“What’d they do now?” I pass him the joint, and he takes a long drag off it before slowly blowing it out.
“Not they, just the little punk. I asked for a beer and he brought me a fucking light beer. Who the fuck drinks that shit? Why do we even stock the crap?”
I grin. “The chicks like it.”
“Whatever.”
“So the little punk pissed in your Cheerios, and your gonna take it out on all of ’em?”
“You know me, I go from zero to fuck everybody real quick.”
I chuckle.
He takes another toke and passes it back to me. I wave it off. “I’m headin’ out. You keep it.”
“You goin’ home?” Bash asks.
“Yeah.” I move to my bike.
“You got that shit with Mooney’s sorted out yet?”
“Workin’ on it.” I strap on my helmet and swing my leg over the seat.
“Let me know if you need any help with that. I hear she’s a real looker.”
I shake my head, laughing. “Piss off.”
“Later, brother.” He turns to head back inside.
I look back. “Hey, Bash.”
“Yeah?” He pauses.
“Leave us at least one prospect alive, will ya? I need my bike washed.”
He grins and flips me off.
I fire the bike up and roar off.
Rolling through town, heading home, the route takes me past Mooney’s Pub. It’s got to be almost half past eleven when I cruise by, expecting to see the lights off. It’s rare on a Tuesday for them not to be closed up and gone before eleven, but tonight’s game was part of opening day for baseball, so maybe that’s what’s kept them crowded later.
Winning big on the earlier game has me in a good mood, except for the thoughts that’ve been nagging at me since I saw Michaela out with that jerk earlier tonight.
Climbing out of Stanfield’s fucking Mercedes was the last place I expected to see her. I can’t help but wonder when he made a move on her.
I remember seeing him at the cemetery the day of the funeral but never gave it more than a passing thought. Hell, half the town came out for Cullen’s funeral.
Now I’m beginning to wonder if he wasn’t there for more than to simply pay his respects. Man like him, there’s always an ulterior motive. I just don’t trust that guy.
I notice the front door open and two employees hustle a customer out of the bar. As he jerks out of their grasp and spins to curse at them, I slow down and recognize his face. It’s the dude Michaela threatened with a bat.
They both walk back inside, lock the door, and turn off the neon bar signs. When I roll to the curb and stop, the only car I see is the one around the corner. I’m sure it’s this guy’s.
He stalks to it as I dismount my bike and step up on the sidewalk.
That’s when I hear him grumble, “That fucking bitch,” before he gets in his car and slams his hand against the wheel. I can see his face is a mask of anger, and he’s yelling shit, but I can’t decipher any of it.
I lean against the building in the shadows and watch him. There’s no movement to start the car or back out of the spot, so I continue to wait. He’s sitting there a long time, and just when I’m beginning to wonder if he’s passed out, I can finally make out that his eyes are wide open, that he’s clearly awake.
Eventually the other employees leave, and I watch their vehicles pull out of the alley onto the side street and drive off. If any of them notice the jerk in the car, they don’t slow or stop.
I light up a smoke and catch the lights come on in the window of the upstairs apartment.
I think about my options: I could wait until a patrol car comes by to see if he checks out the car; I could stick around and make sure this guy takes off, or I could go over there and take care of it myself. One thing I’m not doing for certain is leaving, knowing Michaela is upstairs alone.
It didn’t take me long to realize she was living above the bar. I’ve seen her through the window as we’ve ridden past a few times late at night.
I drop my cigarette and grind it beneath my boot, deciding to handle it myself. Just as I do, his door opens and he steps out.
I still, keeping an eye on him. He’s got something long in his hand, possibly a tire iron.
He moves toward the alley, and I know he’s only got two destinations: either the back door of the bar or the apartment. I follow him, not caring what his target is, because he’s not gonna get near either one.
When I round the corner of the alley, he’s moving toward Michaela’s car. Of course—her car—that’s one target I overlooked.
He lifts his arm and swings before I can make it to him. The side window explodes under the force, which immediately sets off the car alarm.
I reach him in time to jerk the tire iron from his hand as he tries to take another swing. He whirls around, and as I shove him against her car, I toss the tire iron and it clatters on the pavement. If I’m going to jail for assault, it’s gonna be with my fists, not a deadly weapon. Learned that the last time around.
He gets one good punch in before I go to work on him.
I slam my fist into his face, repeatedly, until he slides to the ground, unconscious.
I glance up and see Michaela at the window of her back door. She opens it when she recognizes me.
“Oh, my God. What are you doing?”
My chest is heaving as I stare up at her. “He was vandalizing your car.”
She meets me half way on the stair landing. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Is he? You didn’t kill him, did you?”
“Nah, he’s just unconscious.” I wipe the dripping blood from my lip.
“You’re bleeding.”
“Asshole got in one good punch before I decked him.”
She frowns. “What are you doing here?”
“I was riding past. Saw your employees taking him out the door, and he wasn’t happy about it, so I stopped to make sure he left without causing trouble. He got in his car but never drove off, so I hung around, waiting for him to leave. Lucky I did. He had other plans. He smashed out your car window with a tire iron. Sorry, I didn’t get to him in time to stop him.”
“Why would he do that?”
“You tell me. Something happen tonight?”
“He was being a jerk about leaving. Phil told me that he banned him from the bar when he got unruly. Tonight’s not the first time he’s caused trouble up here.”
“I can run him off or you can call the sheriff to deal with him. How you want to play it, babe?”
“I’ll call the sheriff. I’ll need to make a report about the damage to my car for insurance.”
“I think I better stay with you until he gets here. I don’t want this dude coming to and attacking you.”
I wait while she calls, making sure the asshole doesn’t move. He’s actually been unconscious a while now, and I’m beginning to wonder if I did more damage than I thought.
It takes the sheriff about three minutes to arrive. We hear his sirens in the distance.
I explain the situation, and the sheriff takes one David Armstrong into custody.
After they leave, I stand outside with Michaela.
“Thank you,” she murmurs. “Are you sure you don’t want any ice or something for your lip?”