (Sunshine Vicram #2) by Darynda Jones

“I call dibs on partner-in-petty-crimes,” Quince said.

Salazar pouted, her baby face appearing even younger. “I’m never going to get a partner-in-petty-crimes. I even wished for one on a shooting star when I was a kid.”

How sweet.

He draped an arm over her shoulders. “It’ll happen. Someday when you least expect it, bam. Your soulmate will appear. Your spirit animal. Your partner-in-petty-crimes. It’s kismet.”

“You think so?”

He turned her to face him and bent until they were eye-toeye. Thus, a lot. “I know so. You can’t give up hope, Salazar.”

The young deputy rewarded him with a sheepish grin. “Thanks, Chief Cooper.”

Sun laughed softly and grabbed her bag. “I’m heading home. You guys need to do the same. Big day tomorrow. Huge.” She opened her arms wide to demonstrate. “Massive day.”

Everyone stopped and gave her their full attention.

“What’s tomorrow?” Quince asked.

“Sunday.”

“And?”

“My day off.”

“That constitutes a big day?”

“It does when I haven’t had a day off in four months.”

“That’s not true.” He held up an index finger. “You took a day off when you chased Doug under Cargita Bridge and knocked yourself out.”

Doug had decided to flash his greatest assets to Mrs. Papadeaux one time too many. Sun wasn’t chasing Doug so much as Mrs. Papadeaux. She was trying to kill him with a melon baller. Sun thought Doug would’ve learned his lesson the last time Mrs. Papadeaux chased him out in traffic and caused a pileup in their tiny town. Alas, he did not.

Sun still had nightmares about the woman’s plans for Doug and how the melon baller fit in. “There was a snake,” she said defensively from over her shoulder. “It startled me. And that was half a day. It doesn’t count if you’re unconscious.”

“Really? Then I haven’t had a day off in years. I demand back pay!” he called out to her as she exited the station.

Her phone rang. She checked the ID. Auri. Her auburn-haired juvenile delinquent. Her reason for living and trying really hard not to go to prison for murder.

She tapped the screen. “Hey, bug bite.”

“How bad is it?” Auri asked in a hushed voice.

“He attacked me but I’m okay.”

“Mom!” she said, ditching the whole covert thing. “He attacked you?”

“Hopefully I won’t get rabies. Rabies suck. Or sucks. Is rabies plural? Can one acquire a single raby?”

“What the crap?”

“Language.”

“Why did he attack you?”

“Probably because we were trying to tranquilize him and stuff him into a cage.”

“Oh, my God! Grandma and Grandpa are never setting you up again.”

This was far too much fun not to continue. “I agree. This has to stop. I decided about halfway through the date your grandparents have to die.”

“You can’t kill Grandma and Grandpa. We’ve discussed this.”

“Can too. You need to dig out your mourning clothes.”

“You’ll go to jail.”

“At least six months’ worth.”

“You know what happens to cops in jail.”

“Think layers.”

“Besides, people don’t wear mourning clothes anymore.”

“All black.”

“Wait, really? I love black. Can I paint my nails black, too?”

“I encourage it. You can be Del Sol’s only goth.”

“Clearly you haven’t been to high school lately. Also, no killing Grandma and Grandpa.”

“You’re sucking the joy out of my life right now.”

“I’m a teenager. Isn’t that, like, my job?”

Sun chuckled. “I’m on my way home.”

“Grandma made brussels sprout casserole.”

“So, pizza?”

“Yes, please. With extra pepperoni.”

“You got it, kid.”

Twenty minutes later, Sun dropped the pizza box on the counter, peeled off her boots, and practically ripped off her bra—without removing her sweater, of course—wiggling out of it before making a beeline for the fridge. There was a bottle of wine in there calling her name. Or calling her names. She could’ve sworn she heard the word lush coming from that general vicinity.

After filling her glass to the rim, she took out her phone to text Auri about the pizza, when it rang. The caller ID IDed the caller, as was its sole purpose in life. She answered Quincy’s summons with a resounding, brook-no-arguments, “No.”

“You want to hear this.”

She took a sip, then shook her head. “No, I don’t. I have a full thirty-six hours off. I’m squeezing every possible second out of them so I can come back refreshed and invigorated and less desirous to kill randomly.”

“That’s probably a good idea, what with you being the sheriff and all. I’ll just tell the ambulance driver parked outside The Roadhouse to take Ravinder straight to the hospital. You can interview him about the near-fatal stabbing at his bar on Monday when you’re refreshed and—”

She’d sucked in a breath mid-sip and cut him off with a round of loud, hacking coughs. “I’ll be there in five,” she said, her voice strained.