STALKING SAPPHIRE (Sapphire Dubois: Book 1)

Chapter 4

Aston’s ass itched like crazy. The tux, of course, made it worse. He walked up to the bar avoiding the passing trays of champagne.

“Any brewski?” he asked, more hoping than asking.

The bartender pinched his mouth shut tight, probably to hold back laughter. He shook his head.

“Didn’t think so.” Aston leaned over the bar looking at the selection, knowing it was highly inappropriate.

“That vodka over there any good?”

“Normally it’s seventy-five dollars a shot.”

Aston looked from the bottle to the bartender. “I didn’t ask for the price. I asked if it was tasty. Jesus...just pour me one.” Aston contemplated walking over to the Rite Aid a few blocks away and smuggling in a six-pack of Sam Adams. He opted not to, being his first week and all.

Instead, he took his glass of what he figured must be liquid gold for that price and leaned his back against the bar as he scanned the ball.

The room was lit up with artsy candles, and the walls were decorated with large fake golden badges. On a stage built for the special occasion a string ensemble played music that would put even the most hyper human to sleep. He noticed officers, civilians, and women...attractive women wherever he turned his head. Nothing like the charity parties at his old station. The following were missing: Hot dogs. Hood rats. Kegs. Bills under twenty dollars. Neighborhood pimp bribing the station to leave his hos alone. Cheese Whiz.

Aston admired the naked back of a woman in a red dress across the room, tilting his head to the side as he realized that there was something familiar about that particular naked back, but he couldn’t place it. The woman who he was staring at turned around and looked straight at him. The naked back belonged to Officer Moore. She grabbed a drink from a tray and looked like she was considering walking over to him.

Aston turned away, pretending to converse with the people next to him...the chief and a young guy with a face covered in pimples. He was green, without question. The poor bastard would remain green unless he transferred out of Beverly Hills.

“Yeah, that’s great, Chief,” Aston jumped in and let out a loud laugh as he glanced back at Officer Moore working her way toward him. He turned back to see the chief and the pimple staring at him, eyebrows arched.

“What’s great, Detective?” Chief Anderson asked, his expression odd.

“What you just said. Hi-larious.”

“I was telling Officer Harry here, that my wife struggled with cancer for two years. She nearly died.”

“Oh.” Aston wished he could pull his gun out of the holster, go back in time, and shoot his foot before it had reached his mouth. Since that wasn’t likely to happen, Aston mumbled that he was stepping out for a cigarette...leaving Chief Anderson and pimple face looking after him.

Outside Aston pulled a cigarette from his pack and lit it.

“So this is where you’re hiding.”

Aston turned to see Officer Moore standing with a bitter face and arms crossed, tapping an index finger to her elbow. Aston frowned, thinking desperately of a good excuse.

“You’ve been avoiding me...Detective.” She said the last part so coldly, Antarctica would have faded in comparison.

“Avoiding you?” Aston repeated, buying time without any luck. “I’ve...been busy; you know, new job and all.”

“I’m two doors down from your office. You pass by me every time you go out for a cigarette. So fourteen times a day.”

“Er...look, Angela, it’s not you...”