Lori Armstrong - No Mercy

He must’ve sensed my murderous intentions because he disappeared.

Muskrat lifted a brow.

I threw my keys at him. “Don’t let me drive.”

“You got it. Whatcha drinking?”

“Two shots of Cuervo. In single glasses.”

“Lime?”

“No.”

Muskrat lined them up. I worked my way from left to right until they were empty. Took two minutes, tops.

“More?”

“Just one. And a pitcher of Bud Light.”

The golden liquid went down the hatch before Muskrat finished pulling the pitcher.

He slid an empty pilsner glass in front of me and I said, “Good man.”

“Anything else?”

“Does the jukebox take fifties?”

“Twenties.”

I dug a wad of money from my purse. Peeled off a hundred and handed it over. “Then I need change.”

“You wanna start a tab?”

“Yeah.” I peeled off another hundred. “Tell me when I’ve used this up.”

Muskrat frowned at the cash.

“What? If you tell me my money’s not good here, I’ll get shitfaced someplace else, Muskrat.”

“Your money is good, Mercy.”

“Then what?”

“Nothing.” He punched buttons on the cash register and passed me five twenties in change. “Pick something good.”

“Dwight, George, and Gretchen coming right up.”

He sort of smiled.

I played every song I loved, liked, and the stuff making the rounds on country radio. A Benjamin buys a lot of tunes. I parked my ass back on the stool, glaring at the bowl of soggy pretzels Muskrat not so subtly placed by the pitcher. “What the hell is this?”

“A buffer before your next round.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

Muskrat gave me a flinty-eyed stare.

A measure of guilt made me amend, “Works for me.”

I crunched pretzels, sang along to “Little Sister,” and drank. And drank some more. I leaned across the bar. “You sure you didn’t water down that tequila? ’Cause I don’t feel anything.”

“You will.”

I drained the last of my beer. Looked around.

Interesting crowd. No one I knew. Maybe it was time to make new friends since I was a pariah to the few I had.

Even Geneva had turned on me. I could understand her wanting to protect Molly, but she didn’t have to go off on me with such a vicious, personal attack. Fuck that. Fuck her. Fuck everyone on the whole fucking planet.

The tequila hit me like a donkey kick to the head.

Thank God. Rarely did I purposely pursue a falling-down drunk, but when I did I wanted instant gratification.

I sucked down a glass of beer to ensure I wouldn’t sober up in the next ten minutes.

More folks crowded in.

My gaze landed on a young, buff cowboy at the end of the bar. Mmm. Mmm. Mmm.

He lifted his head.

Ooh. Check out those baby blues.

He smiled.

I went one better and crooked my finger at him.

He sauntered over. Hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of his skintight Wranglers so I could see his Badlands Circuit Rodeo Champion belt buckle.

“Hey there, darlin’,” I said, full of tequila charm.

“Hey there, yourself.”

“Nice buckle.”

“Thanks.”

“How long it take you to win it?”

He grinned. “Four years.”

“Still rodeoing?”

“Now and again.” His smile dimmed. “So, didja call me over to hear my roping and riding stats? Or for something else, sugar?”

“Actually I need a dip. Whatcha got?”

“Skoal.”

“Flavored?”

“Hell no.”

“Bandits?”

“Bandits and Long Cut.”

“Bandits it is.”

He reached in his back pocket and pulled out a can. Popped the lid open, held it out, and the smoky scent of tobacco wafted up.

I picked a pouch and slid it back by my left molars. I couldn’t stand to have chew under my lip. The tang of mint and tobacco burst in my mouth. I fell into that category of “social” tobacco users; I could take it or leave it. “Thank you… what’d you say your name was?”

“I didn’t. But it’s Riley.”

“Thanks, Riley.”

“My pleasure.”

He didn’t ask my name and I didn’t offer. “Whatcha drinking?”

“Jack and Coke.”

I motioned to Muskrat. “My friend Riley here needs a Jack and Coke.” I poured myself another beer from the pitcher.

Gretchen Wilson belted out “One Bud Wiser.”

“Do you believe in karma, Riley?” His pretty, smooth brow wrinkled with confusion. Probably didn’t know what karma meant. No matter. I gifted him with my party-girl grin. “Never mind. Let’s dance, cowboy.”

We stopped in front of the jukebox. I led until he got over whatever made him uneasy. Then we did a jitterbug/two-step combo. Whoo-ee. The kid could move. Must’ve looked like we were having fun because two other couples joined us.

Yeah, I’m a real trailblazer.

While Martina McBride warbled a sappy tune, we knocked back our drinks. Riley kept sneaking strange looks at me. I suspected ol’ blue eyes wanted to scamper off, but was scared I’d toss him on his ass if he tried to escape my evil clutches. Smart man. Still, it wasn’t my thing to force him to stay in my company, so I cut him some slack. “Could I get another Bandit? For the road?”

Riley offered his can again. “You leaving?”

“No. I don’t want to monopolize your time.” I dropped the extra pouch in my shirt pocket. “Thanks for the dip.”

“Thanks for the drink.”

He had a nice ass. Lewd, but I openly ogled that fine bit of Wrangler-clad flesh as he strutted out the door. I sucked down my draft, feeling my thirty-eight years. Truth was, he was too young for me. Too green. I needed a man with at least a couple years of a steady sexual relationship under his big belt buckle. A man who knew his way around a woman’s body. A man with stamina.

Someone like Dawson.

“Fuck that,” I said out loud to shut up the smarmy voice inside my head.

“You’d like to fuck that. Too bad your luck ain’t holding.”

I didn’t respond. Just drank. Steadily.

Laronda slithered into the space next to me. The gold bracelets on her arms clattered like a rattlesnake’s tail as she waved down Muskrat.

Her overprocessed hair brushed my cheek like a piece of cheap carpet. Too bad I didn’t smoke. One flick of the Bic and her starched mane would flame up like underbrush in August.

“Maybe it’s not bad luck. Maybe it’s your attitude.”

“Fuck off, Laronda.” I reached for an empty ashtray.

“Then again, maybe it is your age.”

“You want to go a round or two with me tonight?”

“No. I was taught to respect my elders.”

Shake it off , some helpful voice inside my head suggested. I didn’t listen. I spit a stream of tobacco juice. It missed the ashtray and splashed on her manicured hand.

“Watch it!” Her gaze narrowed until her ratlike eyes nearly disappeared. Her laugh rang as phony as every other thing decorating her person. “You are a class act. No wonder you’re sitting here alone glaring at your beer.”

After she paid for her vodka sour, she sashayed away to dick with someone else.

The alcohol soaked in. On my return from the bathroom, I paused to observe a game of darts in the back room. Barely thirty seconds passed before I smelled her. Coating her slimy skin with cheap perfume wouldn’t mask the venom in her blood. I waited for her to open her big trap and her forked tongue to emerge.

It didn’t take long.

“I suspected you’d be back here trolling.”

“You would know all about that.”

“Ooh. Meow. You are an old sourpuss, aren’t you?”

Jesus. I needed another drink, and I was already three sheets to the wind. I started to walk away.

“Hey, I’m talking to you.”