The Perp & The Primrose - A Beauty and the Beast Retelling

Bella

The line at the corner coffee shop extends almost to the door, and I fall behind the last person, some guy who’s talking to someone on the phone about ponies. And maybe alligators? Seems like an interesting life. Or a criminal one.

My fingers trace the strap of the tote bag Mom gave me for my birthday. The bag is...unique. It gives me the appearance of someone from an underground Mormon cult, but it has a lot of zippers and compartments. It’s meant to be useful, not pretty. Mom says a bag can’t be both. She also says the same thing about women.

A woman who’s lined up behind me, half outside the door, sighs loudly. Then steps around, planting herself in front of me like I’m not even there.

Bold move. I could never pull it off.

She glances back at me with a pointedly smug look, like she’s daring me to do something, say something.

My cheeks warm.

No cutsies. Say it. Just say it, spineless wuss.

I shift my weight, and offer her a small, polite smile. Pretending like nothing is the matter.

Because nothing is. In the larger scheme of things, someone cutting in line is a stupid thing to be offended about or argue over. So I let it go. Live and let live, right?

She turns around once she realizes that I’m not going to cause her any trouble. Or give her a fight if she’s looking for one.

When it’s finally my turn after hers, they’re out of almond milk. Seems like they drained their last carton to its last drop for the line-cutting woman.

So they substitute it with oat milk.

That’s fine, right? It’s healthier that the creamer I actually prefer but is not good for my body. Maybe it’ll taste better too?

The latte arrives lukewarm. I take a sip, and it’s disgusting. I should’ve known. Why would anyone make milk out of oats? Are bovines and ovines and almonds not enough for the world’s milk supply?

I thank the barista anyway with a bright smile for trying her best to make the oat milk work in my latte. I know she did.

I’m sure she did.

She probably did.

She must have, right?

And it’s really a tough job.

I step out of the shop, the latte in one hand, umbrella in the other as it rains, and head across the block to the sheriff’s office.

That building is both scary and depressing. Like people die here and then immediately choose to haunt it. I wonder if they have any stats on suicides and ghost sightings in this office.

What a silly thought. Dad will definitely think it’s silly.

He takes his job very seriously.

Glenda beams warmly at me when I enter the waiting area, right outside dad’s office. She’s been his assistant ever since he took office, and she was assistant to the previous three sheriffs. The woman’s an institution.

And I always feel that she smiles at me because she wants to, because she’s actually happy to see me, and not because it’s expected of her or out of courtesy for dad.

It makes my mouth curve up right back effortlessly. She makes it easy to smile. I don’t have to remember to smile at her. I just do.

Then I smell her fudge brownies, and my smile spreads wider.

She makes the best fudge brownies.

“Here.” She bends and retrieves a small glass container, then tells me, “This is all for you.”

She always does this. Makes me a special batch, separate from the rest of the office. Even when she knows mom doesn’t like me eating things with sugar. On a usefulness-pretty scale, I’m on the side of pretty, and putting on pounds will tip the balance, and then I’ll have to figure out a way to be useful. Which mom says will not work in my favor, and I’d rather not roll the dice on that theory. So I gotta watch my intake.

Glenda must be able to read my mind by now, because she lowers her voice conspiratorially, “I made your batch with zero calorie sweetener.” Her face grimaces in disgust as she says it and eyes my special batch.

They even look different. Ughhh.

But some brownie is better than no brownie at all.

I take one and bite off a generous chunk. No one around to see if I’m being ladylike.

Aaaand I stand corrected as my taste buds get assaulted.

No brownie is definitely better than weight-watchers brownie.

I swallow it with a quick, forced gulp, when the door to dad’s office swings open, and dad steps out, badge gleaming. He polishes it every day. Because that badge is an honor.

“Another 45 minutes, Bells.” He informs in my general direction—he rarely has the time to properly meet my eyes—as one of his deputies walks past him out of his office.

Brody.

The man gives me a glance-over as he does. He doesn’t say anything, because dad has made it clear to his staff that they have to stay away from me. No interactions, no conversations. Only Glenda can talk to me.

The men follow that rule. But they look at me plenty. Some subtle, some blatant in a way that lets me know exactly what they’re thinking. How I look under this modest sweater and skirt.

Like this man.

I look away. His gaze on me makes me want to take a bath inside out.

I exhale when he walks off, and dad goes back inside his office.

“Your fiancé treating you right, sweetheart?” Glenda’s question pulls my attention back to her.

There’s a drop in my belly again. But it’s not disgust. Of course I’m not disgusted by my fiancé. It’s just...he just...makes me slightly uneasy? But that’s normal. We’ve only been engaged for two days, and we’ve only met like five times, twenty to thirty minutes each time, and never alone.

I don’t know him all that well other than what everyone else knows about him. He’s the town’s most eligible bachelor. Heir to the considerable Tanning fortune. Handsome, rich, intelligent, a man’s man with a promising future. It’s a little...intimidating to think that I’m going to marry him. I have looks, sure, but I’m kinda simple and nerdy—book-smart, not smart-smart. I don’t care for the things most women like or use to their benefit. Clothes, makeup, jewelry, accessories. I don’t spend a lot of time looking a certain way. So if the women he’s dated before are anything to go by—and I’ve seen some photos—I’m not sure what’s going to keep him interested in me.

Glenda’s gaze on me has narrowed thoughtfully, and I realize it’s because I’m taking too long to respond.

“He does.” I rush to answer. “He’s really good to me.”

She frowns harder, black eyes assessing, “You sure?”

“Yeah.” I nod quickly. Because he treats me how mom and dad treat me.

Like I’m an important responsibility. Like I need to be taken care of. Like I’m made of glass, and should be shielded from difficult or unpleasant things that could break me.

So yeah, he’s great.

Amazing, really.

I’m a lucky girl.

So lucky.

I startle when the front doors bang open.

Another deputy—Felix—hauls a man in, in cuffs. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair unkempt with rainwater streaming down, soaking the black T-shirt stretched across his chest. I catch a slight glimpse of his cheek, and bruises bloom along one sharp cheekbone.

Something about him makes my heart skip a beat. And a giant butterfly spread its wings in my stomach.

What the—

Then he turns, and I see his face.

And it sucks all the air from the room.

My heart is stuck trying to decide between running fast or slowing down.

I’ve never known what fight or flight was until this man.

No, I’ve never had the urge to consider a fight option until this man.

Jax Talon.

The new outsider in our town. Suspected criminal. Armed and dangerous. Rumors swirl like smoke about him—he deals, he uses, he works for some gang, some mafia, he’s rumored to have killed someone but they found no evidence, and now he’s on the run. And I don't know what, but he has some specific grudge against the Tannings, my fiancé’s family. They suspect he’s responsible for some of their recent problems. A fire in their factory, some shipment going missing, a man dead...

He’s exactly the kind of character that mom, dad, and now Gage want to protect me from.

My pulse kicks hard against my ribs when he slowly lifts his head and turns sideways, until his copper gaze pins on mine. Fearless, focused. Smug. Unsurprised. Like he knew it was me before he saw me. Like knows exactly what his attention does to me. Like he wants to unsettle me. Like I’m some entertaining game for him.

No. No no no no no...why is he here? I mean I get why he’s here—he’s in cuffs for God’s sake—but why right now? I’ve been doing such a good job of avoiding him since I got engaged.

For weeks, he’s been everywhere.

The grocery store when I was picking up Mom’s prescriptions. The edge of campus when I left late lectures. The park bench where I sometimes sit reading. The bookstore where I’m a regular.

He’s been tailing me. Relentlessly. Brazenly.

Ever since I ran into him for the first time on that disturbing night less than two months ago.

I wish I’d never stopped when I saw what was happening. I wish I hadn’t gotten in the middle of it.

I never get in the middle of things that are not my business.

But I did that night. For him.

And I acquired my very own stalker.

First couple of days, I ignored it. I thought he’d move on if I just ignored him.

He didn’t.

He started following me, always at a distance, never coming closer, or trying anything actually inappropriate. Except those brown-red eyes would be locked on me like a homing missile.

And every time they did, heat pooled low in my belly, unwelcome and terrifying. Not the disgust I feel when Brody looks at me. Or the unease I feel with my fiancé. It was something entirely foreign. Entirely confusing. Almost like...a desire to...hurt and be hurt. Willingly. Desperately.

What the hell do I even do with that?

So my engagement was a weird relief. Kind of. He wouldn’t keep chasing or going after a taken woman, would he? Surely, even rogues and criminals have some honor?

But just to be safe, I steered clear of all my usual places for the past two days after the evening of my engagement.

I even changed where I go for coffee to the shop near dad’s office, and not the one near my university campus. Because he used to be there too.

And I thought it was working because I didn’t see him.

I thought I was rid of that fixated gaze on me.

So this...is just my crappy luck that he’s being brought in when I’m here?

Great. Just great.

What did he do for him to be brought in?

He looks like he was in a fight. Judging from the arrogant tilt of his mouth, did he win it?

Oh God, did he really kill someone? Is that something he regularly does??

And why in the name of everything unhinged, is the stupid creature in my stomach now flapping its wings?

My eyes dart away from his, breaking contact.

But it’s not out of fear. It’s not fear I’m feeling, or at least not the kind of fear that makes me worried for my safety.

It’s the kind of fear that I’m...losing control of something precious.

What the hell is this?

“Keep moving, asshole.” I hear one of the deputies, Felix, bark at him, and I sense him being shoved in the direction of the interrogation room from the corner of my eye. “Nothing to see here.”

There’s a chuckle in response, low and rough. Then a deep voice rasping, “I disagree, officer. It’s such a scenic fucking view.”

He said fucking.

What the...

And where’s he looking??

Scenic view?

The way he said it...

Is he referring to...me????

Is he insane? Right in front of Felix and Glenda?

My entire body is suddenly alight. I’m warm. So warm. And hurting. Between my legs.

Are my cells mutating from too much stimulation?

“I need to use the restroom.” I mumble at Glenda, spinning around and practically sprinting to the washroom at the other end of the hallway.

It’s a single one for employees, not the other one with multiple stalls, and I’m grateful for a moment alone as I swing the door shut.

I really, really feel like a cold shower, but I’ll settle for a for a splash of cold water to my face.

I dart to the sink, run the tap, turn it to its coldest setting, and gather some water in the scoop of my palms.

But I don’t get a chance to take the water to my face, when the door suddenly flies open.

And he’s there.

I stop breathing. Freeze in place.

It’s why he’s able to close the door behind him and lock it while I watch him like a ninny.

Why the hell didn’t I lock it?

He doesn’t even give me time to scold myself.

He stalks forward, reaching me in two long steps, and clamps a hand over my mouth, before picking me up at my waist and shoving my back against the nearest wall.

Shock renders me motionless. And his scent. What is that scent? Musky and earthy, sweat and spice.

...Why the hell are you smelling him, you imbecile?

My eyes scan his frantically, as they pierce into mine, blazing, hungry.

And then he drawls, voice like gravel, “We meet again, Spitfire.”