Going Nowhere

Chapter 2 - It'll be like summer camp

"Hey Daddy," I wheezed out as my ridiculously overprotective father squeezed me with his strong arms.

He smelled of the outdoors, and soap, with a little hint of last night's grill coming from his flannel shirt. The badge on his chest felt cold against my cheek, and I wondered if it'd leave a mark, just for a little while. That would probably please Dad, who would have tattooed a big sheriff's star on my forehead if I'd let him.

Dad's official title was actually chief of police, but he'd early on in his career shared widely how using that title would be disrespectful to the Native Americans and that he was the goddamned sheriff and nothing else. I'd never figured out if Dad meant that as a joke or not, partially because Dad's closest friend, Robbie Blackbear, always chuckled and wiggled his brows when he heard it. Also, Dad was a huge fan of old western movies in general, and Clint Eastwood in particular, so his wish to be called Sheriff Brown could come from a genuine desire to be like "the Clint". Either way, it didn't matter because Dad was elected to perform his duties, so it actually made more sense for him to be called sheriff.

The elected part of his appointment wasn't as much an election as the whole population of Nowhere county showing up at City Hall every four years to nod when Robbie Blackbear asked them if they wanted to keep Biff Brown as chief of police. Dad had a ten-year streak of zero unresolved crimes, and everyone wanted to move on to the whiskey-laced upside down cake Tina Blackbear made specifically for these events, so the whole thing usually took less than a minute.

Biff Brown was also the alpha of the local werewolf pack and had been since Gramps decided to retire twenty years ago. According to the lore among regular people, this should have involved a huge fight to the death between them, something that always made the wolves crack up because really? Why would we do something like that?

In reality, Gramps came home one day and told Dad, "Going to Florida for the winter, Son. You're it." Then he left and spent the next three months soaked in raspberry margaritas, earning his living by singing Jimmy Buffet covers in a bar in Key West. I'm not supposed to know that he came back because of an angry husband or twenty, and a need for a hearty dose of penicillin. Both for Gramps and a few of the husbands apparently.

"You shouldn't have growled at that dog, sweetie," Dad admonished me gently.

"He shouldn't have peed on my leg," I retorted.

Dad stepped back to stare at said limb with a look of horror on his face, and I moved to the back of my car to get my bags.

"He -" Dad paused and tried again, "He peed?"

"I was standing there, minding my own business, texting Elsa. Pee. Leg."

My brothers were giggling like the stupid morons they were. Janie shook her head in disbelief and Gramps barked out laughter.

"Jesus. Were there no trees around? Bushes?"

"I was in the park."

Another laugh came from Gramps, although it sounded mostly as if he choked on something.

"But you're a wolf," Dad said.

"Apparently Pookie missed the memo."

"Okay."

"Okay."

Since I didn't want Dad to say the words which so very clearly were at the tip of his tongue, I turned toward the porch and murmured casually, "Hey everyone."

"Welcome home, Kitty," Janie said with a sweet smile. "Dinner's ready in ten. Pork chops."

My casual smile turned genuine.