Chapter Three
LJ
I fucking hate this place.
The barstool squeaks under me, the air is thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of stale peanuts, and the beer is warm.
No fucking thank you.
At my elbow, Scarlet leans in and says something I can’t make out over the southern-fried rock on the shitty PA system.
“What?”
“I said,” he repeats, too loud and getting martini breath in my ear, “don’t look too cheerful on your night out, my ursine friend.”
I grunt into my beer and polish it off just so I can not be drinking it anymore and drum my fingers on the bar.
“Fucking stupid to come here,” I say to no one. “For the record.”
“Noted.” This from Rob, who’s grinning like the goddamn cat with the canary and taking his sweet time with his own beer, watching the crowd.
Not me. I don’t need to look to know what kind of humanity’s working its way through the guts of this place. You could say I’m a kind of expert on places like the Crossbridge Inn. Reluctantly. I could have drawn up this place with my eyes closed—or the good one, anyway: Christmas lights, old beer ads from the 80s, a Jaeger dispenser that doesn’t work, a jukebox that doesn’t work, and floors too sticky for sawdust. Couple of wannabe pool hustlers trying to make a buck on the scratched-to-hell felt, couple of graying bikers, and a few of our local good ol’ boys trying to charm over the local good-time girls with what’s left of their phony disability checks.
Next to me, Scarlet fishes something out of his glass and looks at it like it owes him money.
I hate to ask, but clearly he wants me to. “Something wrong?”
“I think these bleu cheese olives are...off.” He wrinkles his nose.
“Poor baby,” I mutter. No sympathy from me on that front. I catch the eye of the bartender, who’s wiry as a scarecrow, and signal for another—whiskey, this time.
“That’s ‘cause there’s nothing bleu cheese about it,” Rob says, still staring forward. “That’s just good old American mold, my friend.”
Scarlet gags. I laugh. The barkeep flips up a glass and tips over a brown bottle. Doesn’t look me in the eye, not that I blame him. Not much to see there, and not much seeing I can do back.
“My advice is to quit complaining and enjoy the view,” Rob finishes, nodding forward.
My whiskey arrives and I lift it.
“I’ll toast to that.”
Because she’s out there, in the crowd.
Maren.
I don’t know much about love, but I know her. Want her. Can’t think about almost anything else almost any hour of the day. My blood still boils thinking about how these fuckers lied to her, and the only reason I don’t haul off and rip them to shreds is that she’s forgiven them, and what she wants, I want.
And she wants to be here, for some goddamned reason.
So I sip my whiskey and watch her.
She’s with Tuck, beaming, throwing that hair of hers around as she shimmies and shakes on what passes for a dance floor in the middle of this place and looking absolutely fucking delicious. The outfit she found doesn’t help me either, with jeans that hug the curves of her ass and some kind of halter top thing that’s skimming a deep, tight V down her front—lots of skin on display. Too much for public, if you ask me. But she didn’t ask. And I may be a grumpy son of a bitch, but even I know better than to criticize a woman’s outfit.
As I watch, Tuck leans in, says something that’s probably all flirty, and she laughs, still moving to whatever pickups-and-guns song is pumping through the air. She’s having fun, I realize with a pang, the kind of fun that a beautiful girl like her should be having. In a normal life. In a life where we weren’t complicating every fucking thing.
“You know what’s difficult, fellas?” comes a drawl from my right. Because no one knows when not to talk like Robin fucking Locksley.
“Mm.” I sip my whiskey again, letting it burn down my throat as I keep my eyes locked on her.
“What’s difficult?” Scarlet says. Because no one encourages Rob like that silver-haired idiot. He leans in, resting a foot on the bottom of my barstool.
I stare at him. “You forget your socks there?
He looks at me like I spit in his martini. “Socks with boat shoes? Please.”
“Are we on a fuckin’ boat?”
“I’ll tell you what’s difficult,” Rob interjects, leaning in from my right, probably to shut the two of us up. He points to the dance floor with his beer. “And that’s deciding which part about her is the prettiest.”
We all look at her.
“Legs,” Will says. “Not that hard.”
Rob squints, sips his beer. “Really, you think?”
I grit my teeth. “We are not doing this.”
“Because I’m a fan, sure, but if you ask me, nothing compares to the curves on that—”
“Jesus Christ.” I exhale hard. “The hell is wrong with you?”
“Not an ass man, I take it?” Scarlet quips.
“Fuck you,” I tell him.
I’m not not an ass man. Not like it’s any of his fucking business, but sure. Shit, I’m an everything man as long as it’s Maren’s. There’s not an inch of her body that I don’t want to absolutely wreck. Especially the three-inch gap of pale skin between her shirt and her jeans that’s begging for my finger marks.
I gulp the rest of my glass.
“I thought we were here from some kind of reconnaissance,” I say, lowering my voice so I’m barely audible over the thumping music. “Not...this shit.”
“I hate to argue,” Scarlet says—
“Liar,” Rob interrupts. “You love to argue.”
“—but I believe we’re here to show our girl a good time,” Scarlet finishes. “Primarily, anyway.”
“Hear, hear,” Rob says, lifting his beer. “Besides, mon frère,” he adds, to me, “there’s no denying that we are, shall we say, bonded in a way few men are. I say we embrace it.”
I can’t believe these idiots. “What, like comparing fuckin’ notes?”
“Comparing fucking notes, more like—ow!” Scarlet yelps as my boot heel makes contact with his stupid boat shoe. He rubs his foot with a scowl, but doesn’t hit back. “Hey, okay. Take it easy, big guy. We’re all on the same team, remember?”
“Agreed. Although,” Rob says, “if you do want to compare, I’ve got a little insight on where she likes to be—”
“That’s it,” I say, and get to my feet. “I’m taking a piss.”
The bathroom’s about as clean as you’d expect. Sour air and Sharpie scrawls everywhere, names and numbers of guys who’ll hook you up with whatever you want, apparently. Girls. Guns. Blow. H. The works.
My neck prickles, reading it. Wonder if Rob knows. Wonder if his name’s in here, somewhere. Still.
I emerge at the dark end of the bar, where I can just make out a breathless Maren laughing and smacking Scarlet on the arm, undoubtedly for some wiseass remark, as Rob and the kid close in on her other side.
I guess we do that without thinking—protect her.
“That your girl?” says a voice from next to me.
I glance to my left.
“What’s it to you?”
“Nothing,” he says, palms in the air. “Just got the look of a man who wants to kick those guys’ asses.”
He’s not wrong. But I shake my head. “They’re friends. All good.”
The guy narrows his eyes at me, like he’s trying to figure out the situation, so I cut that train of thought off short.
“Whiskey,” I say, as the bartender arrives, “and one for my friend here.”
The bartender nods, and my “friend” nods too. “Appreciate it.” He leans back on his stool, sucking in a breath. “Gotta stay on a strict budget these days, given everything.” He grimaces.
I know an opening when I see one. “Oh?” I take the stool next to him.
By way of answering, he sets his wallet on the bar and flips it open.
A badge. SHERWOOD CO. SHERIFF’S DEPT. glinting in the Christmas lights.
I don’t react.
“Furlough,” he explains. “Haven’t worked in weeks.”
I relax a fraction of an inch. “That’s a shame.”
“It’s some goddamn bullshit is what it is—thank you, sir,” he says, his thick neck flaring red even in the shitty bar lighting as he accepts his drink, which he slurps half of without blinking. “You law enforcement?”
I shake my head, sipping my own glass with just a glance at Maren. She’s found friends—girl friends, around her age, clearly all dolled up for the night even though they look plain as white rice next to her—and they’ve dragged her back on the dance floor.
“Nope.”
“Military?” he guesses.
“Nope,” I say again.
“Huh,” he says, considering. “I figured maybe, ‘cuz of the...” He gestures at his own eye while looking at mine.
Or what’s left of it.
I swallow hard.
“No,” I say. “Just unlucky.”
My cop friend gives a wet-sounding chuckle. “Well, regardless, I’m sure you can appreciate. It’s all so political now. Sheriff’s been getting hell from Richmond since there was that prison break—”
“Hadn’t heard about that,” I mutter.
The advantage of being a man of few words is how it practically invites other people to yap. And this guy’s a yapper.
“Yeah, ‘cuz it’s a biiiiig fuckin’ secret. ” He waves his hands in the air like he’s casting a spell and snorts with sarcasm. “Wheatley’s pretending like he’s done some brilliant cover-up, but half the deputies are out here buyin’ girls drinks and telling them how they no-scoped a fuckin’ grizzly bear—”
I go stiff, tense, ears ringing. The axis of the room tilts.
My chatty friend barely notices.
“—never the brains of the operation anyway, and now that his DA buddy offed himself he doesn’t even have a daddy to go running to for help. Anyway, point is”—he picks up my whiskey from the bar, but he doesn’t notice and I don’t stop him—“the stink out of Sherwood’s finally gone downwind.”
“Meaning?” I dart another glance at the dance floor. Maren seems to have yanked Will over by his lapels, and her new girlfriends don’t seem too mad about it.
“Meaning they knocked us off the government teat,” he says. “No more state money to keep us in the black. Hence, no more hours. Hence, me being here instead of earning my damn overtime.”
Hence? Must be the kind of guy to get poetical when he’s loaded. I signal the bartender for two more—both for him.
“Why’s that Richmond’s problem?” I say. “Sheriff’s office is county-run.”
“And you think Sherwood County has any money?” He chortles, accepting his whiskey without even a thank you this time and slugging it back. “I know you’d think, with all those taxes we pay and shit, but no. Wheatley’s been running a stuuuupid deficit for years. Mother Virginia’s been footing the bill to cover the costs...until she ain’t, I guess.” He picks up the second glass, but doesn’t drink just yet. Just mumbles into it.
I’m not sure if he meant me to understand him or not, but fuck it. “Come again?”
“I said this place deserves what’s coming to it,” he says, the red rising all the way up from his neck to his receding hairline. “Look, it ain’t even about my fuckin’ paycheck, man. This place”—he gestures with his glass at the rest of the Crossbridge Inn, and I suppose the rest of Sherwood County—“is gonna go to shit. There is no one manning the store right now. When the cat’s away, the mice will fuckin’ play.” He breathes hard, catching up from his diatribe. Then looks a little sheepish. “Sorry, brother. Kinda get heated about it.”
“ ?a roule ,” I say. “All good.”
“Listen.” He leans in closer now, conspiratorial. “I know you said you weren’t LEO, but...forgive me, you’ve got the look of special ops about you, you know? You interested in a side job? Cash.” He fishes something out of his pocket, a folded piece of paper, scribbles down a number or something with a pen. “Trying to put some guys together. It’s kind of extra-legal, to be honest, but—”
I’ve heard enough. Last thing I need is to get tangled in some other criminal conspiracy—one’s plenty.
“Sure, sure.” I get to my feet, slap my new friend on the shoulder, stuff the paper in my jacket pocket. “Take it easy, man.” He nods, mumbling thanks. I catch the bartender’s eye as I leave, mouthing water and pointing, and run smack into someone.
Her.
“LJ!” she gasps. Her hair swings into her eyes, and she scoops it away, revealing a loose smile and skin that’s flushed peach-pink and I bet tastes just as sweet. “Come dance!”
“No fuckin’ thank you.”
She pouts—she pouts —and teeters a little, which is when I realize she’s wearing the most ridiculous shoes, with several inches too many of heel. Black and studded, sure, but still.
Instinctively, my hands go to her upper arms, pinning her in place.
“C’mon,” she says. “Just...”
“This way.” I move her to the side, out of the way of foot traffic, to the other side of the busted cigarette machine where it’s at least a little quieter. Under the neon of a Miller High Life sign, her skin looks golden, dusted with a fine sheen of sweat.
My grip on her tightens.
“You’re drunk, Princess.”
She wrinkles her nose, tips her head slightly, the goddamn cutest thing, and pinches two fingers together in the air. “Maybe thiiiis much.”
I tense my jaw. Tense my everything.
“Are you mad?” she asks.
I’m not going to lie to her. “A little.”
But I do let her go.
She chews her lip, grins. “Good.”
Goddammit. The look of her, that little defiant streak. My blood’s already beating hot and hard, my self-control hanging by a thread. The last thing I need is her to turn brat right in front of me. I will fucking lose my composure just to give her what she deserves.
I breathe out. Plant my hands on either side of her head. Lean in.
“Princess, you give me attitude like that and make no mistake, I will ruin you.”
I hear her gasp, feel the quick intake of breath on the skin of my wrist, I’m so close, and just the brush of it makes my cock pulse.
But she looks up at me, those big, just a little glassy eyes, the faint freckles on flushed skin. “You promise?”
The growl comes from so deep in my throat I could literally be half-bear by now. She smiles, because she knows she’s got me, knows exactly what she’s doing, little natural-born tease, and arches her back to look at me closer. As she does, the strap of her top shifts, slips, slides around the sweet soft little curve of her right breast and exposes the dusky pink edge of her nipple.
God fucking dammit.
I suck in a breath through my teeth. Try not to think about taking that tender part of her with my tongue. My teeth. Getting it stiff and raw until she begs me to stop or keep going, I don’t care.
“What?” she asks, like it’s not the most loaded question in the history of the goddamn universe. “Something wrong?”
Sense prevails despite every instinct in my body screaming for me to drag her by the hair, bend her over, and show her what girls like her deserve. I keep my fingers steady as I pull at the edge of the fabric, tug it gently back into place.
Her eyes widen, darting to my hand. “Oops.”
I allow myself the barest smile and find my voice somehow. “You didn’t notice?”
She shakes her head.
“Then we should go.”
“But—”
“Leaving. Now,” I repeat. It’s not a question, and she should know that.
Still, I let myself have one thing. I sweep an arm to her waist, relishing her soft skin on mine, and pull her close to whisper in her ear.
“The sooner you’re home, the sooner you’re sober, Princess. And then I won’t hold back.”