Page 38
Neon beer signs buzzed along the walls, casting a low red and amber glow that fought with the yellow light hanging over the bar. Pete stood behind the scarred counter, solid and alert. Nothing escaped his eagle eye — something the longtime owner had perfected over the years. He lifted his chin in silent greeting as the heavy door swung shut behind her.
A jukebox in the corner pushed out a gravelly Southern rock song while a pair of men leaned over the pool table, the crack of the break cutting through the steady rumble of conversation. Someone barked out a laugh near the dartboards. The crash of shattering glass rang out, followed by a string of angry curses. All normal and acceptable in the just-this-side-of-seedy bar.
Fitzpatrick’s this place was not. Good.
Dressed in boots, faded and ripped jeans, and a metal rock band tee, she fit right in. She wasn’t stupid, though. She was armed — a knife strapped into a concealed ankle sheath and the knowledge of how to use it.
And she was primed for a good, hard fight.
Or a fuck.
Either would suit her mood tonight.
Felicity headed for the bar, boots thudding softly against the worn floorboards. A pair of guys near the pool table paused their game long enough to give her a slow once-over. She ignored them and took a seat at the bar.
“Evenin’, Deputy,” Pete rumbled.
“Pete.”
He slid a bottle across the bar toward her before she even asked. “Looks like you’re havin’ a night.”
She caught it easily. “You have no idea.”
From a table near the back came a shout. “Hey, Pete. Put in a word for me with your favorite cop.”
A ripple of amusement rolled through the room.
Pete didn’t even glance that way.
Felicity took a slow pull from the bottle, letting the cold beer settle the edge of her mood. Her gaze drifted across the room again.
That’s when she noticed the stranger.
He sat alone near the wall, nursing a beer like he had all night. Broad shoulders stretched the black T-shirt, the sleeves rolled just enough to show thick forearms inked with old, faded tattoos.
She turned to Pete, giving a subtle nod of her head. “The brooding stranger in the black tee. Who is he?”
Pete followed the move without turning his head. “Been here a couple times,” he said. “Keeps to himself.”
“Trouble?”
Pete shrugged one broad shoulder. “Hasn’t started any.”
Good enough.
Felicity finished half the bottle in a long pull and set it down. “Another one. And a refill of whatever he’s drinking.”
With a shake of his head and a sigh to match the look, he set two longnecks in front of her.
She slid off the stool, hooked her fingers around the bottles, and sauntered over to the table. The man looked up before she reached him, like he’d known she was coming. She hooked the chair opposite him with her foot, dragged it out, and sat without asking. “You look thirsty,” she said, nudging a bottle toward him.
“Who says I want company?” His voice was rough, low.
Fair question. “I can leave.”
He caught the challenge in her tone. His sigh almost matched Pete’s earlier one. “You’re already sitting.”
“That I am.”
