Erica Spindler: Bone Cold

Terry flushed. “This is just f’cking wonderful. Outstanding. My best friend’s telling me he—”

“Eight in the corner.”

They turned and watched as the other player nailed the shot.

“Rerack?” he asked.

“Screw it. The table’s yours.” Terry looked at Quentin. “I need a drink.”

The last thing his partner needed was another drink. But stating the obvious would serve no purpose but anger the other man. They left the pool room and headed out front.

In the twenty or so minutes he’d been in back, the crowd in the bar had doubled. Quentin saw a number of their fellow officers, his brothers Percy and Spencer among them. They caught sight of him and started over.

“What do you say we get out of here and go grab some grub? I’ll ask Percy and Spencer along.”

“Hell no.” Terry’s words slurred. “The night’s young. Ripe with possibil… Hey now, who do we have here?”

Quentin shifted his gaze in the direction Terry indicated. A woman in a spandex minidress was shaking it on the floor. She wore her bottle-enhanced red hair long, in a mass of tousled waves. As she danced, she moved her fingers through it, her gold bangle bracelets jangling as she did. It wasn’t clear if she was dancing with one man, several or just putting on a show for them all.

And a show it was; a number of bar patrons had already gathered around to watch. Quentin and Terry joined them.

After a moment, Quentin glanced at his partner. “I don’t know, Terry, she looks—”

“She looks good. Damn good.”

What Quentin had been about to say was, this woman didn’t look the type to be messed with. She didn’t look like the type who would go around with cops, except on the sly. Not exactly a rich bitch, but a climber. One of those women who valued prestige, position and Armani suits.

She would choose to hang out with the guys who could give her those. A cop could not. Tonight, obviously, she’d gone slumming.

His brothers made it across the bar. Percy spoke first. “What’s happening, big bro? Hey, Terry.”

Quentin glanced at his brothers. The family resemblance between the two brothers was marked: both possessed the trademark Malone blue eyes and dark, curly hair. Percy, however, had yet to grow into his lanky six foot three frame and Spencer, the street-brawler, had the profile of a prize fighter who had taken one too many pops to the nose. “Currently I’m trying to stop my partner from making an ass of himself.”

The younger Malones followed Quentin’s gaze. Percy grinned. “She’s hot, no doubt about it. You feel like being burned, Terror?” he asked, using the nickname Terry had earned his first year on the force. “Spencer here went down in flames ten minutes ago.”

“No comment,” Spencer muttered, sending his brother an irritated glance.

Terry smoothed back his hair. “Watch a professional at work, fellas.”

The three Malone brothers hooted. “I don’t know,” Quentin called after him, “you’ve been out of circulation awhile.”

Terry glanced back at the other men, his grin cocky. “Once a lady-killer, always a lady-killer.”

Even three sheets to the wind, Terry was indeed, a lady-killer. Tall and lanky, with the dark hair, eyes and patois-on-demand of his Cajun ancestors, Terry cut a damn dashing figure. Quentin gave him a better than fifty-fifty chance.

His friend sauntered over to the woman and began swaying with her to the music, moving in close. She turned her back to him, not missing a beat of the music.

Terry glanced over. Quentin grinned and mimicked a plane going down with his right hand. Percy and Spencer chuckled.

Terry didn’t give up. He tried again. Again she made it clear she wasn’t interested, this time more pointedly.

The third time, she didn’t waste time on subtlety. She stopped dancing, looked him squarely in the eyes and told him to get lost. As she spun away, she shook her spandex-encased hips, as if taunting Terry with what he couldn’t have.

Far from deterred, Terry swaggered back to his friends. “She wants me. No doubt about it.”

The three men howled. Spencer leaned toward Terry. “First round—woman one, The Terror zip.”

Quentin shook his head. “Give it up, partner. The lady’s not interested.”

Terry laughed. “She’s playing hard to get. You just watch, she’ll come around.”

“Yeah, she’ll come around, all right. To slapping your face.” Percy looked at Quentin. “Why don’t you give her a try, bro. Turn that legendary smile of yours on her.”

“No thanks.” Quentin took a swallow of his beer. “I like my ego intact, thank you.”

“Yeah, right.” Spencer looked at Terry. “You ever hear the story about cute little Miss Davis? She was Quentin’s English teacher his senior year of high school.”

“Oh, please,” Quentin muttered. “Not this story again.”

Terry sank onto a bar stool, signaling Shannon for another drink. “I don’t believe I have. Fill me in.”

“Well,” Spencer continued, “seems big bro here didn’t spend enough time in class cracking the books and had earned himself a big fat F.”

“Things looked grim,” Percy embellished. “Not graduating with his class. Summer school. Dad kicking his ass. The whole bit.”

Terry yawned. “Is this story actually going somewhere? “

The two younger brothers grinned. “Rumor has it,” Spencer said, “that after a couple of private meetings with pretty Miss Davis, that F jumped to a C. Just like magic.”

“Some magic. He used that devil smile on her, the one that—”

“Devil smile? Give me a break.” Quentin rolled his eyes.

Ignoring Quentin, Spencer picked up where Percy had left off. “Even though he won’t talk, he used more than the smile, my men. Trust me.”

“That true, partner?” Terry lifted his eyebrows. “You sweet-talk yourself into a diploma?”

Quentin scowled at the three, annoyed at his brothers for bringing up that story and with himself for being such a screwup. It was damn embarrassing to be a grown man best known for his high school conquests with the opposite sex. “Grow up, boys. Get a life.”

The men hooted in amusement; the night progressed. And as it did, Terry’s determination to score with the redhead grew. As did her determination that he not.

To Quentin it seemed as if the woman was making a game out of teasing Terry. Out of taunting him. She danced with every guy who asked her, sometimes two at a time—everyone but his partner. It was as if she wanted to see how far she could push him.

Not much farther, Quentin realized as his friend’s mood shifted from cocky to angry and belligerent.

Quentin saw trouble ahead.

It came sooner than later.

“Excuse me?” the redhead said loudly, swinging to face Terry. “Do you have a problem?”

“Yeah, baby,” he slurred, “I have a problem. The guy you’re dancing with is a stiff. Come on over here and get a taste of a real man.”

Quentin tensed as the other man flushed and curled his hands into fists. The woman laid a hand on her dance partner’s arm and raked her gaze scathingly over Terry. “In your dreams, loser. Got that? Not now, not ever. Get lost.”

Terry’s mouth curled into a sneer and Quentin muttered an oath. He nudged his brother Spencer, who was in a conversation with Shannon. “We may have trouble. Get Percy.” He started for the dance floor.

“You heard the lady,” the woman’s dance partner said, stepping forward. “She’s not interested. Beat it.”

Terry ignored the man, his full attention—and fury—focused on the woman. “What did you call me?” he asked, loud enough to be heard across the bar. A ripple moved through the crowd.

“You heard me, cop.” She held up her right hand, shaping thumb and forefinger into an L. “Loser. With a capital L.”