Chapter 1

"It sure is hot in the South," mutters a sweaty Jeff Winger to himself. Stepping out of his air-conditioned rental and into the humid air of Louisiana renders him instantly moist, his tailored shirt sticking to his muscular torso and a single bead of sweat rolling down his temple into his permanent five o'clock shadow.

The disbarred lawyer is using his summer break to visit New Orleans, knowing what he needs is a week on Bourbon Street, feeling smug and superior and sliding dollar bills into g-strings and drinking in the streets and forgetting about Annie Edison, who said she wanted to "find herself" this summer break, whatever that meant.

But July in Louisiana is nothing like July in Colorado, and wanting to spend some time alone and in AC, Winger drove the rented Prius aimlessly until Yelp informed him of a mediocre bar and grill in the small town of Bon Temps. The service, Yelp said, was horrendous, as no one ever seemed to be doing any work, but the staff was hot. There were a few warnings about being out late at night alone, but Winger didn't run so far and fast he needed nipple sheaths to take paranoid advice from online strangers.

Winger saunters up to the door of the bar, wishing he'd worn jeans that weren't so snug in this heat. He can hear the murmur of a crowded bar room and thinks a cold one and a pretty bartender is just what he needs…

"Welcome to Merlotte's," says a pale redhead in black short-shorts and a tight white T-shirt. "Would you like a table?"

"No, I'll just sit at the bar, thanks," Winger says. She nods pertly and is gone, faster than he's seen anyone move in a long time. Curious.

He takes a seat at the bar. Down the way, a man sips on a beer Winger's never seen before… it seems to come out thick and red. The man casts a sideways glance in his direction and seems to snarl. Winger shakes his head and waits for the bartender.

She's a saucy black woman who appears to spend all her time at the gym. Finally, Winger thinks, someone who doesn't look dead.

"What do you want?" she barks.

"Ummm, I'll have what… he's having," Winger says.

"I don't think so," she snaps. "You're not from around here, are you? Gimme your ID!"

Winger slides it across the bar.

"Greendale," she reads. "Never heard of it."

"It's alright," he says. "I plan to be in Louisiana for a while, though."

"How about a normal drink?" she suggests.

"Normal? How about a bourbon and water?"

She nods and leaves to fetch it for him. This place does have terrible service. Why can't he have what the guy down the way is having? Maybe it's like a Mike's Hard Lemonade and she realizes his manliness. That must be it.

While he waits, a cute blonde waitress with a gap in her teeth is hurriedly trying to explain to a rugged cowboy type that she needs the rest of the night off because voodoo or some shit. He says, "Fuckin' vampires, Sookie, I'm trying to run a business." Sookie? What's that? She throws her apron on the ground and runs off. The cowboy guy picks it up and stares after her longingly while a woman with horribly dyed red hair shakes her head and says, "Fangbangers ain't nothin' but trouble, Sam."

Winger can't decide if he likes this place. He pays the bartender in cash and decides to leave as soon as he's sucked down his drink. He swivels in his seat and then… something stops him.

Sitting alone at a booth and looking down at a bottle of beer collecting condensation is a young police officer. Blonde, tan, muscles rippling beneath the cotton of his uniform. He must be off duty or drinking on the job, Winger can't tell, because this is the South. Winger wonders what his workout routine is and what gym he goes to. He must have fantastic abs. Winger hopes they're covered in a light dusting of hair and hard to the touch. Wait.

Winger turns around quickly and throws back at least half the drink. What am I thinking, he asks himself.

He turns around again, but it's still there. This growing sense of longing, a stir in his loins, a tightening in his jeans. All week long he's been trying to think of anything but Annie, but now his mind races to desperately remember her voluptuous breasts and small waist… But then the cop looks up and locks eyes with him and even though the cop has the same look on his face as a confused Golden Retriever, Winger can't help but hear his breath skip a beat.

"Yeah, he's somethin' to look at, but he ain't interested in men," the bartender says behind him.

"That's not my thing either," Winger snaps. "Just looks like someone I used to know." He slams the rest of his drink and hurries out.

The air is hot and wet, and though Winger needs a cool shower, he leans against the Prius for a moment to catch his breath. Not even playing football, in the locker rooms of his own multiplex gym… never has Winger felt attracted to a man. It must be the heat. That's the only explanation. He reaches in his pocket for his keys, but his hands are shaking so hard he drops them on the ground. As he bends to pick them up, someone speaks.

"You sure you're alright to drive, pal?"

He stands slowly, but he already knows. He turns around and sees that cop, glistening underneath a streetlamp, cotton shirt damp with sweat, one hand lightly resting on his belt where the handcuffs glint in the light.

"Yeah, yeah… just had the one. I'm fine. Totally fine."

"Cause if you weren't fine," the cop says, slowly approaching, "I'd have to detain you until I felt like you were fine."

"I'm sure I could pass a field sobriety test," Winger asserts.

"Alright. Let's try," the officer says. "Walk in a straight line. Towards me."

Winger squares his shoulders and begins to move. One foot in front of the other, he tells himself. And while he can feel something in his stomach tremble, his limbs remain steady. He keeps walking until he's about six inches away from the officer, so close he can smell the musk of his sweat and the beer on his breath.

"You wouldn't be holding onto any dangerous weapons now, would you?"

"Just one," Winger says. God, no, what the fuck is wrong with me?, Winger thinks. "No, sir. None."

"None, or one?"

"None."

"Turn around," the cops says.

Winger catches his badge. Stackhouse. Then he turns around.

"Arms out. Spread your legs a bit."

Winger feels a rush of blood surge from his head to his groin. Keep it together, Winger, he encourages himself. Please keep it together.

But then Stackhouse's hands are on him, sliding down his ribs and over his hips. They pat the pockets of his jeans, then down his thighs, patting around his ankles. Then slowly, Stackhouse slides his palms up Winger's legs, along his inner thighs and then before Winger can even prepare, Stackhouse steps close, pressing his chest against his back. One hand reaches around and stops firmly on Winger's crotch. To Winger's horror, he's as hard as a rock.

"What's this?" Stackhouse murmurs into his ear.

Winger says the only thing he can of. "It's not mine, Officer. I'm holding for a friend."

Stackhouse's grip tightens and Winger gasps. "Well, sir, you're gonna have to come with me. I'd like to ask you a few questions."