My Only Vice. Elizabeth Bevarly

had was beginning to wear thin.

      “Does Ed have any additional evidence this time to support his suspicions?” Sam asked Vicky wearily, already sure of the answer.

      “It’s more paraphernalia this month,” she said.

      “Though what he described to me sounds a lot like the rhinestone- and stud-setter I got for my twelfth birthday thirty years ago.”

      Sam grunted in resignation. “Yeah, I hear those things are making a comeback.”

      “There was one thing Ed had this time, though, that was a little out of the ordinary,” Vicky added, voicing the revelation with clear glee. Her green eyes fairly sparkled with mischief. “Something he’s for sure never mentioned having before.”

      “What’s that?” Sam asked with much disinterest, reaching for the small stack of mail perched near the edge of his desk.

      “Well, I don’t know where or how he came by the information,” Vicky said, “but this time, Ed told me he’s got himself a bona fide suspect who he’s absolutely positive is selling drugs to the Northaven students.” When Sam glanced up, she smiled and wiggled her eyebrows in way that was far more playful than it was concerned. “And, Sam, this time, Ed even gave me a name.”

      

      “ROSIE, YOU HAVE TO help me. You have what he needs. And if he doesn’t get it soon, he’s going to die. And if he dies, I’ll die. I need for him to be at his best. And he can’t be at his best without it.”

      Behind the counter of her flower shop, Rosie rolled her eyes at the young woman and sighed. College girls. Such drama. Such pathos. Everybody was always going to die over something. Shannon Eckert was no different. The dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty on the other side of the counter was relentlessly thin, her cropped purple sweater riding high above her low-slung blue jeans to reveal a dangling rhinestone palm tree that winked from her navel. Her hair was tucked behind ears that boasted another half-dozen piercings, and a wreath of roses was tattooed around one wrist.

      Rosie’s own appearance paled by comparison—and not just because of her fairer features, either. The only body parts that were pierced on her own person these days were her eardrums—thanks in large part to Shannon’s shrieking just now—and she’d had the circled A tattoo above her ankle—the symbol for anarchy—surgically buffed away years ago. Her attire consisted of a crinkly emerald skirt shot through with threads of silver, and a loose-fitting white tunic she’d cinched with a macramé belt.

      Had someone told her fifteen years ago that she would be dressing like a gypsy and selling flowers for a living, Rosie would have laughed in that person’s face. Back then, she’d worn all black, all the time, right down to the heavy kohl around her eyes and the polish on her fingernails. She’d even dyed her hair black. In fact, it wasn’t until she’d gone back to her natural color a few years ago that she’d realized she’d gone from the carrot orange of her childhood to a more sophisticated dark auburn.

      She’d been one crazy, mixed-up kid when she was a teenager, no two ways about it. Mixed-up to a point that had earned her more trouble than any teenager deserved—or could handle. She’d come a long way since South Beach. And she never, ever, wanted to go back. Not even if it wouldn’t put her life in danger to do so.

      “I’m serious,” Shannon continued, tugging Rosie back to the present, where she would much rather be. “He’s getting shaky, he’s gone so long without it.”

      “Mmm-hmm,” Rosie said without concern. Somehow, she suspected Shannon was actually the shaky one. “And just how long has it been, Shannon? A day? Two?”

      “Three!” the girl fairly screamed. “It’s been three days! You’ve got to help! You’ve got to give me more of that stuff!”

      Rosie shook her head. “Three days, huh? Wow. Must be hell.”

      “It is!” Shannon cried.

      “Fine,” Rosie said, finally capitulating.

      She went to the back of her shop and opened the cabinet where she kept her special orders. From the middle shelf, she withdrew an oversize basket that held an assortment of small fabric pouches. Each was filled with a substance that had become extremely popular among the upper classmen at little Northaven College, to the point where they had even developed a slang name for it—Rapture. Many even swore they were hooked on it for life. To Rosie, such monikers and claims were a little over-the-top. What the pouches held was simply a sideline to her business, one she was keeping under wraps for two reasons.

      Number one, she honestly wasn’t sure what the reaction and reception to her products would be outside her clientele list. Aphrodisiacs weren’t exactly a commonplace commercial product, and anything that was even remotely sexual in nature was often viewed in a less than positive light. At best, her products might be snickered at if Rosie advertised them, and at worst, they might fall under suspicion. The citizens of Northaven—at least the ones who purchased her special orders—were surprisingly open-minded about the herbal aphrodisiac teas she blended for them. But it was still a small town in New England, with its Puritan sensibilities, and Rosie preferred to err on the side of caution.

      Her second reason for not advertising her aphrodisiac teas was the same reason she didn’t much advertise the floral side of her business. Maintaining a low profile was essential to Rosie’s well-being. Hell, it was essential to her very life. Her aphrodisiacs were very effective, and they were the sort of thing that might even potentially achieve cult status popularity among the university or online crowd. Worst-case scenario, it was possible she could see some press for them. Even locally, that could be disastrous. The last thing she needed or wanted was to draw attention to herself. When she’d been in the spotlight before, she’d nearly ended up dead. So, like everything else in her world, Rosie kept the aphrodisiacs under wraps and relied on referrals and word of mouth to promote them.

      So far, so good.

      Now she fished a pouch bearing Shannon’s name out of the basket before replacing the rest of the assortment in the cabinet. Then she returned to the front of the store where her client stood fairly humming with anticipation. Rosie extended the fabric bag toward the young woman, who immediately made a grab for it. But she snatched it back before Shannon could claim it.

      “Go easy on this stuff,” she cautioned the girl. “There’s more to college than partying, you know. You need to get an education in there somewhere.”

      Shannon nodded impatiently. “It’s not for me,” she told Rosie. “It’s for Devin.”

      “Sure it is,” Rosie said. She’d heard that one before. All the girls said they were buying it for their boyfriends, that the guys were the ones who really needed it. But Rosie knew the women enjoyed the results just as much as their menfolk—probably more.

      Shannon dug into her pocket for a rumpled bill and handed it to Rosie, who then reluctantly handed over the pouch. “I mean it, Shannon,” she said as she released it. “I know classes just started up again a month ago, but you need to focus on your studies, not Devin.”

      Shannon nodded again, more slowly this time, seeming to feel a little calmer now that she had what she’d come for. “I know,” she said. “I’m totally focused on my studies, honest. But Devin is so fine, and I want to be with him. I want him to be happy. And I want to be happy, too.” She smiled and leaned in a little, lowering her voice some as she added, “We’re getting married next summer after graduation, did I tell you?”

      Rosie smiled back. “No, you didn’t,” she said, genuinely delighted to hear the news. “Congratulations. That’s great. How long have you two been together?”

      “Since high school,” Shannon told her, sounding almost bashful now. She held up the fabric pouch Rosie had just handed her. “Maybe you can give me a lifetime supply of this for my wedding present, huh?”

      Rosie shook her head. “Not a chance. You won’t need that once you’re married.”

      Shannon expelled