Sweet Burn by Anne Marsh Read Free Book Online

budget holes by aggressively ticketing speeders, she slowed to a painfully slow twenty miles an hour as soon as she hit Main Street. In town, she was a reformed woman (plus her budget wouldn ’ t stretch to any more tickets this month).
    The beat-up dark blue sedan coming up on her ass was unfamiliar, although the driver was probably one of Faye ’ s invitees running late. She pulled over to let the car go by while she considered her next move. She wasn ’ t ready to go home, but she needed gas and it would be dark soon. It was also time to get ready to open the bar, which meant she needed to wrap up her playtime for now. Somewhere unseen but definitely overheard, crickets sang up a storm, and the nightly racket would only get louder as the weather warmed up more.
    The sedan drove toward Main Street, the driver riding the gas pedal a little too hard. Even if the idiot didn ’ t hit something or someone, he ’ d earn himself a personal meet-and-greet with the good sheriff. She turned to watch the car. She wasn ’ t sure what it said that her weeknight excitement was waiting to see if a speeder got what he had coming to him. Go me .
    The window on the driver ’ s side rolled down.
    She almost didn ’ t catch the glint of metal, but old habits died hard. She ’ d lived in inner city Oakland where drive-bys happened too often. You learned to keep an eye out for trouble, or you paid the price.
    She threw herself over the side of the bike, hitting the ground hard. Thank God for her riding gear. The sharp pop that sounded like a truck backfiring was followed by two more pops and then the sedan ’ s driver tore off in a self-advertising squeal of rubber. She laid there on the ground, stunned by what had just happened.
    Someone had shot at her.
    And she was prone on the ground like a dumbass. She needed to take cover and then she needed to call it in. Sheriff Hernandez might actually be a plus in this situation. As instincts honed by years in rough neighborhoods kicked in, she shoved to her feet and ran for the closest busy place—Strong ’ s art gallery. The sedan disappeared up the street. Maybe the driver wouldn ’ t come back around.
    Maybe.
    She wasn ’ t betting her life on a possibility.
    Her fingers curled around the art gallery door handle and pushed. The door opened all too easily and she stumbled into the gallery with an ear-deafening clang as the door bounced open and thudded into the wall. The blast of music explained why no one inside had heard the shots outside, although there were people inside—a group of women who all looked up at her dramatic entrance.
    Great.
    She looked back up the street. No sedan. Maybe she ’ d overreacted. Maybe that had been a truck and not gunshots.
    When she turned around, she found them all staring at her. She suddenly felt like an animal at the zoo. With a do not feed the animal sign attached to her forehead. She knew most of them by sight of course— Strong wasn ’ t large and she did run the only bar in town. Lily Donovan, Jack Donovan ’ s wife, was there of course, along with her mother-in-law. Katie Lawson, Laura Carpenter, and Abigail Donegan were also present and accounted for. That threesome of ladies usually made group appearances together, although maybe Katie ’ s engagement would change that some. There were a couple of other women Mimi didn ’ t recognize —so they didn ’ t do the bar scene—which brought the headcount in the room to twelve. Faye Donovan was also present and accounted for, of course, because the gallery was her place. The petite brown-haired woman jumped to her feet and came over.
    “Mimi!”
    Mimi had to hand it to her. Faye managed not to look surprised at her sudden entrance.
    She double-checked, but the street outside remained empty. See? She ’ d imagined it. If someone had been shooting at her, surely he would have round-tripped for a second chance at success.
    “I ’ m so glad you could make it.” Faye reached out and