Time's Up (9 page)

We hit two more bars—phone numbers dropping on the guys like confetti at a ticker-tape parade. All the while, Cash and Koji nursed their beers like they had nipples attached. They were up to something—hamming it up like they were as blasted as their crew when they were stone sober.

The MDX reeked of aftershave and alcohol. “Where to?” I asked the wolf pack. “Home?”

“Not!” Koji said. “How about Hud's?”

Really?
We'd spent the night trolling twenty-dollar-cover techno clubs only to end up at a knockdown dive?

I pulled into Hud's parking lot. Pickups, Crown Vics, a few Tauruses and even a couple blue and whites.
The ultimate cop bar.

Smoky and dark and packed to the gills, Hud's was corner booths, wobbly scarred tables, and the only place in town where Clapton, Fleetwood Mac, and .38 Special still played on a coin-operated juke. The wolf pack bellied noisily up to the bar while my brother and his best friend drifted casually away.

“McGrane.” A densely muscled man in a black T-shirt raised a hand at Cash from a corner table. “Plenty of room here.” He sat in the leather booth that ringed one side, two men sitting in chairs across from him.

“I'll wait.” I pointed at the bar.

“No way.” Cash put his hand between my shoulder blades and gave me a short shove toward the booth.

The man slid out. “Hop in.” He was handsome in the way that all hard, über-fit guys are good-looking. About twenty-eight, five-ten, brown and brown, with the thick, defined muscular build that only a shorter guy can carry. Clean-cut and tatt-free, he still had that lil' something extra that screamed badass.

Cash slid in first, I went next, and the tough guy sat next to me.

“Lee Sharpe.” He held out his hand and jerked his head toward Cash and Koji. “What're you doing with these knock-arounds?”

I shook his hand. “Maisie McGrane.”

Lee leaned forward and said to Cash. “Sorry, man.”

My brother's eyes closed halfway. “She's my sister.”

“Well, that's okay, then.” Lee smiled and rested his elbow behind me on the booth. “What are you doing with these knock-arounds, Maisie?”

The other men laughed.

Lee Sharpe was a master of the friendly banter that talks most girls into bed before they realize they're already naked. I flirted with him distractedly, unable to get off the squeaky hamster wheel of Hank standing me up.

My unintentional disinterest only fired Lee's interest in me. “Your brother and Koji,” he said. “They're definitely riding at the top of the heap.”

For what?
“Yeah?” I said as I got a load of the
AT
on one of their Windbreakers hanging over the back of the chair.
AT as in SWAT.

The night fell neatly into place. What better way to set yourself apart than to show up with your competition drunk off their asses? Across the table, Koji and my brother were already in the thick of it with the two other SWAT guys.

Free at last.
I covered my mouth with my hand, trying to squish the grin off my face. The silver lining to being stood up by Hank. Cash's run as Master Slaver was over. Almost as quickly as it had begun.
Mom and Da are going to kill him.

I realized Lee was talking to me. “Huh?”

“I said, how—”

“You gotta be fuckin' kidding me!” Tommy Narkinney's voice splattered over me like hot grease. He was sitting at the head of six little tables pushed together, surrounded by blue-shirted beat walkers. Nine of them. “If it isn't our favorite meter maid.”

Cash set his beer down. I gave him an imperceptible head shake.

“Mai-sie Dai-sy McGrane!” Narkinney yelled in a singsong voice. He smacked his thigh with his palm. “Why don't you come on over here and write me a ticket?”

Lee's mouth twitched, but he said nothing.

I rubbed the bridge of my nose.
Shake it off. Narkinney's not worth it. Hank's Law Number Seventeen: Deescalate. The true fight is won without fighting.

I gave Koji a tight smile. “Hey. How 'bout them Cubs?”

“Yeah.” Koji nodded and put his hand on Cash's arm. “Crazy how bad they always suck.”

“Meter maid!” Narkinney stood up. “I'm talking to you.”

Lee looked lazily across the table at his two teammates, letting it unfold. Koji kept up the Cubs chatter, his hand never leaving Cash's arm.

Narkinney crossed the bar, headed straight for me. The beat cops tight behind, backing him up. Of course they would. He'd been drinking with some of these guys in his backyard probably before he could even spell beer. Nark was beat-born. A beat cop from a long line of beat cops. All with the same bellyful of disdain for rank, division, and don't even get them started on spe-cializeds like SWAT.

He stopped at our table, leaned over, and rapped his beer bottle against the table in front of me. “Jesus, you sad little wannabe washout.”

I rolled my tongue in my cheek, willing myself not to respond. Not staring, not ignoring, not escalating.

He was drunk. And judging from his chubby partner's glassy eyes, so was Peterson. Celebrating my comeuppance at the Brothers of Allah Prayer Center. The rest of the blue shirts all wore the same smug smirk. They'd heard all about me. In great, embellished detail, no doubt.

“Hey, Tommy. How you doing?” I said in the calm voice I'd cultivated for a run-in with a
Deliverance
hillbilly. “It's really nice of you to come over and say hi.”

That stopped him. His brows knit together, trying to figure my angle.

Lee's hand slid down onto my shoulder. Marking me as his as surely as pissing on my leg.

Narkinney eyed Lee's hand with a leer. “Humping SWAT ain't gonna get you reinstated at the Academy.”

Lee was on his feet, chest inches from Narkinney's. “I don't like your manners, son.”

“Fuck you, Sharpe.” Tommy Narkinney had four inches on him, but that was it.

Lee Sharpe had twenty pounds, Hank's same thousand-yard stare, and all the cussedness of a wolverine. “Back off, flat-foot,” he said, wanting Nark to push it, looking for a scrap.

His two SWAT buddies got up from the table. Cash and Koji followed suit, engines revving.

“So it is true,” Narkinney said. “You SWAT ass-wads can't do anything without holding each other's dicks.”

The beat cops laughed, feeling pretty good about the odds.

I got to my feet. “Hey, Tommy. C'mon.” Palms up, I edged Lee backwards. “You got your licks in.”

“I haven't even started to
lick
you, McGrane,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Cash's wasted wolf pack got up from the bar.

I closed my eyes and blew out a slow breath. I asked for that. A lousy choice of words. Deescalate. I opted for what had saved my butt more times than I could count with furious brothers.

I jerked my elbow uncomfortably above my shoulder, letting my wrist and hand dangle limply. “Ouch! Uncle. Lemme go. Uncle!”

I almost had him.

But the beat-cop hyenas behind him wouldn't let up, egging him on. Narkinney thrust his face inches from mine. My nose filled with the stink of his beer-sweat cologne.

Narkinney smiled at Lee. “So you being team lead—you get first crack?” He waved his finger between us. “Does she fuck like a boy, too?”

And with that, deescalation was off the table. My lizard brain crawled out from under the rock and turned velociraptor.

“You got something to say to me, Nark?” I bit my index finger in mock flirtation. “Or is your dick in a twist because I can do more push-ups than you?”

Cash's wolf pack erupted into hoots and catcalls.

Narkinney's nostrils flared. “I'm the one with the shield, bitch.”

“Yeah,” I said, ready to throw down. “But that doesn't mean I can't kick your ass.”

The wolf pack began chanting, “Kick his ass, kick his ass.”

Narkinney's cheeks turned a splotchy red, hands balling to fists. “I don't hit bitches.”

I mouthed the word “pussy.”

Nark spat in my face.

In one fluid motion Lee shoved me toward the booth and smashed his fist into Narkinney's face. I fell back onto the vinyl banquette as Tommy's nose collapsed in a sickening squelch.

He hit the floor like a 190-pound sandbag.

The bar exploded.

Wiping Narkinney's spit from my cheek, I slid off the banquette. He wasn't moving.

Seriously?
Even with a broken nose, no guy ever goes down in a bar fight with one punch. Ever.

I squatted down beside Narkinney and rolled him over. His nose was mashed to one side of his face, blood running down his chin faster than a spilled half gallon of milk.

He needed to get up so I could kick his ass.

Cash and Koji traded blows with a couple of beat cops. Thirty feet away, Lee was back-to-back with another SWAT waist-deep in blue uniforms, throwing crisp brutal punches.

A thing to see.

And I just stood there, a useless mixture of fury and adrenaline churning in my gut. I'd escalated for . . . nothing. Lee popped what should've been my cherry, and won me a lifetime's supply of Narkinney's petty revenge to boot.

A hand landed on my shoulder. I spun and Peterson—that fat fuck—actually took a swing at me. His ringed knuckles glanced off my mouth, splitting my lip.

I responded like Hank had taught me.

Three short, distracting jabs to the face and a heavy left with everything I had to the underside of his potbelly.

Peterson took a couple wobbly steps back and sat down hard in one of the chairs. “Meter bitch,” he croaked, holding his girth.

I went back to Narkinney—still prone—and kicked his foot with my boot.

Out cold.

The wolf pack was holding their own, adrenaline-fueled egos giving them the Drunken Master edge. Something whistled down past my cheek. I ducked too late and it cracked against my collarbone.

I dropped to my knees, hand on my shoulder.
What was that?

“You fucking asshole!” Cash shouted in my general direction as he drove his fist low and hard into some guy's kidneys. “That's my—” Punch. “Sister!” Punch.

I crawled under the bar table. Needles of fire zinged up and down my useless arm. I couldn't feel my fingers. Who the hell did that to me?

“Knock, knock.” Peterson leaned in.

He grabbed the front of my shirt and dragged me out from beneath the table, making sure to crack my head on the table on the way up.
Damn it.
I scrambled to get my feet beneath me.

Peterson raised his arm.

I popped up and nailed him with a side kick to the leg, making sure to aim downward and chamber the knee. Bruce Lee–style.

Peterson's leg gave way and he collapsed against the table. The beer bottle fell from his hand and shattered on the floor. “Stupid whore!”

I grabbed him by the back of his head and slammed his face into the table. He swore and whipped back a chunky elbow, clipping me on the chin. I took a power step and drove my knee up hard into his groin.

Peterson wheezed like a dying accordion and lay there, facedown across the table. I stood over him, panting. Fingers curling and uncurling, the feeling finally coming back to my hands.

An ear-bleeding air horn blared until the fighting stopped.

Hud's bartender stood on the bar, aerosol can in hand. “Dudes. Disperse. I'm sure you don't want to spend the night writing each other up and who the hell else am I gonna call to stop this shit?”

The wolf pack went hands-up, wearing the same I-didn't-do-nothing look as a bunch of second-grade boys, and went back to their places at the bar.

“Jaysus, Maisie.” Cash came up behind me. “Nice work.” He reached over and took ahold of Peterson by the collar and jerked him backwards off the table.

Peterson landed on the floor on his well-padded butt and rolled onto his side, hands buried in his groin.

“A fucking career-ender, that's what this ought to be.” Cash ran a raw and swollen hand through his dark hair. “Peterson. What an asshole! Using a beer bottle on another cop—” He shook his head impatiently. “Whatever.”

Cash's slip was a knife to the heart.
I should be a cop. Instead I am a whatever.
I looked at Peterson squirming around on the dirty floor in agony. I felt nothing. No anger. No remorse.

“Christ, Snap. When Flynn, Rory, and Da get an earful of this . . .”

I bit my split lip without thinking and winced. “They won't.”

“Like hell,” Cash said. “Hud's probably already called Da himself.”

“I'll take the heat,” I said.

“Riiiiiight.” He snorted in disgust. “Da's so not gonna be okay with this. And Flynn . . . Jay-sus. I'll have to think of something to keep us
in
the frying pan.”

Lee and his buddies came back. He jerked his head at the unconscious Narkinney. “Want an apology?” he asked, completely serious. “I'll wake him up.”

“Um, no. I think breaking his nose was probably enough.”

Lee bounced on his toes and rolled his shoulders in regret. “Hey—flat-foot,” he called to a uniform with a purpling eye.

“Get these guys outta here.”

A couple of beat cops helped Peterson to his feet and dragged Narkinney away.

Lee caught my chin and took a good look. “You're sporting a couple of dingers.” His voice turned nonchalant. “Who hit you?”

“Does it matter?” I smiled, not daring to give him another spark. “This is my first official bar fight.”