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“They’re together?” I asked as nonchalantly as possible.
He shrugged. “According to her.”
In Carol Ann’s world, that was all that mattered. “Thanks.” I pushed a couple of bills across the bar to pay for the beer. “Keep the change. And good luck.”
“You too. Watch your back.”
With a parting nod I took my beer and headed toward the pool room. Now that I knew the reason for the hostile looks it was easier to glare right back. The band thumped out the last notes of their pathetic ballad and announced a break.
The crowded pool room off to the left of the stage reeked of old cigarette smoke and a hint of sewage, with a touch of chemical-flowery air freshener thrown in for good measure. A chubby guy with flushed cheeks and a bubba buzz cut casually flipped me off as I descended the two steps to the grimy linoleum, then turned away to fish pool balls from the return on the farthest of the three faded tables. Most of the people in here were too focused on their game to give much of a shit about me, and I didn’t recognize more than a handful anyway. A few gave me quizzical looks, likely wondering why I deserved a middle finger, then apparently decided it would use up too many brain cells to figure out the mystery. A cluster of barely legal bimbos whispered and giggled by the cue rack, eyeing some young stud. A stud by their standards, at least. Hell, a year or so ago I’d have overlooked his slight beer gut and shaggy mullet too.
I took a fake sip of my beer to hide my smile. Damn. At least I had standards now.
A woman with screaming red hair leaned over a table to get a shot, giving everyone behind her a great look at her red thong underwear as her way-too-short jeans skirt hiked up. Carol Ann Pruitt. She hadn’t been “barely legal” in damn near a decade, but she still clung to it with her acrylic nails and over-whitened teeth.
Carol Ann took her shot and missed badly, laughing as she straightened and tugged her skirt down—though only enough to barely cover the cheeks of an age-and-beer-widened ass. She swept a hopeful gaze around, probably to see if anyone was watching her show. Her slightly unsteady looksee went past me, then snapped right back, to my annoyance. Like I had time for this shit.
“You!” She stabbed the pool cue in my direction. “You got some kinda nerve dragging your narc cop-lovin’ ugly ass in here!”
I gave her a lazy look and shrugged. “I needed a laugh and figured I’d come see the chunk of hair on the back of your head that you miss every fucking time you do your color. Seriously, do you even own a damn mirror?”
Titters went through the room in a wave, which didn’t ease Carol Ann’s mood one bit. She tightened her grip on the cue and started toward me with murder in her eyes. Shit. I’d forgotten just how much bigger she was than me.
“I got a mirror, bitch, and I use it to see how much better lookin’ I am than you!” she shouted. “Randy don’t want nothin’ to do with you, so get your skanky ass outta here before I get pissed.”
Behind her I saw the men’s room door open and Randy step out. My pulse quickened as he saw me, but I was too busy having fun with Carol Ann to spare him a second of attention. “Aw, will you turn green and get big and ugly?” I taunted her. “You got all but the color part down already.”
This time the laughter and catcalls were unmistakably in my favor. Narc or not, this was a crowd that loved them some good putdowns. Unfortunately, Carol Ann couldn’t appreciate the finer social points of insult-trading. The only comeback she could muster was a rage-sputter
ed “Stupid bitch!” right before she swung the cue at me as if she was Babe Ruth driving in a homer.
The air seemed to disappear from the room as everyone sucked in a breath. Logic and experience told them that Carol Ann was about to split my head wide open and probably be arrested for murder—or manslaughter at the very least—after which she’d no doubt end up as the head of her own prison girl gang with a few bitches willing to be at her beck and call in exchange for dubious protection from the other mean girls. It’d be a good step up for Carol Ann, an opportunity for her to take a strong leadership role in a way that she’d never been able to manage as a waitress at Jiggy Joe’s Truck Stop. She wasn’t a smart woman by any stretch, but with a little coaching she could pull off savvy, and after about five years she’d probably get paroled and maybe even go on to speak to underprivileged kids about anger management, being good, and staying in school. Hell, she might be held up as a positive role model—someone who made a terrible mistake in the heat of the moment and then turned her life around to become a good and decent upstanding member of society.
All that went through my head in a flash, followed by: Pool cue. Coming at my head. With the help of some good ol’ zombie speed I shifted my beer to my left hand, ducked under the stick, then came right back up and drove my right fist into Carol Ann’s double chin, killing forever her chances of becoming a reformed murderess. Well, maybe not forever. I doubted this would be the last time she flew off the handle and tried to split a head open.
The cue went flying out of her hand, and several people managed to dance out of its way before it smacked into Bubba Buzz Cut Guy’s shin. He let out a yelp and a curse as Carol Ann went down in a totally unattractive sprawl.
“And stay down, bitch!” I said, mostly for effect, since everyone seemed to expect me to say something in that vein. I shook my hand out, even though apparently I’d finally managed to learn how to punch without breaking my hand. That was a nice change. Sensei would be so fucking proud. Well, maybe not with the whole bar fight thing without a shred of jiu jitsu. He’d sigh and get that pained look on his face. But, hey, I’d even kept hold of my beer. Now that took skills that weren’t taught in a dojo.
I backed away to make room for the people taking cell phone pictures of Carol Ann as she moaned on the floor. I almost felt sorry for her before remembering that she had pretty much been the total aggressor and would’ve probably killed me if not for some sweet brain-charged action on my part. So, yeah, a few humiliating pictures on the internet wouldn’t kill her, though I did keep half an eye on her to make sure no one in this crowd took the wrong kind of advantage of her. Fortunately—since I really didn’t want to babysit the bitch—a couple of her girlfriends rushed over and scooped her up, and gave me reproachful and wary looks while they helped her stumble to the bathroom.
That’s right, darlin’. I’ll be the leader of my own girl gang.
A hard shove from behind put my internal revels to a harsh end, and I stumbled into a table, bruising my hips. Before I had a chance to react something hit me hard in the back around my left kidney, and in the next instant my vision went white as pain seared through me. And kept searing while I fought unsuccessfully to resist or jerk away or anything to get away from the source of the agony.
After several endless seconds the pain stopped as abruptly as a light going off. My legs buckled as much from the pain as from the sudden end of it, and I stumbled sideways to fall hard to the floor.
“And stay down, bitch!” a familiar voice sneered.
Stun gun, I realized as I fought to catch my breath. A lot like the time I was Tasered by Kristi Charish’s goons, though not quite as sucktastic. And the voice belonged to Debbie Stewart, another Carol Ann crony. I tried to turn to deal with her, but to my surprise Randy stepped between us. Good thing, since I wasn’t moving all that well.
“What the fuck you think you’re doing, Debbie?” Randy challenged.
I managed to push up to a swaying kneel, shifting enough to see Debbie with a stun gun in her hand and a defiant look on her face. Good thing Randy had my back since my left side was a mass of pins and needles thanks to her holding the stun gun on me for so long. If she’d tried to hit me again, there wasn’t a damn thing I could’ve done about it.
Debbie took a step back in the face of Randy’s anger, then jerked her chin up. “You saw what that narc whore did to Carol Ann!” she declared, a vicious gleam in her eyes. “We don’t take that shit around here.”
Seriously? I thought as I accomplished one knee up. Half the stains on the floor were from bar fights. This place was a staph infection’s wet dream.
