The crowd was mostly female in Honky Tonk, and the tables had little signs on them that said Warning: Shark Week. I smirked. Leave it to Nolan to pick a night when the female bar staff’s menstruation cycles synced.
Knowing the drill, I grabbed an empty two-top and did not attempt to flag down Max, the server, who was busy adjusting the peel-and-stick heating pad on her abdomen with one hand while stuffing a chocolate cupcake into her mouth with the other.
Max would take my order when she was good and ready, and I would get my drink when Silver the bartender was done shocking the shit out of the burly biker dude’s abs with the mini electrotherapy machine.
It was a new addition to Shark Week’s Crappy Hour. Electrical impulses from the electrodes simulated period pain. Knockemout’s residents weren’t ones to back down from a challenge, and I had to admit, it was pretty entertaining to watch tatted bikers and buff farmer types line up for their turn to try to walk with level 10 period cramps.
It took a hot minute or five, but Max finally ambled over and flopped down in the chair across from me. She had icing on her chin. “Lina.”
“Max.”
“Your eye looks better.”
“Thanks.”
“Heard you got it wrestling two murderers who tried to attack Sloane and Naomi while filming the pilot of a bounty hunter TV show.”
So much for my professional anonymity…and pesky things like the truth.
“Nothing that exciting,” I assured her.
“What’ll it be? Feel like tryin’ a Crappy Hour special? We got half-priced Bloody Marys and a cocktail Silver came up with called Red Death. It tastes like shit and it’ll fuck you up.”
“I think I’ll stick with bourbon.” It was one and done for me until I was sure I’d gotten my stress level under control.
“Suit yourself.” Max sighed and heaved herself to her feet. “I’ll be back after the Midol kicks in.”
She shuffled back to the bar and I used the opportunity to wade through some work emails on my phone until raucous male laughter erupted in the corner.
I’d spent a lot of time in a lot of bars watching people interact. I knew when the vibe wasn’t right. And there was no doubt in my mind something ugly was brewing from the four men. Their table was littered with empty beer bottles and shot glasses. Their body language was rowdy and borderline aggressive, like sharks deciding whether to attack.
Max arrived at their table and started stacking empties on her tray. One of the men, an older guy with a beer gut and a white, bushy mustache nowhere near as nice as Vernon’s, said something that Max didn’t like. It caused the table to burst into laughter again.
Max tipped her tray, rolling the empties back on to the table, and—with a parting middle finger—stomped back to the bar.
I recognized one of the younger troublemakers as the man who’d stared at me when I was leaving Waylay’s soccer game. “Come on, Maxi Pad, don’t be so sensitive. We’re just teasin’，” he yelled after her.
The foursome put their heads together for what was most likely an off-color joke and busted up laughing again.
“Keep it down, Tate,” warned Tallulah from the next table. She was sitting with three other regulars who didn’t look any more entertained by the men’s shenanigans than I was.
So that was Tate Dilton, disgraced bad cop and good ol’ boy.
“It’s awful hard to keep it down around you, pretty,” one of Dilton’s pals said, gesturing lewdly at his crotch.
The men around the table erupted once again and the tension in the room rose.
I stared hard at Dilton from across the room and waited. It didn’t take long. As long as they were sober enough, people could usually sense a threat.
He took a long look back and then said something to the rest of his cronies. They all turned to look at me. I kicked my legs out and crossed them at the ankles.
He stood and headed in my direction, using his best intimidation glare. He walked with the confidence of a man who had peaked in high school and didn’t realize the glory days were over.
When he got to my table, he stopped and stared some more. “You got a problem, sweetheart? Maybe an itch I can scratch for you?”
He had a short, Hitler-esque mustache that twitched every time his jaw opened and closed on a piece of gum.
“I doubt there’s anything you could do for me.”
“You’re Morgan’s bitch, ain’t ya?” He was wearing a Knockemout PD shirt and that pissed me off even more than the insult.
“No. Are you?” I asked sweetly.
His eyes narrowed, nearly disappearing behind his ruddy cheeks as he pulled out the chair opposite me. He spun it around backward in a move that should never impress a woman of any age and sat uninvited. “Saw you at the soccer fields fighting. You tell your cop boyfriend there are plenty of us round here who don’t like the shit he’s forcing down our throats. Maybe let him know that if he ain’t careful, we might just have to take him down a peg or two.”
“Have you considered taking your aversion to the social requirement of regular bathing up the chain of command?”
“Huh?” He blinked, then chewed furiously for a few seconds.
“Oh. Maybe your cause is more public affairs related. Let me guess. You don’t think you should have to wear pants inside the Piggly Wiggly when you buy your six-pack of cheap-ass beer.”
He leaned in and I could smell the liquor on his breath. “That’s some smart mouth you’re runnin’。”
“Are all these multisyllabic words making it hard for you to keep up?”
“Keep it up and your bitch ass will be leaving here with serious regrets.” His gaze flicked to my eye. “Looks like someone already taught you some manners.”
“They tried. Now, why don’t you and your friends go on home before one of you does something stupider than usual?”
“You want me to take you down to the station for runnin’ that pretty mouth at a cop?” He popped the p on cop and I nearly rolled my eyes.
“Does Chief Morgan know you’re running around impersonating a police officer? Because I’m fairly certain in order for you to be a cop, you gotta have a badge. And I heard a rumor that your badge is locked up in a drawer in Nash’s desk.”
He jumped to his feet and slammed meaty palms on the table in front of me. I didn’t move a muscle as he leaned into my space, filling my nostrils with the smell of cheap liquor.
Fi, Max, and Silver were heading in our direction looking like they were ready to go to war. But they didn’t need to make themselves targets. Not when I was the one who was only in town for the short term.
I held up a hand. “I got this,” I assured them and slowly got to my feet to face the bloated bully.
“Go home, Tate,” Fi said, taking the lollipop out of her mouth to use her scary mom voice.
Silver’s jaw flexed as she kept one hand clamped over her uterus and the other curled into a fist. Max was holding her tray on her shoulder like it was a baseball bat.
“You wanna take a swing at me, Dilton?” I whispered softly.
He bared his teeth…and his chewing gum.
I gave him a mean little smile. “I dare you. Because you do and you’re not making it out of here intact. Not only am I itching to add ‘broken nose’ to your physical catalog of ‘beer belly’ and ‘receding hairline,’ but the entire female population of Knockemout is riding the crimson tide right now, and I’m betting there’re more than a few local ladies you did wrong over the years.”