No Mercy Part 37

She thrashed.

I let her.

I whispered, "Stay away from me."

She thrashed some more.

I didn't care. I had a burning desire to get her to that elusive point right before she pa.s.sed out where she couldn't breathe. Where she thought she might die. And my apathetic eyes would be the last things she'd see.

"Mercy," he said my name sharply. "Let her go."

I removed my forearm. Laronda coughed and gasped, dropping to her knees, which I figured was a natural position for her.

It'd be smug and voyeuristic to watch her wheeze, so I faced John-John. "What?"

"What were you doing to her?"

"Um . . . punching her dance card?"

"Not funny." He leaned in to sniff my breath. "I oughta have Muskrat throw you out for that stunt."

"Do it. I don't give a d.a.m.n." I sidestepped him. The crowd granted me a wide berth as I headed back to my lonely bar stool.

At the bar I upended the remaining beer.

John-John edged up beside Muskrat. "Are you drunk?"

"Close." I hated the sympathetic look in his eyes. "You tossing me out?"

He shook his head.

"Good. Then bring me another round."

"I don't think-"

"Leave her be, John-John." Muskrat swapped the empty gla.s.s for a full one. "She's ent.i.tled."

For that, Muskrat deserved a big tip. I toasted him and blew him a kiss.

"So whatcha gonna do for fun next?" John-John asked. "Kick a few senior citizens?"

"Dance. Think any of these guys will give me a spin?"

Muskrat snorted.

"You could always use force. That seems to work for you."

"f.u.c.k off, John-John." I smiled meanly. "Then again, some guys prefer to be dominated, don't they?"

"I see you overdosed on vitamin b.i.t.c.h today," John-John shot back.

"Knock it off, both of you," Muskrat said.

"I'm just getting started." I twirled on my bar stool. Grabbed the first guy who walked past: a fifty-year-old biker with faded prison tats, and a gray soul patch around his hard mouth. "Wanna dance?"

His four teeth made his grin interesting, if not downright charming. "What the h.e.l.l. My old lady ain't here."

We danced. I drank. I found another willing victim to two-step to "Right or Wrong" by George Strait. Another fearless young Indian brave slow danced with me to Keith Urban's "Raining on Sunday." The partners and songs began to blur. Dancing didn't alleviate the too-tight feeling of my skin. The booze didn't diminish the ache in my soul.

When I returned to my seat for another shot, John-John placed his hand on my drinking arm. "Is this helping, doll? Because you don't look like you're having fun."

"I don't know what fun looks like anymore." I closed my eyes and knocked back a shot. It made me very, very dizzy. I was very, very loaded. I'd pa.s.sed the I love you, man stage and reached the my life sucks stage.

"Where were you before you decided to drink yourself into oblivion?"

"At Geneva's fortress of self-righteousness."

"Did you two have a fight?"

My soft laugh held a bitter edge. "Takes two to fight. She treated me to a diatribe." I s.h.i.+vered. The excessive alcohol had thinned my blood. Or, if I believed Geneva, I was already cold-blooded. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Let me know when you do." He slid a c.o.ke in front of me. "Can you take a break from straight shots?"

"I'd probably better."

I drank the soda. Ordered another. Took a break to rid myself of some of the booze, but I didn't run into Laronda in the bathroom. Maybe she'd slunk back underneath the rock she'd crawled out from.

The door blew open. Several soggy bikers stumbled in. Thunder rattled the rafters. Clementine's didn't have windows, so I couldn't tell if lightning accompanied the rain.

I dug out the Skoal Bandits and nestled it in my cheek. The weather fit my mood; I was sinking in my own little cesspool. I didn't notice the subdued noise level in the bar until he bulled his way in behind me.

"I need to talk to you."

Why did his deep voice cause a quiver in my belly? "Go away, Dawson."

"Talk to me here or I'll drag you to the office. Your choice."

"Your girlfriend called you, did she?"

"She's not my girlfriend."

The silence in the bar was short-lived.

"Did she whine to you about me being mean to her? Boo f.u.c.king hoo."

"Did you physically threaten her?"

"Yep." I still hadn't turned to look at him.

"Why?"

"Because I felt like it, that's why."

"This isn't helping."

"So? I don't give a rat's a.s.s. Slap the cuffs on or get away from me."

John-John was watching and listening from behind the cash register.

Dawson wrapped his hand around my upper arm. "Mercy-"

I whirled around. "Just because you kissed me does not grant you the right to touch me whenever you want, Dawson. Get your hand off me or I will break it."

John-John fumbled a lowball gla.s.s.

Dawson increased his grip. "Just because you kissed me doesn't grant you the right to blow me off when I want to talk to you in an official capacity, Gunderson. Laronda threatened to press charges, and there's a whole bar full of witnesses to back her up that you attacked her unprovoked. So if you don't want to end up in jail, listen to me."

"Unprovoked? Bull."

Dawson put his hot mouth against my ear. "Play along."

I snorted. "Like that'll happen."

"I'll haul you outside. We'll decide what to do from there, but you can't stay in here."

"Do I have to apologize to that phony b.i.t.c.h?"

"No."

"How do you know she won't follow us to make sure you're arresting me?"

"It's pouring outside. She's not gonna get her hairdo wet or else she'll look like a drowned cat. And if she presses the issue, I'll dissuade her."

It was bizarre, holding an intense conversation without making eye contact with him. "How? With your cowboy charm?"

"If I have to. Or I'll have you press charges against her for attempted vehicular a.s.sault."

That comment took a second to sink in. "You knew?"

"No, I didn't know, I figured it out. And I don't appreciate your acting so d.a.m.n surprised that I was doing my job."

"So why the h.e.l.l didn't you tell me that b.i.t.c.h tried to kill me-"

"Because you would've killed her." He paused. His rapid breathing stirred my hair; s.h.i.+vers cascaded from my scalp to my toes. "And she's not worth doing time for."

My head swam. From too much booze, too much anger, too many unanswered questions, and too many secrets. Dawson's deep voice whispering in my ear wasn't helping clear my mind. "You looking to throw me in jail for attempted a.s.sault?"

He made a noise, half growl/half laugh. "You? In a bed? Fifty feet from my office? With a door that locks? That's punis.h.i.+ng me, not you."

s.e.xual heat flashed through me, igniting a more dangerous edge than anger. My head said, "Not now," but I angled my face until his lips grazed my temple. "Dawson-"

"Dammit, Mercy. Don't do this. Don't say another word until we're out of here."

Before I could respond, he yanked me off my bar stool.

"Come on. Outside." He didn't bother to lower his voice.

"Let go of me."

Dawson dragged me through the gathering crowd.

I tried to twist out of his hold. "Keep your hands off. I didn't do anything."

"That's what they all say."

He herded me past the jukebox. I caught a glimpse of Laronda's puffy red hair and her Ches.h.i.+re grin. "Where are you taking me?"

"One guess."

I stopped. "I am not going to jail."

Dawson loomed over me and glared. "Move it. Outside."

I spun on my heel and marched to the door without looking back. My body pulsed with irritation. Burned my a.s.s to back down from Laronda. It went against everything I did. Everything I was. My job was to take down bullies, not to turn tail and run.

Outside, rain slapped my face. No wind, but it was pitch-black except for glints of lightning. The absence of light, the continual deluge, my inebriated state, and my bad eye were a bad combination. I stumbled through potholes that'd become mud puddles. I patted my pockets.

No keys.

A jagged line of lightning illuminated Dawson standing right in front of me. My heart jackhammered when he grabbed my shoulders. "Don't touch me."

"Tough s.h.i.+t. What is wrong with you?"

"Why don't you tell me? I'm sure you've compiled a mile-long list like everyone else in this G.o.dforsaken county."

His palms slid over my collarbones in a long caress up my neck to hold my face in his hands. Rain streamed down his cheeks, tiny droplets clung to the tips of his hair. "Talk to me."

"I can't."

He shook me a little. "No matter what I do or don't do, you still don't trust me. Why were you drinking yourself into the gutter and picking fights tonight?"

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do. Tell me."

Booze, nerves, fear, and frustration made me rant. "You wanna start with the dead bodies showing up at my place? Or that my nephew was murdered? Or that some b.a.s.t.a.r.d tried to burn down my house and barn? Or that someone broke into my home and a.s.saulted my sister? Or shall we skip to the part where I remind you that you're not doing your job, the job my father did with pride for years. The job my father handpicked you to do because he . . . couldn't do it anymore, and G.o.ddammit, I can't believe he's dead and I didn't get to say good-bye. I'm dealing with this s.h.i.+t by myself. Again. Why am I always the one left holding the G.o.dd.a.m.ned bag?" My breath hitched.

"Mercy-"