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 SLADE
VALLEY CITY HEROES
BOOK 1
J. AKRIDGE
 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

J. Akridge is a contemporary romance author that has a quirky sense of humor

and enjoys sweet, sexy, feel good romance. She likes her bun messy, her sweats
comfy, and her coffee strong. She resides in Missouri with her husband and their
three children, a Great Dane named Molly and a tiny Yorkie named Jack. She’s
experiencing her own happily ever after with her high school sweetheart.
Since publishing her first book in 2020, she’s been inspired to continue writing
the love stories that play out in her head each day.
She loves to hear from her readers so make sure you check her out on social
media or sign up for her newsletter to stay up to date on all her latest releases
and sales.
You can find J. on Instagram, TikTok, Pinterest, Goodreads, Amazon, and
Facebook at @jakridgeauthor.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a
book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product
of the author’s imagination and are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, events or establishments is solely coincidental.

Cover Designer: Kate | Kate Decided to Design

Editing: Erica | Logophile Editing
Formatting: J. Akridge
Proofreading: Emma | Booktastic Blonde, LLC.
Beta Read: Brittni | Overbooked Author Services
 CONTENTS

TRIGGER WARNING

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42

Epilogue
Epilogue
Stay Tuned
Prologue
Chapter 1
What’s to come…
Acknowledgments
Also by J. Akridge
 TRIGGER WARNING

Please note this story contains sensitive subject matter that involves
a school shooting (no one is harmed), kidnapping, verbal and
emotional abuse (not between main characters).
This is not meant to offend or provoke. Despite the realism of
this content, this story is purely fictional. My intent is to give a
happily ever after that many don’t always experience.

Happy reading,
J. Akridge
 1

“Y ou be careful out there today, son. It’s supposed to be a hot one,”

my mother says through the phone's speaker.
One thing Darlene Hendrix is good at is worrying about her
children. My twin brother, Cade, and I have always been sheltered
by our Mom. Hell, if she could, she’d still be packing our lunches
every single day. It’s only gotten worse since Dad’s retired, and I
think having him home twenty-four seven is about to drive her up
the wall, she has focused more of her attention on the two of us.
My parents have been married for nearly thirty-five years, and
they’re still sickeningly in love with one another. But, having Pops
home every day, means that she’s cooking more and cleaning up
behind him twice as much. My mom likes her house to be spotless,
there’s never a dish in the sink or a crumb on the floor.
“I know, Momma. I will be.” I try to ease her nerves. She hates
that Cade and I are both in the line of duty every day. Me being the
police chief of Valley City while Cade is a Lieutenant at the firehouse
down the street. Every time mom hears a siren in this town, we both
get a text.
I’m sure she’d prefer it if we were parked behind a desk
somewhere full time, or doing just about anything else, but she
knows we’re both passionate about our jobs, she doesn’t intervene
too much. And both of us take our careers seriously, we know how
much it would devastate our mom if something were to happen to
one of us.
“Alright, I’ll let you go, honey,” she sighs.
“Okay, Momma. I love you,” I tell her, feeling guilty at the
sadness in her voice.
“I love you, too.” She hangs up quickly, and I know it’s because
she’s getting emotional. In her defense, I couldn’t imagine having a
child that walked into danger everyday, and somehow, she got two.
Walking out of the doors on the side of the station, I realize she
wasn’t joking. It is hot. The sun is brutal today and it’s barely day
break in the morning. When I came in, it was still dark outside since
the sun hadn’t rose yet. It wasn’t too bad out, but now… it’s just
fucking miserable.
My vest feels like a weighted blanket against my chest while my
uniform shirt sticks to my body. Typically, I don’t work in the field
this much, but we’re under staffed and I’ve been covering as much
as I can to help fill in.
“How’s it goin’?” I raise my head to see Bronx, my best friend,
walking toward me.
“It’s fucking going.” I laugh and shake my head, stopping next to
my patrol car, waiting for him to reach me.
Before I can say anything else, Andrew Davis walks out of the
station and toward his patrol car. I snarl, no matter how
unprofessional it is, I snarl because I can’t fucking stand the
douchebag. The two of us don’t have the best history, and
unfortunately for me, I can’t fire him for wronging me, I have to deal
with him on a regular basis, and that’s harder than you’d think.
Each time I see his smug face, I want to fucking bury it into the
ground. At one point, the two of us were close. Real fucking close.
One may even argue that we were too close. Which is why what he
did stings so fucking much, still to this day. Now, I can’t figure out
how we were friends to begin with.
“Have a good day, Chief,” Andrew says, a fucking smirk tipping
his lip before climbing into his patrol car.
The rage I feel every time I’m around this dumb fuck nearly
takes control. Sometimes being the Chief sucks, like now for
instance, when all I want to do is beat his ass but I have to refrain
because of standards and all. I can’t imagine it’d look good for the
Chief of Valley City to be caught beating the shit out of one of his
patrol officers.
“Easy,” Bronx warns, his head turned in the same direction that
I’m looking. “He’s not worth it.”
One thing I can say, is that Bronx always has my back and I don’t
have to worry about him fucking me over.
Bronx and I have always been joined at the fucking hip it seems.
We went to school together, were in the Army together, and we
somehow both managed to become Rangers. Our unit was badass,
like an efficient, well oiled machine. I chose to retire after our
second tour, Bronx wanted more. He loves the action, and so do I to
a certain extent, but the last tour was too much for me and I felt like
it was my time. I walked away from the military and did the only
thing I knew I could do for the rest of my life.
I’m young, barely thirty-one and I was named Police Chief of
Valley City just under a year ago. I’ve lived here my entire life, went
to school here, left here and came home to here. After Bronx
decided he was done, he came home to a waiting spot on the force
that I promised him.
My parents only live a few minutes away from the station, which
makes it easy to stop in and see them every day at noon, if I can.
Depending on my brother’s schedule, he sometimes swings by while
I’m there.
“Where are you off to?” Bronx blocks my view of Andrew as he
pulls out from the station lot.
Shaking my head, I push the memories of Andrew’s betrayal from
my mind and focus on Bronx. “I’ve got the East Side today.”
A loud laugh erupts from Bronx and I roll my eyes. No one wants
to patrol the East side, hell I don’t even want to patrol over there
but someone has to do it.
The East Side of Valley City, or as most just call it, Valley, has
become a grunge town. It’s dirty, littered and has a whole slew of
junkies hanging out on the sidewalks and in the alleys. And that’s
sad, because when I was younger the East Side was the place to be.
They had the best restaurants with the best barbecue. Now, nearly
every building has bars over the windows and the streets are only
filled with those that enjoy shoving whatever they can into their
veins.
There’s only one place on the East Side that’s worth going to,
and that’s Willy’s.
Remember when I said they had the best barbeque on that side
of town? Willy’s is the spot I was talking about.
“Have fun over there,” he continues, laughing. “Hey, I’m about to
head to the bakery, wanna come?”
Glancing down at my watch, I still have a bit before I need to
actually be in the East Side.
“Yeah, sure,” I agree, turning to climb into my car.
I flip the radio station on and one of Dylan Scott’s new songs fills
the cab of my Explorer. Singing along, I let my thumb hammer a
beat against the steering wheel as I wait for Bronx’s slow ass to get
into his car and follow behind him to the bakery.
That whole cops and donuts thing is true. There is nothing better
than a glazed donut for breakfast. Just the thought has my stomach
growling.
Pulling my Explorer into the parking lot, it’s in full swing already
this morning. Cars are lining the drive thru and nearly every parking
space is full.
Stepping out, several say hello to me as I pass them heading to
the door. It’s a perk of a semi small town and growing up here. The
door chimes as I enter and I see a few kids in with their parents
before heading off to school.
“Slade.” I’m rooted in place at the sound of that voice, before
cringing slightly. A voice I’ve tried to forget but just can’t fucking
seem to get away from.
Ah, shit. Olivia’s working.
I was too distracted by the thought of a warm glazed donut to
even think about her.
That’s one downfall of the damn place, my ex-girlfriend works
here part time. I used to have her schedule memorized so that I
could avoid her but I’m assuming she’s changed things up a bit
because I never thought her ass would climb out of bed at this hour
in the morning.
Color me surprised.
“Hi, Liv,” I acknowledge her.
Bronx chuckles behind me as the door swings shut. “Damn, the
luck.” He steps around me, and looks into the glass box to see what
they’re offering today. I roll my eyes as he searches all their pastries
knowing he’s going to go with the same damn thing he gets every
morning. Two chocolate and two glazed. “I’ll have two chocolate and
two glazed, please.” I can’t hold back my laugh.
Olivia nods, turning her attention to me. “And for you?”
“Two glazed is fine.” I smile, trying to keep it polite even though
she’s the one person I don’t want to see.
“You have a few minutes?” she asks, bagging our things as I look
around the line gathering behind us and I know I can’t blow her off
or it’ll cause a scene.
Because Olivia Monson doesn’t take no for an answer. I don’t
know what the hell I was thinking when I dated her.
I had just gotten out of the military and was lonely while I tried
to figure my shit out here. She was there, offering her company that
I was in desperate need of and I took her up on it. And it all fucking
blew up in my face a year later.
“Sure,” I push the word past my mouth, even though I don’t
want to agree to anything she offers. She rings us up, hands Bronx
his donuts and calls for help to the register. She brings my small bag
around the counter with her and gestures outside. Following along,
she walks directly for my Explorer and stops at the door before
turning to face me.
“Here,. She hands me the bag, taking it I reach around her and
set it inside the car through the open window. “So-” She looks up at
me, her eyes wide like a fucking puppy dog. “I’ve missed you.”
“Yeah?” I’m trying not to sound like a dick, but sometimes I can’t
help it with her.
“Yeah, I was thinking that maybe you and I could give it another
go. We were good once.” She takes a small step toward me,
reaching out to run a hand over my kevlar vest.
 She’s not wrong, at one point I thought the world started and
ended with her, but boy was I fucking wrong.
“Not going to happen,” my tone is even, no emotion. I got over
that shit a long time ago.
“Slade.” Her shoulders drop along with her head.
“Slade nothing, you fucked one of my friends, Liv. Did you think
I’d just forget about that?” Her mouth falls open as if I’ve slapped
her by saying those words out loud. She looks around, not wanting
anyone to know what happened between the two of us.
That’s the type of person Olivia is, big on her image, and partly
why she has gradually turned into what looks like a human barbie
doll. And for what? We live in a small town, not anywhere near a city
where you’d see more people that dress the way she does. Her
reputation is everything, one of the only reasons she probably wants
to get back together.
This town thinks we separated on a mutual agreement and that
Andrew and I don’t get along because he was passed over for the
Chief position. I never said anything, the damage was already done
and I didn’t want to fucking hear about it longer than I had to. The
only people who know are the ones that are closest to us.
“But you said you forgave us.” Her face slowly rises, and she
looks like I’ve just shit on her puppy.
“I did forgive you, but I didn’t forget it. I told you we were done,
nothing else is going to happen between us. You have Andrew now,
and I hope the two of you are happy.” And I do, there’s no reason
for the two of us to hate each other. Regardless of how fucked up
the situation is that she caused. I still feel the pain, and I’d like to
avoid seeing her at all costs but I don’t hate her.
“We’re not together anymore.” Her eyes move away from mine
and I can see the shame as it washes over her.
Huh. That’s news to me.
After I walked into her apartment and found her naked on the
bed with Andrew's face between her legs, that was it.
For both of them.
I don’t normally let people hang around to cause more harm
after they’ve already broken the trust.
 She apologized, he never said a word to me about the situation.
He stood up and walked right out of the apartment. It says a lot
about our friendship I think though.
Or lack of one.
When I look back now, I could almost laugh at how stupid I was
then. There were signs, but I didn’t pick up on them. I was burying
myself in my new position, trying to do the best police work I could.
When she glances at me, the look in her eyes makes me freeze.
“Now I see,” I chuckle and her face turns to confusion. “He
cheated on you, huh?” I smirk at her, because I am an asshole after
all.
That’s what she’s been calling me for years, from that first time
she told me she wanted me back after I caught them. That was all
of three hours I think after I’d walked in.
The look on her face tells me I just hit the nail on the head with
the hammer and I can’t even control the laughter that bubbles up in
me.
“You don’t have to be such a dick.” She takes a step away from
me, here comes the Olivia I’ve known over the years. “God, now I
remember why...” she trails off, her words are meant to hurt me but
they don’t. She does this every time, tries to justify why she fucked
my friend, as if I ever gave her a goddamn reason to cheat.
“Whatever, fuck you.”
I salute her before she starts to walk off. Earning a frustrated
grunt in return as she stomps toward the bakery door. When I look
over my shoulder I’m surprised to see Bronx sitting in his cruiser. I
don’t know when he came outside, I thought he was going to eat
inside.
He has a donut stuffed in his mouth and watches as she walks
away. He shoots me a thumbs up and I laugh, shaking my head,
before climbing into my car.
Pulling out of the bakery, I eat my donut while trying to focus on
my job as I head to the East Side.
 2

“C ooper ,” I yell from the bottom step of the stairs. “It’s time to go.”
“I’m coming,” my son yells back, I can hear his little feet as he
rushes toward the stairs.
Cooper is anything but an early riser, meaning we’re always
cutting it close. Who knew waking a seven year old would prove to
be so difficult every single day?
“Hey, can we stop by the bakery on the way to school?” He
jumps from the bottom step and grabs his backpack from my hand.
“Cooper, we’re already running behind as it is,” I remind him.
This is after I’ve tried pulling him from his bed three times, and
expressing how we were going to be late if he didn’t get his behind
in gear.
“But, moooooom.” He looks up at me, with big eyes that are
impossible to say no to. No matter how hard I try not to cave, this
boy can manage to get me to agree to anything for him.
It doesn’t help that he’s a handsome little devil and knows it. He
uses his smile to his advantage.
“Fine.” I give in, far easier than I probably should. But, Cooper is
my only child, and by the looks of it, he might just be the only kid I
ever have. “One donut, in and out,” I warn, pointing my finger at
him.
 “Deal.” He smiles before shooting through the front door out to
my car while I lock up behind us.
By the time I reach the car, Cooper is buckled into the back seat
and wondering what’s taking us this long to get to the bakery a few
blocks away.
This kid. He’ll be the death of me, I just know it.
One thing I love about Valley City is the historic vibe it gives
when you drive into the downtown area. I’ve fallen in love with this
little town, even in the short amount of time we’ve lived here. It’s
not even been a year since we followed my ex-fiance into town, and
then had it all blow up when he decided he no longer wanted to be
together.
By then I’d already made friends and settled into life here, and
Cooper had made friends at his school, and I didn’t want to bring
too much change into his life with everything else going on. Plus, my
ex is a douche bag and probably wouldn’t let me leave town even if
I wanted to.
Pulling into the parking lot of the bakery, I park the car and climb
out before holding Cooper’s door open for him. Two squad cars are
backing out at the same time and Cooper pauses, entranced by
them passing by where we parked. One of the officers waves at him,
flipping his lights on as he passes by before he turns them off and
eases into the oncoming traffic.
“Did you see that, Momma? He turned his lights on for me.”
Cooper’s excited voice makes me smile.
“I sure did.” My heart warms at the small gesture, knowing
Cooper is obsessed with police officers and the help they provide the
community. “Alright, remember what I said.” I take his hand, leading
him inside. “In and out.”
Cooper is quick to order his breakfast, all on his own. Because he
thinks he’s grown half the time. I add a small pastry to the order for
me before we rush out the door and toward the school.
“Almost there, Coop,” I tell him as we pull into the student drop
off line of Valley Elementary. “Got everything you need?”
“Yep,” he pops the p as he unbuckles his seatbelt and sits on the
edge of his seat, waiting patiently.
 We’ve perfected the drop off to a T, since ninety percent of the
time we’re rushing trying to get here on time. It doesn't matter what
time we wake up, we’ll still end up late somehow.
And it probably doesn’t help that I make small detours to go by
the bakery.
Not to mention, parent’s in the pickup and drop off line can get
wild. If your kid takes a second too long, they’ll honk and yell out
the window at you.
When I roll to a stop, he pushes the door open and starts to
climb out. “I love you,” I remind him, just like I do every day.
“Moooom,” he whines, eyes wide as he looks over his shoulder to
see if anyone heard me.
“Okay.” I shake my head, knowing I’ve embarrassed him.
He may only be in second grade, but he hates being
embarrassed by me just being a mom. Right before the door shuts,
he sticks his head back in and what he says makes me feel like I’m
on top of the world.
“Love you, too.” He slams the door quickly and I watch as he
tosses the strap of his backpack onto his shoulder and heads toward
the front entrance.
There’s only one person that can put a smile on my face like this
everyday.
His teacher, Ms. Ray, stands at the door with her phone in her
hand and I roll my eyes at the sight of her. She is like this every
morning when I drop him off and doesn’t greet any of the children
as they start their day. It’s been a rough school year with her, but
thankfully we only have a few more months until summer is finally
here.
I pull from the curb and head straight to work. When I get there
I have about ten minutes before I actually have to go in and start
my day, and I use it to my advantage.
Being a single mother means I rarely have any alone time. Only
when Cooper goes to his dad's house, and that’s a rare occasion.
And by rare, I mean once in a blue moon type rare, whenever my ex
feels like being a parent. I still can’t figure out how we worked as a
family for as long as we did.
 Pulling my pastry from the bag, I take a bite of the apple strudel
and lean my head against the headrest.
“Mhh,” a pleasured moan falls from my lips. I don’t normally keep
a lot of sweets in the house, any time we grab food from the bakery,
it’s a nice treat.
A couple walking past my car catches my attention. She’s
pregnant, wearing a spring colored maxi dress and a denim jacket as
they walk toward the OBGYN office next to the CPA office I work at.
The man she’s with, who I’m assuming is the father of her unborn
child, holds her hand and leads her to the front door.
He pulls the door open, smiling down at her as she steps
through. I watch as she places her hand over her belly, the
exchange reminds me of the days I was pregnant with Cooper.
Except Marcus didn’t make it to a single one of my appointments,
he barely even glanced at the ultrasounds when I showed them to
him.
I’m pretty sure the only reason he was in the delivery room with
me was because it would have looked bad on his public image had
he not been.
His public image. I roll my eyes. It’s sad that that mattered more
than us.
A face comes into view in my window and I nearly choke on the
bite I had taken. Heather’s face smashes against my driver's side
door. “What the hell are you doing?” she mumbles against the glass.
“Me? What the hell are you doing? You scared the shit out of
me?” I stare at my friend, wondering when the hell she was dropped
on her head as a child, because we both know it happened.
Both of us work as local CPA’s, our offices are side by side and
I’m sure everyone we work with regrets it.
She rounds the front of my car, climbing into the passenger seat
and stares at me. I laugh, shaking my head and break the apple
strudel in half, giving her the opposite piece that I haven’t taken a
bite from. It’s barely out of my hand before she sinks her teeth into
it.
“Oh, God. This is so good.” I nod in agreement. “I haven’t been
to the bakery in a while, but this is a fucking orgasm in my mouth.”
 I pause. “Um.” I look away, trying to figure out how to respond.
“We haven’t been to the bakery in a while either, but Cooper
insisted.” I take another bite, glancing at the OBGYN office again.
“Of course he did.” She laughs, she knows my son's sweet tooth
as well as I do.
“Well, it’s about that time. We better head inside.” I glance at my
watch and take the last bite of my half before reaching into the
floorboard beside Heather’s feet for my bag.
“Ugh, kill me now,” she mumbles.
“I could never.” I look over at her. “Who would keep Cooper’s
sweet tooth occupied?”
“You’re right, you’re right.” She waves a hand in the air and
climbs out.

B y the time lunch rolls around, I’m starving. The apple strudel I ate
for breakfast didn’t hold me over for long and my stomach has been
vocal about it.
“Hey.” I look up from my desk, seeing Gideon leaning against the
doorway. “You have plans for lunch?”
“I–”
“We were going to hit the deli,” Heather interrupts, coming into
view beside him. Better believe the two of us had our lunch planned
out.
“Mind if I go?” he asks, I look at Heather who shrugs her
shoulders in response to his question.
“Fine by me.” I stand, grabbing my purse and pushing my chair
in.
“But you’re buying,” Heather informs him before walking off. “Oh,
and driving.” She laughs over her shoulder and I join in.
“Whatever you say.” He smiles at me but follows along behind
Heather.
Gideon’s been working here for years, a few years longer than
Heather. I met them both the day I started and we’ve become good
friends. He has a crush on Heather but hasn’t told her and when I
picked up on it, he swore me to secrecy.
And that’s how I spend my lunch, watching Gideon sneak looks
at Heather while she stuffs her face.
How he finds that attractive, I’m not sure, but it’s comical
nonetheless.
 3

T he E ast S ide has been calm today. It’s not all that unusual
considering most of these folks are usually up until the early hours
of the morning shoving whatever they can into their veins.
I shiver at the thought of anyone willingly doing that, and how
sad it is to realize they can hardly stop.
After a few hours of patrolling, I head toward my moms house
for lunch. My brother text earlier saying he’d be swinging by around
the same time. It’s been a few days since I’ve seen him. Our
schedules rarely match up.
By the time I reach my parents house, his truck is already parked
in the driveway. Dad’s sitting on his side by side, looking toward the
pond that sits off to the side of their house. Our parents lucked out
on this property when we were little. It’s still in town, but it’s right at
the edge with minimal traffic their way.
When I climb out of my cruiser, the slamming door of the car
catches my Pops attention.
“There’s my boy,” he laughs, sitting his beer in the cup holder.
Yes, my dad is drinking at noon on a Wednesday. I guess this is
retired life.
“Hey, Pops.” I shake my head, walking toward where he’s sitting
to shake his hand. “Starting early, huh?”
 “Ah. You know.” He waves me off. “I’ve worked for the last forty-
five years. I deserve my beers,” he laughs again, grabbing the bottle
and tipping it to his lips.
“Mom inside?” I ask, shaking my head at the same time.
“Yeah, finishing up some brownies. You better get in there before
that brother of yours eats them all.” He smirks and I’m off.
“Not on my watch. I’ll arrest his ass.”
My dad laughs, but I can hear him climbing off the side by side
and following behind me. For a sixty-five year old, he gets around
like he’s still in his forties. Pops worked in the local factory our entire
lives. It didn’t make him rich by any means, but it gave him a pretty
good life and provided for his family, too.
“Save some for your brother,” my mom’s scolding voice is all I
hear and I know Cade is going to try to eat every damn brownie
she’s made.
Some things never change, Momma!
“I’m here,” I announce, stepping into the room.
The smell hits me and makes my stomach growl in anticipation.
Any time you come to Mom and Pops house, it’ll always smell like
food. Mom doesn’t cook a meal without having some type of dessert
with it, and today it’s brownies. It’s a surprise that we weren’t obese
when we were younger, because we were always well fed and then
some.
My mom is a damn good cook, and based on the smell, she’s
made one of our favorite meals.
Her special hamburgers.
Mom won’t say why they’re special, and we gave up a long time
ago at trying to figure out why they were special. But either way,
she cooks them and there won’t be a single one left in this house by
the time we’re finished.
“My boy.” Mom spins at the sound of my voice, her face softening
when she sees me. She wipes her hands on the rag and tosses it
over her shoulder before she heads my direction to kiss my cheek.
I hug her before giving her a kiss on the cheek. When she
releases me, I take the opportunity to smack Cade in the back of the
head on the island before I lean against it beside him.
 “Slade Wayne,” she scolds me with my middle name. “Be nice to
your brother.” She winks at me before turning her attention back to
finishing up lunch.
“I’m the favorite,” I whisper.
“No way in hell,” he argues.
“How’s it going, boys?” Dad says, heading toward the table
seated just to the side and takes his seat at the head of it.
We both laugh, letting our playful bickering take us back to when
we were kids.
“Pops, tell Cade that I’m the favorite.” I push to my full height
and cross my arms.
“Bull, tell him the truth, Pops. It’s time to knock him down a
peg.” Cade spins to face Pops and shoves his elbow into my side.
“Oh, heavens,” our mom chimes in behind us.
“Neither of y’all are my favorite, I don’t like either one of you.”
Pops answers, a smirk on his face. “Now, tell me how work is going.”
Their house is small, but they have a formal dining room and a
breakfast nook off of their kitchen with a small round table seated
next to several windows.
“It’s good. Firehouse is busy.” Cade stands from the island and
walks over to the table, taking the seat next to him. “We have the
Hero Picnic soon, y’all coming?”
“Of course we’re coming,” Mom says, bringing over two plates
loaded with her burgers and homemade fries. She walks back to the
counter, grabbing two other plates for her and Dad.
Mom and Pop never miss the picnic, it’s probably ranked up there
with Christmas for my mom.
“I’ll grab the sodas.” I open the fridge door and grab each of us a
Coke and take the seat between Cade and mom.
“I love the picnic,” Mom tells us. “I think it’s for such a great
cause.” She smiles at us.
“Yeah, it is.” I agree.
The Hero Picnic was organized when we were kids and the
proceeds benefit the local children’s home. It helps purchase things
that the state doesn’t fund, like extracurricular activities and more
than just a couple hundred dollars in clothing. Every year, Cade and
I volunteer for either the kissing booth or the dunk tank, both get
long lines and bring in most of the money.
“When is it this year?” she asks.
“It’s a couple weeks away. I’ll get you the exact weekend,” Cade
tells her, lifting his burger to his lips.
“Manners, Cade Layne.” Mom stares at him.
I snicker as my brother slowly lowers his burger to the plate,
cutting his eyes at me in the process. We all bring our hands to the
table, holding our palms together as my father says blessing over
the food.
Once he’s finished, Cade and I barely get an Amen out before
our burgers are in our mouths.
“You boys…” Mom shakes her head, laughter hinting in her voice.
“I swear, Richard, I don’t know where we went wrong.” She smiles
as she says it, slowly lifting her burger to her lips and taking a bite.
“You can only do so much, Darlene.” Dad shrugs, causing mom
to laugh.
“You know.” She turns her attention from dad to us. “Them
finding girlfriends would probably straighten them out.”
“Or drive us insane,” Cade mumbles.
“I agree with Cade, Momma. My last one didn’t turn out too hot.”
“Your last one was a whacko,” Mom deadpans while dad laughs.
“Not arguing that, Mom,” I laugh.
Once lunch is finished, I help clean up the table while Cade
washes the dishes. Mom dries from the other side and puts them
away, humming her favorite hymn from church.
“That’s the last of the dishes.” Cade hands mom the plate he just
finished rinsing before emptying the sink.
I look at my watch and see it’s almost time for my lunch break to
end.
“I’ve got to get out of here.” I take the rag I was using and drop
it over the sink before wrapping my arms around my mom. “Bronx is
going to be wondering where my ass went.”
“Tell that boy I miss him, will ya?” I nod at her. “And be careful,
Slade.”
 “I will, Momma.” I kiss her cheek again before I hear my brother
saying his goodbyes.
We both walk out the front door of our childhood home, heading
toward our vehicles. Pops has already made his way to the dock that
reaches the center of their pond, a fishing pole in one hand and a
beer in the other.
“See ya, Pops!” I shout.
He only lifts his beer in return, causing Cade and I to laugh.
“What time do you get off?” Cade asks, stopping next to his
truck.
“Not sure, shift ends at six for me but I have a ton of shit to get
finished before I can even think about leaving. You off today?”
“Ah, the duties of being a boss man,” he laughs. “Yeah, I have
the next seventy-two off after this shift. Call me later.”
“Will do.” I nod.
Climbing into my Explorer, I radio to dispatch that I’m back in
service. A few minutes down the road and a call for a breaking and
entering comes through, only a few blocks from me.
Flipping the lights on, I head down the street, alerting dispatch
that I’m on my way. Valley City may be a small town, but it’s full of
action.
 4

“C ooper !” I yell from the kitchen.

The older he gets, the more it seems I have to yell for him
upstairs. He'd much rather spend his time in his bedroom, playing
with all his toys than hanging out with mom.
I’ve just gotten home from work. Maria, our babysitter, just left
at the same time and I’m exhausted. I feel like I’ve barely seen
Cooper with tax season gearing up, aside from our busy rush in the
mornings and my occasional down time on the weekends.
Which, let’s be honest, moms rarely get down time because my
weekend is full of laundry, cleaning, and doing whatever else I didn’t
get finished during the week. Most nights Maria has already put him
to bed and I’m not far behind him. But today, I’m home early and
ready to spend some time with my boy and maybe even take him to
his favorite place for a cupcake.
“Momma?” he questions, his voice is full of excitement and I feel
horrible that we haven’t been able to spend much time together.
Being a single mother is hard, probably one of the hardest things
I’ve ever had to deal with. I’m constantly worried if he’s getting
enough attention, if I’m doing enough to make up for the fact that
he hardly sees his father.
His dad is supposed to pick him up every other weekend but he
usually calls the day before with some excuse as to why he can’t get
him. He never takes him during the week and never on his
unscheduled days. Cooper stopped asking when it’s his daddy’s turn
a few months ago when he realized he was only getting
disappointed with each answer he received. And honestly, it’s easier
for me this way too, I don’t have to be the one that breaks the
terrible news to him.
I agreed to no child support when we split. At the time I didn’t
think we’d be in the situation that we are. Hell, Marcus wasn’t the
best dad but at least he was active then. Or more active than he is
now, I should say.
I thought we’d be able to co-parent and move on with our lives
but that isn’t the case. Marcus thinks he’s above paying child support
and I should just ask him when Cooper needs something. I tried it
his way for a while, and by his way, I mean doing exactly what he
wants. Then he started holding everything over my head and
threatening to take Cooper away from me so I quit.
It’s easier for me to just suck it up and make ends meet on my
own than to fight him on stupid shit that will only burden me in the
future. As a CPA, I make decent money, it’s a blessing since I’m now
paying for every bill we have… and then some.
Cooper’s footsteps draw my attention to the stairs and at the last
step, he jumps and uses his hand on the banister to swing him in
the direction of the kitchen.
Oh, boys. They said they’re sooo much fun. I just didn’t realize it
meant that I’d have a near heart attack every day at the stunts from
this kid.
He runs toward me, one of the biggest smiles on his sweet little
face.
“Hey, buddy.” I place a kiss on the top of his head as he wraps
his arms around me. “Did you have a good day at school?” He grows
stiff and I know he’s had another eventful day. “What happened?”
His teacher has been on his ass all year long and I’m about at my
witts end with the entire situation. I’ve tried speaking to her, to see
if there is any way to reason but the woman is just a big ole’ jerk.
Those are Cooper’s words, not mine. Mine are much more
colorful.
 “Miss Ray didn’t let me go to recess today because I didn’t get all
of my takeaways done before lunch.” I can feel my heart break while
looking at my son.
Cooper is dyslexic, or at least that’s the conclusion I’ve come to
after doing some research on it. It’s not like he’s lazy or just not
doing the work. She complains that he doesn't focus when she’s
instructing the class, which is again, classic dyslexia. Instead of
working to help Cooper better understand what he’s struggling with,
she chooses to punish him by making him miss recess nearly every
day.
“Oh, baby.” I bend coming eye level with him. The crystal blue
eyes staring back at me are filled with sadness and it breaks me.
“How about we go get a cupcake to cheer you up?”
All I want to do in this life is be a good mother and take away all
his aches and pains and I constantly feel as if I’m struggling with it.
“Yes!” he shouts, pushing away from me and running toward the
front door. “Comin’?” I chuckle at how quickly his mood can change.
At least Ms. Ray didn’t keep him down for long tonight.
“Right behind ya.” I follow along, closing the door behind me
while he’s already climbing into the car.
On the drive, he tells me about the rest of his day. I bite my
tongue because I don’t want my feelings or opinions of his teacher
to sway his.
And that should be an award in its own with how I feel toward
her.
Pulling into the bakery we stopped at this morning, Cooper nearly
jumps out of the car, his excitement over a cupcake is contagious. I
laugh as he takes my hand and leads me to the front entrance,
pulling with all his strength. The door chimes as we step inside, even
late in the day like this the small bakery is busy. A few officers are
inside, catching Coop's attention immediately.
“Oh, wow.” He’s staring at them. “Look!” I turn my head to see
what he’s pointing at. “They have a gun.” His voice drops to a
whisper. “I bet they kick Doctor Octopus's heinie.” I laugh, his
obsession with Spiderman only grows each day.
“I bet they do,” I agree.
 I have to say though, the officers in this town are like the ones
you see in the movies. They’re handsome, tall, and even with the
bulky vests they wear, they look as if they never miss a session at
the gym. The officers don’t notice Cooper’s pointing and his
attention quickly focuses on the reason why we’re here.
The large, glass case is nearly empty at this time of the day. Only
a few of each kind remain for Cooper to choose from.
“Which do you want, buddy?” I look at Coop. His lips are twisted
to the side while he thinks hard about the flavor he wants today, his
index finger tapping against the side of his cheek.
“I want the red one.”
“That’s red velvet, are you sure?” I love red velvet cake, but I’m
not sure if Coop will.
“Yep, it’s the same color as Spiderman.” I shake my head and
look at the lady.
“You know what? I can add some white lines really quick and
make it like a spider web on top,” the woman offers.
“Oh, please,” Cooper nearly squeals with excitement as he looks
at me. “This is the best place ever.”
The woman laughs, taking the cupcake from the case and
heading into the employee only area of the bakery. There’s a large
window opening, and Cooper runs over and stands on the stool
allowing him to watch as she adds the web to his cupcake.
I order my own cupcake and check out while he’s waiting. Once
his cupcake is finished, the woman brings it out and hands it to him.
His mouth nearly hits the floor as he takes it from her.
“Thank you,” he says, and before I can even stop it, I watch as
he takes the biggest bite from the top, smearing the red and white
icing all over his mouth.
“Cooper.” I laugh, grabbing a few napkins.
The officers chuckle at Cooper before they stand and throw the
trash from their table away. I shake my head at my son, pushing him
in the direction of one of the empty tables.
Like I said, boy mom.
“That’s a cool cupcake you have there, kid.” One of the officers
approaches our table, followed by a female officer.
 “Thank you,” Coop says with a full mouth and I have to scold him
for not using his manners, causing the cop to laugh.
“You have a good night, Spiderman.” Cooper’s eyes widen when
he hears what the officer calls him. “Miss.” He tips his head at me
before they both walk toward the exit.
Once Cooper’s all but inhaled his cupcake, I get his mouth
cleaned off the best I can with a napkin and decide that a bath at
home will be the only way to get the red stain from his mouth,
fingers and part of his cheek.
When our house comes into view, my heart stops when I see a
familiar car sitting out front and dread fills me instead.
Shit.
“Daddy!” Cooper excitedly shouts in the back seat, when he sees
his father.
One thing is for sure, the boy loves his father, you’d think he
hung the moon with the way he acts toward him, despite knowing
he shouldn’t ask when he will see his dad. He’s too young to see the
snide comments Marcus makes toward him. When I park the car,
Marcus climbs out of his and strolls toward us.
“Where were you?” he asks, as if my whereabouts are any of his
business anymore.
“We went to get cupcakes cause I had a rough day at school,”
Cooper answers for me, smiling up at his father. Marcus never looks
down, his eyes are trained on me the entire time.
“Hm,” is all he says, he doesn’t acknowledge that his son is
struggling in school, but then again that would mean he cares and
we know Marcus Galloway does not.
“Are you coming to my school play, daddy?” Marcus finally looks
down at Cooper, he smiles but it’s fake as hell.
“When is it?” He glances up to me, an eyebrow raised in
question.
“The last week of school, I’ll have to look for the exact date but I
think it’s May eighteenth.”
“If I’m not working.” He smiles at Cooper again and rage fills me.
If he’s not working is such a bullshit excuse. He has a pretty
demanding career, but he also works a strict nine to five.
 “It’s in the evening, so you should be off.” I smile, trying to
appear as innocent as I can knowing I damn well said that to call
him out on his bullshit.
“Well, then. I guess I’ll be there.” The words come through his
gritted teeth.
“It’s time for you to get ready for bed, baby.” I pat Cooper’s back,
urging him to give his dad a hug and kiss before heading inside. His
little arms wrap around Marcus’ legs, and I watch as he bends and
rubs his sons back.
It’s about the most affection the boy has seen from him in a
while. When I got pregnant, I didn’t expect to have this man
standing in front of me. And what’s sad is I don’t even know where
everything changed.
“Can I talk to you?” Marcus asks and I nod my head, sending
Cooper inside to get ready for bed. Marcus waits until the door shuts
behind Cooper before continuing what he wants to speak to me
about. “So, there’s an event coming up this weekend.” Great, I know
where this is going. “I’d like to take Cooper with me.”
“It’s not your weekend,” I remind him, the calm factor in his
stance is now gone and replaced with an angry one.
“I don’t give a fuck if it’s my weekend or not, Brooke. Do I need
to remind you that I can have the judge sign the papers right
fucking now and he’ll be mine?” No, he really doesn’t have to remind
me because he brings it up nearly every time I see him and even
attempt to go against what he wants.
“No.” I hate myself for giving in, but the fear of losing Cooper is
too much. “What time?” My admission to him makes him smile and I
want to knock the shit out of him for it.
“It starts at six Saturday night,” he tells me, I nod to confirm that
I’ve heard him. “We’ll pick him up at five-thirty.”
We?
He must sense the confusion because he starts smiling again
before he explains himself. “My new girlfriend.” He wants it to be a
punch to the gut, but it’s not. I got over him in that way a long time
ago, I’m no longer mourning the fiancé I once had, I’m mourning
the family that I lost. The concept of a mother, father and child living
under the same roof. That’s what I’m missing, not him in general.
“Oh, good. Can’t wait to meet her.” And I truly can’t.
I want whoever my son is around to be good to him, that’s all I
fucking care about. Take care of my son and everything else will be
fine. His smile falters slightly, and I really want to be petty and reach
over my shoulder to pat myself on the back for catching him off
guard but I refrain.
But damn is it hard not to.
He stares at me a little longer, his lip snarling slightly before he
turns and walks to his expensive car. Climbing in, the door slams and
I nearly jump even though he’s so far away from me.
He speeds off down the street and I watch as his taillights
disappear before turning to spend the rest of the night with the only
boy who loves me unconditionally and doesn’t intentionally try to
hurt me.
Once I step inside, Cooper is sitting on the floor playing with his
dinosaurs. The fact that he can be unaware of what just happened
outside makes me smile. One thing I always want to do is protect
him from adult things that aren’t his responsibility.
“Alright, mister. It’s time for bath and bed.” Much to his dismay,
he heads for the stairs to the bathroom after a few moans and
groans from him. “I’ll be up in a few.”
“Okay,” he draws out. Grabbing my cell, I dial my best friend's
number.
“What up, hoe?” I laugh at how she answers the phone.
Grabbing a glass from the cupboard, I pour the wine.
“Starting my first glass of wine for the night,” I trail off as I take
a sip.
“Oh shit, Marcus,” she says his name, already knowing what’s
brought on my bad mood.
“Yeah.”
“What’d he fucking do now?”
I tell her how Cooper had a rough day at school and how I
decided a cupcake from the bakery would probably make him feel
better. “When we got home he was parked out front.” I take another
drink, letting the dry liquid calm some of my nerves. “Demanding
that I let him have Cooper this weekend because he has some type
of event to go to with his new girlfriend.”
“You know that’s all for show right?” I do, sadly.
“I do,” I sigh. “It’s my weekend, but it looks like he’ll have him.”
“That’s bullshit, dude.”
Heather can’t stand Marcus. The first time they met, he was a
complete dick to her and she was a bitch right back, and had every
right to be one with the way he acted.
“I know but I don’t know what else to do, the judge–” She cuts
me off.
“The judge isn’t going to do shit, Brooke. Marcus doesn’t want
that boy anymore than you want him to have him. He’s not capable
of devoting his time to being a father, he’s shown that for the past
few years. He’s using this as a way to scare you.”
“Well, it’s working.” And I hate that it is. I hate constantly feeling
like he controls me and my life.
“Don’t let it. Listen, what night is he getting him?” She questions
and I think back to our conversation.
“Saturday.”
“Well, you and I are going out Saturday night.”
When I start to object, she doesn’t give me the opportunity and
tells me I’m going whether she drags me or not. Maybe a night out
would be good, keep my mind busy and off of Marcus.
 5

S ince lunch at my parents house, I’ve had call after call.

We’ve had several traffic accidents and a couple domestic
violence calls, plus a burglary. These people in this town have balls,
I’ll give them that.
The burglary call I had earlier was someone busting out the front
window of a house that is literally a block away from the station.
And in the middle of the day, where everyone is patrolling and
walking the sidewalks.
Walking into my office, I sit at my desk and lay my head against
the back of the chair. I’m in the station for the rest of the day. Most
of my men are out on different calls, it’s pretty quiet on my end of
the building. The fire station is connected so occasionally I can hear
the ambulance pull away and the horns blaring for a structure fire.
“Hey, boss.” I raise my head as Lesslie walks in, taking a seat in
the chair across from me.
“How’s it going?” I slide the stack of papers in front of me to the
side, next to the other stack that has started to form.
“I’m exhausted, it fucking sucks here.” She blows out a deep
breath.
Lesslie’s the first female police officer Valley City has ever had,
some of the older generation is having a hard time accepting her
and the new generation just wants to fuck her.
 “It’ll get better,” I explain. “The guys still giving you a hard time?”
“You could say that.” She crosses her arms. She's a beautiful girl
and I don’t blame the young guys for chasing after her.
But I’ve known Lesslie my entire life and she’s practically a sister
to me. We grew up as next door neighbors and now we live two
houses away from each other and spend all of our days at work
together. Regardless of what anyone thinks, Lesslie and I have no
romantic feelings for each other.
“What happened?”
“They’re so fucking juvenile, I mean we’re getting close to our
thirties and these assholes are leaving tampons in my locker.” She
laughs as I roll my eyes.
These guys, they make my job fucking harder with this shit.
Because now I’ll have to have a talk with them about workplace
sexual harassment.
“But, jokes on them because now I have a year long supply of
tampons and don’t have to buy any. So fuck them.” She smiles at
me.
“Way to look on the bright side,” I point out. “I’ll talk to them.”
“It’s fine, really.”
“It’s my job, Less.” I remind her, but also wanting to point out
that I’d protect her from them.
“I know, I know.” She stands and makes her way to the door.
“Heard you had a run in with Olivia this morning?”
“Don’t fucking remind me.” She laughs at my answer.
“She still won’t stop?” I shake my head. “Wow.”
“I know, I think I finally got through to her.” I pause, looking up
at her. “But then again, I thought I got through to her the last four
times, too.”
“How’s your brother?”
“Why?” I smirk at her.
“No reason.” She shrugs her shoulders but she isn’t fooling me.
Lesslie has a crush on Cade, but she’ll never admit it. He used to
tease her when we were kids, and claims she hates him for it but we
both know that’s a fucking lie if I’ve ever heard one.
“Sure.”
 “What?” she acts offended that I don’t believe her.
“Oh, nothing.”
“I don’t fucking like your brother, Slade.” I nod, agreeing with
her. Or letting her think that I am, anyways. “Ugh, I’m out of here.”
She stands and walks toward the door. “Have a good night, Less.”
“Night, Slade.”
By the time I look out my office window, the sun is starting to set
but I’ve made it through part of one of the stacks that needed to be
completed. Setting my pen down, I run my hand over my face
before flipping the small desk lamp off and standing. The station is
still busy, it’s the one place in this town that never sleeps.
I shut off the office light and pull the door closed behind me.
“Goodnight, Chief Hendrix,” one of the Desk Officers say as I
walk by.
I’m well known around town, and have been my entire life. Cade
and I were the superstar baseball players at our high school, and it
followed us into our careers here. Which means that every single
woman in this town wants to be with one of us, and if she’s shot
down by one, she goes after the other.
Roni, back there, just happened to get turned down by Cade last
week.
“Goodnight,” I say, not giving much attention. The last thing I
need in my station is one of my officers acting pissy because they
didn’t get their way.
As soon as I step outside, I regret it. Olivia is leaning against my
truck with a heel propped against the foot rail. Her skirt is short,
even too short for my liking and her shirt is cut low between her
boobs that it damn near touches the bottom of her skirt. That’s how
fucking much is covered right now.
“Slade.” She looks around the parking lot but keeps her face low.
Her lips trembling and her voice is different than usual.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, stepping closer to her. Even with
everything that has gone on between us, I still don’t want to see her
hurt.
“I-I didn’t know who else to come to.” Her fingers fidget in front
of her. When she lifts it, I see the bruise forming along the side of
her face.
“What the fuck happened?” I step closer, using my hand to turn
her face letting me see better. “Who did this?”
Her eyes widen at my question and I have a sinking feeling I
know who did this.
Fucking Andrew.
“Did Andrew do this?” She shakes her head no. “Tell me the
truth, Liv.”
“No, no.” She continues shaking her head. “Can you, um, take
me to your house tonight?” Her tone changes and she steps closer
to me, our bodies pressing together. Grabbing her hands, I pull them
from my body and put some distance between us.
“Tell me what happened, Liv.”
When she realizes that she’s not coming to my house, her
demeanor changes and she yanks her hands free.
“I’m going home.” She turns, walking toward the main street.
“Liv!” I shout. “Liv.” She doesn’t stop. “Fuck. At least let me drive
you home.”
She still doesn’t stop walking, so I do the only thing I know to do
without giving in and letting her come to my house.
I follow her the few blocks to her house to make sure she makes
it inside okay.
Tomorrow, I’ll ask Andrew what the fuck is going on.
 6

TGIFF!
Thank God it’s Fucking Friday.
Isn’t that the mantra everyone uses each Friday?
Cause it’s the one I’m shouting right now.
I’m spending my lunch break with Heather at a small boutique in
town, trying to find something to wear for our Saturday night girls
night. I hate shopping for clothes, and Heather knew my ass didn’t
have anything fit for a night out at the bar in my closet hence is how
she drug my ass here. And thankfully it’s payday, so I can afford to
splurge slightly.
Lucky for us, Friday’s are our short days since we usually work
long hours during the week. Cooper has after school tutoring until
around four, leaving Heather and I for a couple hours to eat lunch
and shop.
My normal Friday plans are catching up on bad TV shows I’ve
missed because we watch Spiderman nearly every evening and the
endless laundry I can’t keep under control.
You’d think with it just being the two of us that it wouldn’t be
that hard, but that’s not the case. Coop changes more than a
teenage girl.
“They have the cutest clothes here,” Heather tells me, pushing
the large glass door open as it chimes to alert the woman we’ve
entered.
“Hello.” The woman looks up from behind the register. “We’re
having a Spring sale, everything along the back wall is twenty-five
percent off.”
“Thank you,” we both say before heading in the direction she
pointed.
“You excited for tomorrow?” Heather asks, turning her head in
my direction.
“Yes and no.” I laugh, grabbing a shirt and looking at the few
behind it. “I’m dreading him going with Marcus.”
It’s a feeling I can never get rid of, every time he goes. I know
he has fun, but his dad can be mean and he doesn’t see it the same
way that I do.
In all honesty, I don’t know anything about what goes on. Only
what Cooper tells me, and even then, it’s not very much.
“It doesn’t get easier does it?” Heather picks up a pair of
earrings, holding them to her ear as she looks in one of the mirrors
covering the wall.
“No.” I sigh. “It’s like having your child with you every single
night of his life and then suddenly having to share him and making
sure your plans work with someone else's.”
“And we know that sucks, especially with someone like Marcus.”
She rolls her eyes, sitting the earrings back on the shelf. “Either
way,” she pauses. “You and I are going to have a fucking blast.”
“That we are,” I agree. “And I sure as hell need it. I just can’t let
Marcus know my plans.”
“Do you really think he’d cancel on Cooper in order to ruin your
night?” she asks.
“In a heartbeat.”
We spend the next twenty minutes searching through different
tops. I finally settled on a three quarter length top with a low v cut
in the neck. After finding a pair of jeans that fit perfectly, and a few
accessories we pay and head down the street toward a taco truck
that has parked in town today.
“I’m starving,” I say as soon as the smell hits us.
 I’m sure half the damn town can smell this truck right now and
I’m surprised the line isn’t longer than it is.
But, it’s also nearly two in the afternoon, I don’t know many that
have lunch breaks this late in the day.
Heather orders us each two tacos and a water while I find us a
seat at one of the four picnic tables they have set up outside.
I wonder how they haul these things around with them? Maybe
they fold up? I look at the hinges, trying to figure it out. A folding
picnic table? Is that even a thing?
Heather sits our food down on the table as soon as two police
cars pull up. Three men and a woman climb out, two from each car.
I recognize one of the men and the woman from the bakery the
other night with Cooper.
The woman nods as they walk past our table and to the ordering
window.
“Damn.” Heather whistles. “The men in this town…” she trails off.
“They’re straight from a fucking movie, I swear.”
I don’t comment, because she’s absolutely right.
My eyes move from one man to the other, and when they land on
the largest one, I look at him from head to toe, taking time to check
out the way his black tactical pants fit perfectly against his strong
thighs. When I move further up his chest and finally to his face, I
find his dark blue eyes staring at me.
Face flaming, I busy myself with my taco and try to focus on not
missing my mouth when I take a bite. And I miss whatever Heather
has just said to me because of it.
“Are you even listening to me?” Heather asks loud enough, I can
feel the blush creeping up my neck. If I wasn’t red before, I’m sure
I’m like a ripe ass tomato right now.
My eyes shift to the officer again, his smirk spreading across his
handsome face tells me he heard everything my best friend just told
me and I want to die in this spot, right now.
“Umm. Hello.” Heather waves her hand in front of me. “Oh my
God, are you checking the cops out?” She turns to look behind her,
which grants a smile from the man, who I have no idea what his
name is, but his smile is perfection. “You were.” She turns to me, her
mouth wide and nostrils flared. “I can’t believe you.” She bursts into
laughter, causing every officer to turn in our direction.
Que my death. I’ll just slide under this picnic table right here and
pretend I don’t exist.
Thankfully, they get their food and head to their squad cars. But
not without passing by our table, and the hot as sin officer smirks at
me.
He fucking smirks.
And I die a thousand deaths all over again.
But, of course, I can’t stop myself from looking over my shoulder
and when I do, I really wish I hadn’t.
Because of course the hot officer is standing in front of his car
door, and as he opens it to climb in, he winks sending my stomach
straight to the damn floor.
A smirk and a wink?
He’s lethal.
 7

I don ’ t know who the woman was at the taco truck yesterday, but I
fucking wanted to. It took everything I had to restrain, because I
was in uniform and that’s highly inappropriate.
Or at least that’s what I told myself.
I haven’t had anyone peak my interest like her in a long while.
The fact that I caught her checking me out made it that much
better for me. Then when I winked at her before getting into my car
and watching her literally flush, damn near had me hard the entire
drive back to the station.
Fortunately, I had Bronx in the passenger seat and he wouldn’t
shut the fuck up so my boner was gone nearly by the time we pulled
out of the parking lot.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before, and Valley City isn’t large,
and our paths would have crossed at some point, so she must be
fairly new to town.
Granted, she doesn’t look like the type to be in trouble with the
law, and lately I’ve been working a lot, which is probably why I
haven’t seen her.
Her green eyes captivated me though, I’ve never seen anything
like them. Her long blonde hair had a hint of strawberry to it and I
could envision myself holding onto it while I…
 “Got any plans tonight, boss?” My thoughts are cut off as soon as
he speaks. I roll my eyes at Bronx’s use of boss and his terrible
timing, as always. “Lesslie and I are thinking about hitting the bar
tonight, you in?” I glance at my clock on my desk, I came in today
to catch up on some paperwork I didn’t get finished during the
week.
Normally, I work strictly Monday through Friday but with us
having nearly three full time positions open, I’ve been filling in here
and there and working extra shifts to help out, my duties as Chief
often get pushed onto the back burner.
“Yeah, I’m about to head out and hit the gym once I finish this
paperwork on the Special Response Team raid.” We rarely have SRT
calls in our area, but Bronx and I are part of the unit and get called
out occasionally for it. “What time were you thinking?”
“I think I’m picking Less up around seven?” I nod at him, a night
out with my two oldest friends sounds like a good time. It’s been a
while since we’ve been able to do anything together, our schedules
never mesh up the way we need them to.
“Sounds good.” I stand, shuffling the papers around on my desk
before turning my desk lamp off. “I’ll meet y’all there.”
I spend the next few hours at the gym, doing my normal workout
and taking my time. Weekends at the gym are the best times to go,
it’s not busy and I’m never bothered.
Walking into my house after my workout, I’m immediately met by
Roscoe, my big ass German Shepherd who thinks he’s the same size
as a four pound Yorkie.
He runs down the hallway with a loud thud with each step he
takes until he’s close enough to me to jump. His large paws push
against me hard enough I stumble backwards a few steps until I’m
able to grab him and hold him steady.
“Hey boy.” I scratch behind his ear, causing him to turn his head
in delight. The further down my hand goes, the louder the moan is
that he lets free. He rests his head against my stomach before
something out the living room window catches his attention and he
dodges across the room again, completely forgetting that I exist.
 I’m quick in the shower. I spent longer than planned at the gym
and only have thirty minutes to shower and meet the two of them at
the bar. I slide on my favorite pair of jeans and a white T-shirt,
complete with a denim button down that is left open in the front.
The T-shirt is stuck against my chest. It’s one of those moments
where I’m thankful for my hours spent in the gym every day.
Pouring Roscoe a bowl of food before I head out the door, I set
the security alarm and head for my truck. The drive to the bar isn’t
long and when I pull into the parking lot, it’s packed tonight. The
only spot available is in the back of the lot and a tight fucking
squeeze for my truck.
When I walk inside, I’m greeted by the bartender first, an old
friend of mine.
“Slade, my man.” He reaches over to shake my hand. “How the
hell are ya? Haven’t seen you around much.” Dale and I went to high
school together, like most of everyone else in this town still.
“Hey.” I squeeze his hand. “I haven’t been out much.” The music
is loud, I have to shout for him to hear me. “Pulling extra shifts.”
“Avoiding a certain someone?” He laughs as I roll my eyes. The
certain someone he’s referring to would be my ex, Olivia. I shake my
head and he laughs again. “What can I get ya?”
“Just a beer is fine.” He grabs a bottle from behind the bar and
slides it across. “This one’s on the house. Bronx and Lesslie are in
the back.” He tips his head in the direction. I nod my thanks and
head that way.
“About fucking time!” Bronx shouts from his seat when I
approach.
“Sorry, I was at the gym longer than I planned to be.” I slide into
the seat next to him.
“You really need to stop working out like that.” Lesslie tips her
beer to her lips. “It can’t be healthy.”
“I beg to differ.” I reach across, clinking my bottle against hers.
“How’s it looking tonight?”
“Well, only two fights so far.” He laughs, pointing in the direction
of a large group near the front of the bar. “Half of their party already
got the boot.”
Another random document with
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image once permanently impressed by the original sensation.
Wordsworth is exquisitely right when he speaks of the repeated
enjoyment of sensations sweet. “In lonely rooms and ’mid the din of
towns and cities” some sudden touch of the cords of association has
brought to him the soothing joy of a picture—“Forms” with every
grace of symmetry, harmony, venerable antiquity, in the ever fresh
and gracious setting of a beautiful landscape. The eye of his mind is
infinitely gladdened; the ear of his mind, no longer conscious of the
din of cities, hears the chord struck by the Wye in its flow, and the
notes of the birds and the lowing of the cattle and the acuter notes of
the insect world. Again he perceives the odour of the meadow-
sweet, he touches the coolness of the grass, and all these are as
absolutely sensations as when they were for the first time conveyed
to his consciousness by the sensory organs.
We have in these few lines a volume of reasons why we should fill
the storehouse of memory for the children with many open-air
images, capable of giving them reflected sensations of extreme
delight. Our care all the time must be to secure that they do look,
and listen, touch, and smell, and the way to this is by sympathetic
action on our part: what we look at they will look at; the odours we
perceive they too will get. We heard, the other day, of a little girl who
travelled in Italy with her parents, in the days of dignified family
travelling-carriages. The child’s parents were conscientious, and
time was precious, not by any means to be wasted on the mere
idleness of travelling, so the governess and the little girl had the
coupé to themselves, and in it were packed all the paraphernalia of
the schoolroom, and she did her sums, learned her geography,
probably the counties of England, and all the rest of it, with the least
possible waste of time in idle curiosity as to what the “faire londes,”
through which she was passing, might be like. A story like this shows
that we are making advances, but we are still far from fully
recognising that our part in the education of children should be
thoughtfully subordinated to that played by Nature herself.
To continue our study of this amazingly accurate, as well as
exquisitely beautiful, psychological record:—the poet goes on to tell
us that these sensations sweet are “felt in the blood and felt along
the heart,” a statement curiously true to fact, for a pleasurable
sensation causes the relaxation of the infinitesimal nerve fibres
netted around the capillaries, the blood flows freely, the heart beats
quicker, the sense of well-being is increased; gaiety, gladness
supervene; and the gloom of the dull day, and the din of the busy
city, exist for us no more; that is to say, memories of delight are, as it
were, an elixir of life capable, when they present themselves, of
restoring us at any moment to a condition of physical well-being.
But even this is not the whole. Wordsworth speaks of these
memories as “passing into my purer mind with tranquil restoration”—
purer because less corporeal, less affected by physical conditions,
but all the same so intimately related to the physical brain, that the
condition of the one must rule the other. Mind and brain perhaps
have been alike fagged by the insistent recurrence of some one line
of thought, when suddenly there flashes into the “purer mind” the
cognition of images of delight, represented in consequence of a
touch to some spring of association: the current of thought is
diverted into new and delightful channels, and weariness and brain
fag give place to “tranquil restoration.”
If mere sensations are capable of doing so much for our
happiness, our mental refreshment, and our physical well-being,
both at the time of their reception and for an indefinite number of
times afterwards, it follows that it is no small part of our work as
educators to preserve the acuteness of the children’s perceptions,
and to store their memories with images of delight.
The poet pursues the investigation and makes a pointed
distinction; he not only recovers “sensations sweet,” but “feelings,
too, of unremembered pleasure.” Very few persons are capable of
discriminating between the sensations and the feelings produced by
an image recovered by some train of association. Wordsworth’s
psychology is not only delicately nice, but very just, and the
distinction he draws is important to the educator. The truth is “the
feelings” are out of fashion at present; The Man of Feeling is a
person of no account; if he still exists he keeps in the shade, being
aware, through a certain quickness of perception which belongs to
him, that any little efflorescence proper to his character would be
promptly reduced to pulp by the application of a sledge hammer. The
Man of Feeling has himself to thank for this; he allowed his feelings
to become fantastic; his sweet sensibilities ran away with him; he
meant pathos and talked bathos; he became an exaggerated type,
and in self-preservation Society always cut off the offending limb, so
The Man of Feeling is no more. Nor is this the only charge that “the
feelings” have to sustain. So long as the feelings remain objective
they are, like the bloom to the peach, the last perfection of a
beautiful character; but when they become subjective, when every
feeling concerns itself with the ego, we have, as in the case of
sensations, morbid conditions set up; the person begins by being
“over sensitive,” hysteria supervenes, perhaps melancholia, an
utterly spoilt life. George Eliot has a fine figure which aptly illustrates
this subjective condition of the feelings. She tells us that a
philosophic friend had pointed out to her that whereas the surface of
a mirror or of a steel plate may be covered with minute scratches
going in every direction, if you hold a lighted candle to the surface all
these random scratches appear to arrange themselves and radiate
from the central flame: just so with the person whose feelings have
been permitted to minister to his egoistic consciousness: all things in
heaven and earth are “felt” as they affect his own personality.
What are the feelings? Perhaps they are best expressed in
Coleridge’s phrase of “a vague appetency of the mind”; and we may
do something to clear our thoughts by a negative examination. The
feelings are not sensations, because they have no necessary
connection with the senses; they are to be distinguished from the
two great affections (of love and justice) because they are not
actively exercised upon any objects; they are distinct from the
desires because they demand no gratification; and they are
distinguishable from the intellectual operations which we call
thought, because while thought proceeds from an idea, is active, and
arrives at a result, the feelings arise from perceptions, are passive,
and not definitely progressive.
Every feeling has its positive and its negative, and these in almost
infinitely varying degrees: pleasure, displeasure; appreciation,
depreciation; anticipation, foreboding; admiration, contempt;
assurance, hesitancy; diffidence, complacency; and so on through
many more delicate nuances of feeling that are nameable, and yet
more so delicate that language is too rough an instrument for their
expression. It will be observed that all these feelings have certain
conditions in common; none are distinctly moral or immoral; they
have not arrived at the stage of definite thought; they exist vaguely in
what would appear to be a semi-conscious intellectual region. Why
then need we concern ourselves about this little known tract of that
terra incognita which we call human nature? This “why” is the
question of the prose-philosopher—our poet sees deeper. In one of
the most exquisitely discriminating passages in the whole field of
poetry, he speaks of feelings of unremembered pleasure as having
no slight or trivial influence on a good man’s life, as the source of
“little nameless unremembered acts of kindness and of love.” Even
the feeling of “unremembered pleasure”—for it is possible to have
the spring of association touched so lightly that one recovers the
feeling of former pleasure without recovering the sensation, or the
image which produced the sensation, but merely just the vague
feeling of the pleasure, as when one hears the word ‘Lohengrin’ and
does not wait, as it were, to recover the sensation of musical delight,
but just catches a waft of the pleasure which the sensation brought—
intangible, indefinite as they are, produce that glow of the heart
which warms a good man to “acts of kindness and of love,” as little,
as nameless, and as unremembered as the feelings out of which
they spring.
Nameless as they are, our poet does not hesitate to rank these
trifling acts as the “best portion of a good man’s life.” But it is only out
of the good man’s heart that these good issues come, because, as
we have said, the feelings are not in themselves moral, they act
upon that which is there, and the point brought before us is, that the
influence of the feelings is equally powerful and indirect. Why should
the recollection of Tintern Abbey cause a good man to do some little
kind thing? We can only give the ultimate answer that “God has
made us so,” that a feeling of even unremembered pleasure prompts
the good man to give forth out of the good treasure of his heart in
kindness and in love. We have but to think of the outcome of feelings
at the negative pole to convince us of the nice exactitude of the
poet’s psychology. We are not exactly displeased, but unpleased,
dull, not quickened by any feeling of pleasure: let us ask ourselves if,
in this condition of our feelings, we are prompted to any outpouring
of love and kindness upon our neighbours.
Here is another aspect of the feelings of very great importance to
us who have the education of children.
“I do not like you, Doctor Fell,
The reason why I cannot tell,”

is a feeling we all know well enough, and is, in fact, that intuitive
perception of character—one of our finest feelings and best guides in
life—which is too apt to be hammered out of us by the constant effort
to beat down our sensibilities to the explicit and definite. One
wonders why people complain of faithless friends, untrustworthy
servants, and disappointed affections. If the feelings were retained in
truth and simplicity, there is little doubt that they would afford for
each of us such a touchstone of character in the persons we come in
contact with, that we should be saved from making exigeant
demands on the one hand, and from suffering disappointment on the
other.
The public orator plays, by preference, upon the gamut of the
feelings. He throws in arguments by the way; brightens his discourse
with graphic word-picture, metaphor, simile; but for his final effect he
relies upon the impression he has been able to make upon the
feelings of his audience, and the event proves him to be right.
Not only our little nameless acts but the great purposes of our
lives arise out of our feelings. Enthusiasm itself is not thought,
though it arises when we are
“Stung with the rapture of a sudden thought;”
it is a glowing, malleable condition of the forces of our nature, during
which all things are possible to us, and we only wait for a lead.
Enthusiasm in its earliest stage is inconsequent, incoherent, devoid
of purpose, and yet is the state out of which all the great purposes of
life shape themselves. We feel, we think, we say, we do; this is the
genesis of most of our activities.
 But our feelings, as our thoughts, depend upon what we are; we
feel in all things as “’tis our nature to,” and the point to be noticed is
that our feelings are educable, and that in educating the feelings we
modify the character. A pressing danger of our day is that the
delicate task of educating shall be exchanged for the much simpler
one of blunting the feelings. This is the almost inevitable result of a
system where training is given en masse; but not the necessary
result, because the tone of feeling of a head-master or mistress is
almost with certainty conveyed, more or less, to a whole school. Still,
perhaps, the perfect bloom of the feelings can only be preserved
under quite judicious individual culture, and, therefore, necessarily
devolves upon parents. The instrument to be employed in this
culture is always the same—the blessed sixth sense of Tact. It is
possible to call up the feeling one desires by a look, a gesture; to
dissipate it entirely by the rudeness of a spoken word. Our silence,
our sympathy, our perception give place and play to fit feelings, and
equally discourage, and cause to slink away ashamed the feeling
which should not have place. But let us beware of words; let us use
our eyes and our imagination in dealing with the young; let us see
what they are feeling and help them by the flow of our responsive
feeling. But words, even words of praise and tenderness, touch this
delicate bloom of nature as with a hot finger, and behold! it is gone.
Let us consider carefully what feelings we wish to stimulate, and
what feelings we wish to repress in our children, and then, having
made up our minds, let us say nothing. We all know the shrinking, as
of a sore place, with which children receive some well-meant word
from a tactless friend.
The sense of spiritual touch is our only guide in this region of the
feelings, but with this alone we may tune the spirits of the children to
great issues, believing that they are capable of all things great. We
wish them to revere. Now reverence is a feeling before it becomes a
thought or an act, and it is a communicable feeling, but
communicable like the light of a torch only by contact. The sentiment
of reverence fills our own souls when we see a bird on its nest, an
old man at his cottage door, a church in which have centred the
aspirations of a village for many an age; we feel and the children feel
our feeling, and they feel too: a feeling is communicated by
sympathy, but perhaps in no other way. The ignoble habit of
depreciation is in the first place a feeling. It is quite easy to put the
children into that other attitude of feeling called forth by the fitness
and goodness of the thing regarded, and we all know that it is easy
to appreciate or depreciate the same thing. These two feelings alone
illustrate the importance of the delicate culture we have in view, for
among the minor notes of character none tend more to differentiate
persons than this of perceiving cause of satisfaction in an object or a
person, or of perceiving cause of dissatisfaction in the same object
or person. An appreciative habit of feeling is a cause of tranquil joy
to its possessor, and of ease and contentment to the people
connected with him. A depreciative habit, on the contrary, though it
affords a little pleasurable excitement because it ministers to the
vanity of the ego (I dislike this person or this thing, therefore I know
better or am better than others), disturbs tranquillity and puts the
person out of harmony with himself and with his surroundings; no
stable joy comes of depreciation. But even in dealing with feelings of
this class we must remember that tact, sympathy and communicable
feeling are our only implements; the feelings are not thoughts to be
reasoned down; they are neither moral nor immoral to challenge our
praise or our blame; we cannot be too reticent in our dealings with
them in children, nor too watchfully aware that the least inadvertence
may bruise some tender blossom of feeling. This is the risk which
attends the habit of persiflage and banter in family talk; a little is
thoroughly good and wholesome, but this kind of play should be
used with very great tact, especially by the elders. Children
understand each other so well that there is far less risk of hurt
feelings from the tormenting schoolboy than from the more
considerate elder.
There is only one case in which the feelings may not have free
play, and that is when they reflect the consciousness of the ego.
What are commonly called sensitive feelings—that is, susceptibility
for oneself and about oneself, readiness to perceive neglect or slight,
condemnation or approbation—though belonging to a fine and
delicate character, are in themselves of less worthy order, and
require very careful direction lest morbid conditions should be set up.
To ignore wisely is an art, and the girl who craves to know what you
thought of her when she said this or did the other, need not be told
brutally that you did not think of her at all; it is quite enough for her to
perceive that your regard is fixed upon something impersonal both to
her and you; she takes the hint and looks away from herself, and
nothing is said to cause her pain. It appears to be an immutable law
that our feelings, as our sensations, must find their occupation in
things without; the moment they are turned in upon themselves harm
is done. The task of dealing with the susceptibilities of young people
is one of the most delicate that falls to us elders, whether we be
parents or friends. Undiscriminating sympathy is very perilous, and
bluntness of perception is very damaging; we are between Scylla
and Charybdis, and must needs walk humbly and warily in this
delicate work of dealing with the feelings of children and young
people. Our only safeguard is to cherish in ourselves “the soft, meek,
tender soul,” sensitive to the touch of God, and able to deal in soft,
meek, tender ways with children, beings of fine and delicate mould
as they are.
 CHAPTER XIX

“WHAT IS TRUTH?”
It is said that we English are no longer to be characterised as a
truth-speaking people. This is a distressing charge, and yet we
cannot put it away from us with a high hand. Possibly we are in a
stage of civilisation which does not tend to produce the fine courage
of absolute truthfulness. He who is without fear is commonly without
falsehood; and a nation brought up amid the chivalries of war dares
to be true. But we live in times of peace: we are no longer called on
to defend the truth of our word by the strength of our hand. We
speak with very little sense of responsibility, because no one calls us
to account; and, so far as we are truth-tellers, we are so out of pure
truth of heart and uprightness of life. That is, we may be, as a nation,
losing the habit of truth to which the nation’s childhood was trained,
in ways however rough and ready; but we are growing up, and the
truth that is among us is perhaps of a higher quality than the more
general truthfulness of earlier days. Now, truth is indeed the white
flower of a blameless life, and not the mere result of a fearless habit.
The work before us is to bring up our children to this higher manner
of truth. We no longer treat this or that particular lie or bit of deceit as
a local ailment, for which we have only to apply the proper lotion or
plaster; we treat it as symptomatic, as denoting a radical defect of
character which we set ourselves to correct.
Opinion without knowledge, says Darwin, has no value, and to
treat the tendency to untruthfulness that children often show, one
should have a good deal of knowledge of a special kind. To treat a
child de novo, place him under a moral microscope, record our
observations, and formulate opinions based upon that child, and as
many more as we can get into focus, is, no doubt, useful and
important work. But it is work for which we must qualify ourselves.
The child is a human being, immature, but yet, perhaps, a human
being at his best. Who amongst us has such gifts of seeing,
knowing, comprehending, imagining, such capacities for loving,
giving, believing, as the little child in the midst! We have no higher
praise for our wisest and best than that they are fresh and keen as
little children in their interests and loves.
Now, we maintain that it is not sufficient to bring unaided common
sense and good intentions to this most delicate art of child-study. We
cannot afford to discard the wisdom of the past and begin anew with
the effort to collect and systematise, hoping to accomplish as much
and more in our short span than the centuries have brought us.
In this matter of lying, for example, unaided common sense is
likely to start upon one of two theses: either the child is born true,
and you must keep him so; or, the child is born false, and you must
cure him of it. Popular opinion leans strongly to the first theory in
these days; and, as we perceive only that which we believe, the
tendency is, perhaps, to take the absolute truthfulness and honour of
children a little too much for granted. If you would have children true,
you must, of course, treat them as if they were true, and believe
them to be true. But, all the same, wisdom may not play the ostrich.
In the last generation, people accepted their children as born false,
and, what more likely to make them so than this foregone
conclusion? Possibly some falling off in truthfulness in our day is
traceable to the dogmatic teaching upon which our forbears were
brought up.
The wisdom of the ages—i.e., philosophy, and the science of the
present, especially physiology, and more particularly what we may
call psycho-physiology—show us that both these positions are
wrong, and that all theories founded upon either position, or upon
any midway point between the two, must needs be wrong too. A
child is born neither true nor false. He is absolutely without either
virtue or vice when he comes into the world. He has tendencies,
indeed, but these are no more either virtuous or vicious than is the
colour of his eyes. Even the child of a liar is not necessarily born a
liar, because, we are assured, acquired tendencies are not
transmitted. But there is this to be said. The child born of a family
which has from generation to generation been in a subject position
may have less predisposition to truthfulness than the child of a family
which has belonged for generations to the ruling class. As in the
natural world all substances must be reduced to their elements
before they can be chemically dealt with, so in the moral world, if we
wish to treat an offence, it is best to trace it to that elemental
property of human nature of which it is the probable outcome. Now,
lying, even in its worst forms, is by no means elemental. Ambition is
elemental, avarice, vanity, gratitude, love and hate. But lying arises
from secondary causes. The treatment is all the more difficult. It is no
longer a case of—the child has lied, punish him; but, where is the
weak place in his character, or what is the defect in his education,
which has induced this lying habit, if it be a habit? How shall we, not
punish the lie, but treat the failing of which it is symptomatic. From
this point of view let us consider the extremely interesting
classification of lies presented to us by an American
educationalist.[15]
I. Pseudophobia. Janet thinks she may have glanced at Mary’s
slate, and seen the answer to her sum. A comparison of the two
slates shows that she has not done so, and that Janet, in the effort to
save herself from a lie, has actually told one. This sort of morbid
conscientiousness is Argus-eyed for other forms of sin. We knew a
sick girl of fourteen, who was terribly unhappy because she was not
able to kneel up in bed when she said her prayers. Was this the
“unpardonable sin”? she asked, in unaffected terror. We agree with
the writer in question, as to the frequent occurrence of this form of
distress, and also in tracing it, not to moral, but to physical causes.
We should say, too, it is more common in girls than in boys, and in
the home-taught than in the school-taught child. Healthy interests,
out-of-door life, engrossing and delightful handiworks, general
occupation with things rather than with thoughts, and avoidance of
any word or hint that may lead to self-consciousness or the habit of
introspection, will probably do much to carry the young sufferer
through a difficult stage of life.
 II. The Lie Heroic. The lie heroic is, par excellence, the
schoolboy’s lie, and has its rise, not in any love for lying, but in a
want of moral balance; that is to say, the boy has been left to form
his own code of ethics.
Who spilled the ink? little Tom Brown is asked. “I did,” he says;
because Jack Spender, the real culprit, is his particular hero at the
moment. Faithfulness to a friend is a far higher virtue in Tom’s eyes
than mere barren truthfulness. And how is Tom to know, if he has not
been taught, that it is unlawful to cherish one virtue at the expense of
another. Considering how little clear, definite, authoritative teaching
children receive on ethical questions, the wonder is that most
persons do elaborate some kind of moral code, or code of honour,
for themselves.
III. Truth for friends, lies for enemies. A lie under this head differs
from the lie heroic chiefly in that it need not bring any risk to the
speaker. This class of lies again points to the moral ignorance which
we are slow to recognise in children because we confound
innocence with virtue. It is quite natural for a child to believe that
truth is relative, and not absolute, and that whether a lie is a lie or not
depends on whom you are speaking to. The children are in the
position of “jesting Pilate.” What is truth? they unconsciously ask.
IV. Lies inspired by selfishness. This is a form of lying for which
superficial treatment is quite idle. The lie and the vice of which it is
the instrument are so allied that those two cannot be put asunder.
Professor Stanley Hall well points out that school is a fertile field for
this kind of lying. But it is the selfishness and not the lying that must
be dealt with. Cure the first, and the second disappears, having no
further raison d’être. How? This is a hard question. Nothing but a
strong impulse to the heroism of unselfishness, initiated and
sustained by the grace of God, will deliver boy or girl from the vice of
selfishness of which lying is the ready handmaid. But let us not
despair; every boy and girl is open to such impulse, is capable of
heroic effort. Prayer and patience, and watchfulness for opportunities
to convey the stimulating suggestion—these will not be in vain.
Every boy and girl is a hero in posse. There is no worse infidelity
than that which gives up the hope of mending any flaw of character,
however bad, in a young creature. All the same, happy those parents
who have not allowed selfishness and virtue (whether in the form of
truthfulness, or under some other name), to come to hand to hand
conflict. It is easy to give direction to the tendencies of a child; it is
agonisingly difficult to alter the set of character in a man.
V. The Deception of imagination and play. I passed little Muriel in
the park one day; the child was not looking; her companion was
unknown to me. I was engaged with my companion, and believed
that Muriel had not noticed me. The little girl went home and told her
mother that I had kissed her and asked various questions about the
family health. What could be the child’s motive? She had none. Her
active imagination rehearsed the little dialogue which most naturally
would have taken place; and this was so real to her that it obscured
the fact. The reality, the truth, to Muriel, was what she imagined had
taken place. She had probably no recollection whatever of the actual
facts. This sort of failure in verbal truthfulness is excessively
common in imaginative children, and calls for prompt attention and
treatment; but not on the lines a hasty and righteous parent might be
inclined to adopt. Here is no call for moral indignation. The parents
and not the child are in fault. The probability is that the child’s
ravenous imagination is not duly and daily supplied with its proper
meat, of fairy tale in early days, of romance, later. Let us believe of
the children that “trailing clouds of glory do they come” from the
place where all things are possible, where any delightful thing may
happen. Let us believe that our miserable limitations of time and
space and the laws of matter irk them inconceivably, imprison the
free soul as a wild bird in a cage. If we refuse to give the child outlets
into the realms of fancy, where everything is possible, the delicate
Ariel of his imagination will still work within our narrow limits upon our
poor tasks, and every bit of our narrow living is played over with a
thousand variations, apt to be more vivid and interesting than the
poor facts, and, therefore, more likely to remain with the child as the
facts which he will produce when required to speak the truth. What is
the cure? Give the child free entrance into, abundant joyous living in,
the kingdom of make-believe. Let him people every glen with fairies,
every island with Crusoes. Let him gift every bird and beast with
human interests, which he will share when the dear fairy godmother
arrives with an introduction. Let us be glad and rejoice that all things
are possible to the children, recognising in this condition of theirs
their fitness to receive and believe and understand, as, alas! we
cannot do, the things of the Kingdom of God. The age of faith is a
great sowing time, doubtless designed, in the Divine scheme of
things, especially that parents may make their children at home in
the things of the Spirit before contact with the world shall have
materialised them.
At the same time the more imaginative the child, the more
essential is it that the boundaries of the kingdom of make-believe
should be clearly defined, and exact truthfulness insisted upon in all
that concerns the narrower world where the grown-ups live. It is
simply a matter of careful education; daily lessons in exact
statement, without any horror or righteous indignation about
misstatements, but warm, loving encouragement to the child who
gives a long message quite accurately, who tells you just what Miss
Brown said and no more, just what happened at Harry’s party,
without any garnish. Every day affords scope for a dozen little
lessons at least, and, gradually, the more severe beauty of truth will
dawn upon the child whose soul is already possessed by the grace
of fiction.
VI . Pseudomania. We have little to say on this score, except to
counsel parents to keep watch at the place of the letting out of
waters. No doubt the condition is pathological, and calls for curative
treatment rather than punishment. But we believe it is a condition
which never need be set up. The girl who has been able to win
esteem for what she really is and really does, is not tempted to
“pose,” and the boy who has found full outlet for his energies,
physical and mental, has no part of himself left to spend upon
“humbugging.” This is one of the cases which show how important it
is for parents to acquaint themselves with that delicate borderland of
human nature which touches the material and the spiritual. How
spiritual thought and material brain interact; how brain and nerves
are inter-dependent; how fresh air and wholesome food affect the
condition of the blood which nourishes the nerves; how the nerves
again may bear tyrannous sway over all that we include under
“bodily health;” these are matters that the parent should know who
would avoid the possibility of the degradation described as
Pseudomania from being set up in any one of his children.
It is as well that those who have to do with young people should
be familiar with one or two marked signs of this mentally diseased
condition; as, the furtive glance from under half-closed lids, shot up
to see how you are taking it all; the flowing recital, accompanied by a
slightly absent pre-occupied look, which denotes that the speaker is
in the act of inventing the facts he relates.
We have not space to enlarge upon palliatives, lies of terror, or
one or two more classes of lies, which seem to us of frequent
occurrence, as lies of display (boasting), lies of carelessness
(inaccuracy), and, worst of all, lies of malice (false witness).
We would only commend the subject to the attention of parents;
for, though one child may have more aptitude than another, neither
truthfulness nor the multiplication table come by nature. The child
who appears to be perfectly truthful is so because he has been
carefully trained to truthfulness, however indirectly and
unconsciously. It is more important to cultivate the habit of truth than
to deal with the accident of lying.
Moral teaching must be as simple, direct and definite as the
teaching which appeals to the intellect; presented with religious
sanctions, quickened by religious impulses, but not limited to the
prohibitions of the law nor to the penalties which overtake the
transgressor.

FOOTNOTES:
[15] Professor G. Stanley Hall, in an article which appeared
in the American Journal of Psychology, Jan. 1891.
 CHAPTER XX

SHOW CAUSE WHY

We have been asking, Why? like Mr. Ward Fowler’s Wagtail, for a
long time. We asked, Why? about linen underclothing, and behold it
is discarded. We asked Why? about numberless petticoats, and they
are going. We are asking Why? about carpets and easy chairs, and
all manner of luxurious living; and probably the year 1900 will see of
these things only the survivals. It is well we should go about with this
practical Why? rather than with the “Why does a wagtail wag its tail?”
manner of problem. The latter issues in vain guesses, and the
pseudo-knowledge which puffeth up. But if, Why? leads us to
—“Because we should not; then, let us do the thing we should.”—
This manner of Why? is like a poker to a dying fire.
Why is Tom Jones sent to school? That he may be educated, of
course, say his parents. And Tom is dismissed with the fervent hope
that he may take a good place. But never a word about the delights
of learning, or of the glorious worlds of nature and of thought to
which his school studies will presumably prove an open sesame.
“Mind you be a good boy and get a good place in your class,” is
Tom’s valediction; and his little soul quickens with purpose. He won’t
disappoint father, and mother shall be proud of him. He’ll be the top
boy in his class. Why, he’ll be the top boy in the whole school, and
get prizes and things, and won’t that be jolly! Tommy says nothing of
this, but his mother sees it in his eyes and blesses the manly little
fellow. So Tommy goes to school, happy boy, freighted with his
father’s hopes and his mother’s blessings. By-and-by comes a
report, the main delight of which is, that Tommy has gained six
places; more places gained, prizes, removes—by-and-by
scholarships. Before he is twelve, Tommy is able to earn the whole
of his future schooling by his skill in that industry of the young
popularly known as Exams. Now he aims at larger game; “exams”
still, but “exams” big with possibilities, “exams” which will carry him
through his University career. His success is pretty certain, because
you get into the trick of “exams” as of other crafts. His parents are
congratulated, Tom is more or less of a hero in his own eyes and in
those of his compeers. Examinations for ever! Hip, hip! Never was a
more facile way for a youth to distinguish himself, that is, if his
parents have sent him into the world blessed with any inheritance of
brains. For the boy not so blessed—why, he may go to the Colonies
and that will make a man of him.
The girls come in a close second. The “Junior,” the “Senior,” the
“Higher,” the “Intermediate,” the “B.A.,” and what else you will, mark
the epochs in most girls’ lives. Better, say you, than having no
epochs at all. Unquestionably, yes. But the fact that a successful
examination of one sort or another is the goal towards which most of
our young people are labouring, with feverish haste and with undue
anxiety, is one which possibly calls for the scrutiny of the
investigating Why?
In the first place, people rarely accomplish beyond their own aims.
The aim is a pass, not knowledge, “they cram to pass and not to
know; they do pass and they don’t know,” says Mr. Ruskin; and most
of us who know the “candidate” will admit that there is some truth in
the epigram. There are, doubtless, people who pass and who also
know, but, even so, it is open to question, whether passing is the
most direct, simple, natural and efficacious way of securing
knowledge, or whether the persons who pass and know are not
those keen and original minds which would get blood out of stone,—
anyway, sap out of sawdust. Again—except for the fine power of
resistance possessed by the human mind, which secures that most
persons who go through examination grind come out as they went in,
absolutely unbiassed towards any intellectual pursuits whatever—
except for this, the tendency of the grind is to imperil that individuality
which is the one incomparably precious birthright of each of us. The
very fact of a public examination compels that all who go in for it
must study on the same lines.
 It will be urged that there is no necessary limitation to studies
outside the examination syllabus, nor any restrictions whatever as to
the direction of study even upon the syllabus; but this is a mistake.
Whatever public examinations a given school takes, the whole
momentum of pupils and staff urges towards the great issue. As to
the manner of study, this is ruled by the style of questions set in a
given subject; and Dry-as-dust wins the day because it is easier and
fairer to give marks upon definite facts than upon mere ebullitions of
fancy or genius. So it comes to pass that there is absolutely no
choice as to the matter or manner of their studies for most boys and
girls who go to school, nor, for many of those who work at home. For,
so great is the convenience of a set syllabus that parents and
teachers are glad to avail themselves of it.
It appears then that the boy is in bondage to the schoolmaster,
and the schoolmaster to the examiner, and the parents do no more
than acquiesce. Would parents be astounded if they found
themselves in this matter a little like the man who had talked prose
all his life without knowing it? The tyranny of the competitive
examination is supported for the most part by parents. We do not
say altogether. Teachers do their part manfully; but, in the first place,
teachers unsupported by parents have no power at all in the matter;
not a single candidate could they present beyond their own sons and
daughters; in the next place, we do not hesitate to say that the whole
system is forced upon teachers (though, perhaps, by no means
against their will) by certain ugly qualities of human nature as
manifested in parents. Ignorance, idleness, vanity, avarice, do not
carry a pleasant sound; and if we, who believe in parents, have the
temerity to suggest such shadows to the father basking in the
sunshine of his boy’s success, we would add that the rest of us who
are not parents are still more to blame; that it is terribly hard to run
counter to the current of the hour; and that, “harm is wrought through
want of thought.”
Ignorance is excusable, but wilful ignorance is culpable, and the
time has come for the thoughtful parent to examine himself and see
whether or no it be his duty to make a stand against the competitive
examination system. Observe, the evil lies in the competition, not in
the examination. If the old axiom be true, that the mind can know
nothing but what it can produce in the form of an answer to a
question put by the mind itself, it is relatively true that knowledge
conveyed from without must needs be tested from without. Probably,
work on a given syllabus tested by a final examination is the
condition of definite knowledge and steady progress. All we contend
for is that the examination shall not be competitive. It will be urged
that it is unfair to rank such public examinations as the Universities’
Local—which have done infinitely much to raise the standard of
middle-class education, especially amongst girls, and upon which
neither prize nor place depends—as competitive examinations. They
are rarely competitive, it is true, in the sense of any extraneous
reward to the fortunate candidate; but, happily, we are not so far
gone from original righteousness but that Distinction is its own
reward. The pupil is willing to labour, and rightly so, for the honour of
a pass which distinguishes him among the élite of his school. The
schools themselves compete (con + petere = to seek with) as to
which shall send in the greatest number of candidates and come out
with the greatest number of Honours, Scholarships, and what not.
These distinctions are well advertised, and the parent who is on the
look-out for a school for his boy is all too ready to send him where
the chances of distinction are greatest. Examinations which include
the whole school, and where every boy has his place on the list,
higher or lower, are another thing; though these also appeal to the
emulous principle, they do not do so in excess, the point to be noted.
But, why should so useful an incentive to work as a competitive
examination be called in question? There are certain facts which
may be predicated of every human being who is not, as the country
folk say, “wanting.” Every one wants to get on; whatever place we
occupy we aim at the next above it. Every one wants to get rich, or,
anyway, richer; whether the wealth he chooses to acquire be money
or autographs. Every one wants the society of his fellows; if he does
not, we call him a misanthrope and say, to use another popular and
telling phrase, “He’s not quite right.” We all want to excel, to do better
than the rest, whether in a tennis-match or an examination. We all
want to know, though some of us are content to know our
neighbours’ affairs, while others would fain know about the stars in
their courses. We all, from the sergeant in his stripes to the much
decorated commanding officer, want people to think well of us. Now
these several desires, of power, of wealth, of society, of excelling, of
knowledge, of esteem, are primary springs of action in every human
being. Touch any one of them, in savage or in savant, and you
cannot fail of a response. The Russian Moujik besieges a passing
traveller with questions about the lands he has seen, because he
wants to know. The small boy gambles with his marbles because he
wants to get. The dairymaid dons a new bow because she wants to
be admired, the only form of esteem to which she is awake. Tom
drives when the children play horses because he wants to rule.
Maud works herself into a fever for her examination because she
wants to excel, and “to pass” is the hallmark of excellence, that is, of
those who excel.
Now these primary desires are neither virtuous nor vicious. They
are common to us all and necessary to us all, and appear to play the
same part towards our spiritual being that the appetites do to our
material existence; that is, they stimulate us to the constant effort
which is the condition of progress, and at the same time the
condition of health. We know how that soul stagnates which thinks
nothing worth an effort. He is a poor thing who is content to be
beaten on all hands. We do not quarrel with the principle of
emulation, any more than we do with that of respiration. The one is
as natural and as necessary as the other, and as little to be brought
before a moral tribunal. But it is the part of the educator to recognise
that a child does not come into the world a harp with one string; and
that the perpetual play upon this one chord through all the years of
adolescence is an evil, not because emulation is a vicious principle,
but because the balance of character is destroyed by the constant
stimulation of this one desire at the expense of the rest.
Equally strong, equally natural, equally sure of awakening a
responsive stir in the young soul, is the divinely implanted principle
of curiosity. The child wants to know: wants to know incessantly,
desperately; asks all manner of questions about everything he
comes across, plagues his elders and betters, and is told not to
bother, and to be a good boy and not ask questions. But this only