Lori Armstrong - Mercy Kill

The shenanigans might’ve amused me if I’d been partaking of the craziness. Two couples were playing musical make-out chairs. When the jukebox stopped, they’d switch partners. The guys from the dart league enjoyed watching the wife-on-wife portion of the swap.

Unluckily for us, members of the Use It or Lose It bunco club made good on their motto to play bunco from “every church hall to every pool hall” in our fair county. When Winona explained we didn’t serve daiquiris, the ladies ordered gin and tonics by the pitcher-and that was worse. A game of strip bunco ensued with Vinnie and his gang. I no more wanted to see the bunco ladies’ saggy boobs flapping in the wind than I wanted to see hairy biker asses sliding on bar stools that I had to wipe down.

I almost said screw it to John-John’s no-drinking-on-shift rule right then and there.

Several college kids instigated a beer-pong tournament. Lefty, a crusty rancher who’d last spoken to me when I was a sixteen-year-old with a wild streak and a fast truck, joined the fun. Happy as it made the old coot to be winning, color me glad the vomit-inducing game was held close to the bathrooms.

A cluster of young cowboys wearing big buckles and big attitudes sauntered in. They loaded up on cheap beer, eventually wandering to the back room, where the construction workers shot pool. The single women immediately followed-not that I blamed them. Before too long I was inundated with orders for blow jobs.

John-John and I managed to keep straight faces for thirty seconds. And I thought I could be crude? John-John let loose a barrage of lewd comments that’d make a porn star blush. Even a gay porn star.

By nine o’clock I’d changed out the kegs seven times.

A group of Indian bikers wearing matching club jackets snagged a table in the corner, where they could monitor the entire bar. Talk about an air of entitlement. Winona rolled her eyes at their impatient finger snaps. Maybe in their normal hangout, bar staff afforded them reverence, jumping at their classy finger-popping attention getters. Not in Clementine’s. The governor could grace us with his presence and the wait-your-fucking-turn attitude wouldn’t change a lick.

When Kit McIntyre ambled in, the phrase “cowboys and bikers and dickheads, oh my” flitted into my head. Ol’ White Hair stopped to schmooze with the drunken bunco ladies before bellying up to the bar. “Hey, Mercy. Where’s Muskrat?”

It stuck in my craw, making nice with Kit, but he dropped a pile of cash in Clementine’s, so my personal issues went the way of the dinosaur while I was on duty. “He has the night off.”

“So you’re the bouncer?”

“Me ’n’ John-John. Why? You planning on causing problems?”

“With you on duty? Hell no.” His greasy smile didn’t reach his snake eyes. “We both know you got no problem kicking ass-mine especially.”

“Did you come in specifically to flatter me? Or is there something else you need?”

“I’ll take a pitcher of Miller Lite and a half-dozen cups.”

I shoved a pitcher under the tap. “You guys having another pipeline meeting?”

“No. It’s a strategy meeting for Bill O’Neil’s campaign committee.”

“And you’re meeting here?” Clementine’s was a rough bar. Most respectable folks with money, influence, or both steered clear.

“A last-minute change. Had no idea you’d be so busy tonight.”

Leon Tasker, a rancher with a low tolerance for bullshit and a high tolerance for bourbon, scowled at Kit. “Don’t know why in the devil Bill threw his hat in the ring in the first place. He’s too damn old to be sheriff.”

“Says the man who asked me for a senior citizen’s discount last week,” I said dryly.

Kit chuckled.

“I’m surprised you’re backing a losing candidate, McIntyre,” Leon said.

“Maybe Bill ain’t ideal, but he’s got a better grasp on what’s best for people in this county than Dawson does.”

“Think that’s enough to win votes?”

“Mebbe. I guess we’ll see soon enough.” Kit snagged the pitcher. “Any other guys come in here looking for the meeting, send ’em back, will ya?”

“How will I know who they are?”

“Easy. They’ll be wearing the hangdog look of defeat.”

The door opened again, disgorging another cluster of partiers, and I groaned. Seemed everybody in the damn county had shown up tonight.

Lost in thought, I glanced up at the new customer who’d taken Kit’s spot at the bar next to Leon.

Hello, Gorgeous. Talk about being a credit to his Native American ancestry-this guy was Hollywood hot. Built, too. His face was stunning, all sharply chiseled features plus full, pouty lips that should’ve looked ridiculous on a man, but were sexy as sin. His eyes weren’t dark, like the blackstrap molasses color of his hair, but the honeyed hue of cognac.

Mr. Tall, Dark, and Indian earned a genuine smile from me. “What can I get you?”

“A double shot of Crown and a glass of water.”

“Coming right up.”

I felt his gaze on me as I poured the whiskey. He hadn’t been in before; I definitely would’ve remembered him. “You want to start a tab or settle up now?”

“A tab.”

“No problem.” I busied myself at the other end of the bar. Chatting up customers wasn’t my thing. Luckily, the majority of our clientele were loners who came in to knock back a drink or ten without the social niceties.

Winona did a double take seeing the brooding male sexpot classing up the joint. She turned her head, mouthing “Oh my God,” and fanned herself with the tray.

I muttered, “Tell me about it. So whatcha need?”

“A pitcher of Coors Light and three double shots of Chivas. Pronto.” She scowled. “What kind of asshole says pronto ? I wish they’d stop coming in here.”

“Who? Those matching-jacket guys?”

She nodded.

“First time I’ve seen them.”

“Consider yourself lucky.”

Winona didn’t flirt with our good-looking stranger while I filled her order-another reason I liked her. She wasn’t working as a cocktail waitress to pick up guys.

I kept an eye on the door to see what respectable citizens deigned to cross our dirty threshold in support of Bill. A few of my neighbors ducked in. The bar filled with people I didn’t know. Twenty years can change the makeup of a community entirely.

John-John scooted next to me. “How’s the meeting going?”

“The guest of honor hasn’t shown up yet.”

“It’s probably past old Bill’s bedtime.” He frowned. “Don’t know how I feel about Clementine’s becoming a meeting place. Don’t any of those people know that Dawson is a regular customer?”

“I guess not.”

“Be funny as hell if he walked in and saw exactly who was plotting his downfall, eh?”

I bumped him with my shoulder. “Hey, don’t be wishing for trouble, since I’m the bouncer tonight.”

John-John gave me a sly look. “Neither of us would mind bouncing on the hot dude at the end of the bar, who is trying very hard not to listen to our conversation.”

“And you know that… how?”

“Years of experience, doll.”

“Wanna start touting your blow-job expertise again?”

He smoothed his hands down his leather vest. “I’ve never been one to brag. Besides, he’d rather have a blow job from you than from me.”

I laughed. Hard. I shot Mr. Indian Hottie a sideways glance. He was not so amused.

Bill O’Neil came in, bolting into the back room without so much as a friendly wave.

And the night was just getting weirder and weirder.

With the sundry mix of clientele, Trey’s appearance shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did piss me off. I said, “Kit’s in the back room.”