by Lucy Score
“For as many boyfriends as I have, you’d think I’d be seeing more action,” she said airily.
“Mmm.” It was the only thing he trusted himself to say.
“You’re not really mad, are you?” she asked. “It’s a good plan.”
It was a good plan. One he’d probably have come up with on his own, subbing Josie for Riley, of course.
“I’m not mad,” Nick lied. “I’m concerned.”
“You don’t think I can take care of myself?”
The woman had thrown herself down the stairs chasing a murderer with a hockey stick. “Have you ever taken a self-defense class?”
She nodded. “Of course. In Girl Scouts.”
Fuck. “Ever fired a gun?”
She shook her head.
He dropped his forehead to hers. “I don’t like the idea of you putting yourself in danger and me not being there to step in,” he said.
“Gabe will be there,” she said.
“Gabe is a muscly teddy bear. I want to be there.”
“Careful, Santiago. It almost sounds like you care.”
He grunted, then sighed.
“Fine. But you’re taking precautions.” He could teach her how to use a stun gun, give her a few self-defense lessons.
“I’ll carry condoms in my apron,” Riley joked.
“Har har. Smartass. When’s your first shift?”
“Monday night.”
She was going to be the death of him.
“I’ll get you some pepper spray tomorrow. You can practice using it on the Berlin Wall out there.”
“Mean.”
30
9:32 p.m., Monday, June 29
Riley was killing it in the fake boyfriend department. She had one in a skin-tight tank top stationed just inside the door of the bar and another probably pacing the floor of his office awaiting an emergency text just in case he needed to ride to the rescue.
Right now, the only rescuing Riley needed was getting Rod the bearded bartender to pour beers faster.
She’d waitressed in college in a dive bar and quickly rediscovered her groove. If one could find a groove on the sticky, uneven floor, dodging hairy-knuckled hands and streams of e-cigarette vapor.
Nature Girls seemed to have its own set of rules. There had been no crash course on the tap list. No employee handbook or HR policies, just an apron to wear over her micro miniskirt. No one asked her about the fading bruises on her arms and legs because no one actually gave a shit.
She started her shift with a minute-long lesson on the greasy register system from Betsy, a bleached-blonde, large breasted girl who seemed a little nervous. Her long, fake, yellow and black-checkered fingernails made it nearly impossible to use the touch screen.
“If you two are done playing school, I’ve got orders to send,” snarled the purple-haired server when she came up behind them.
Betsy went wide-eyed and clutched at her heart. “You scared the hell out of me, Liz!”
“Do I look like I give a good goddamn?” Liz sneered, fingers flying over the screen.
“Hi, guys!” A perky brunette with a polka dot bandana tied rakishly over her ponytail bounced up to them.
“Hey, Deelia,” Betsy said, her gaze on the door. Riley guessed she was probably staring at Gabe. It was hard not to.
“You must be the new girl,” Deelia said. She leaned in and gave Riley a surprise hug. “I’m Deelia, and I know we’re going to be amazing friends.”
“Shut the fuck up, Dee,” Liz said, pushing through their little circle to get to the bar.
“Love you, too, Lizard,” Deelia sang after her.
Deelia didn’t look like she belonged here. She looked like a cheerleader barely out of high school.
“This seems like a lot of servers to have on shift for a Monday night,” Riley observed. There were maybe twenty tables in the entire bar.
“Liz is supposed to be training you, which means you’re on your own anyway. Plus it’s numbers night,” Deelia said as if that explained everything.
“Numbers night?” Riley asked.
“Riley, you just holler if you need anything,” Betsy said vacantly, still watching the door. “I’ll be back in the office.”
“Betsy’s really good at math. Like freakishly good,” Deelia said cheerfully. “You wouldn’t know it to talk to her. But—Oh! Gotta go. I see some regulars!” The girl sashayed over to a table of menacing-looking men with shaved heads and denim jackets with the sleeves cut off. They greeted her like she was their own personal Homecoming Queen.
“Move your damn fat ankles and go get that table some refills,” Liz snapped as she sailed by with a tray full of empties.
Apparently Riley’s training was over.
Nature Girls wasn’t exactly a warm, fuzzy environment. But it also didn’t seem as life-threatening as Nick had made it out to be. Sure, when the yelling got a little loud, she reassured herself by touching the pepper spray in her apron. But no one had thrown any chairs through any windows yet.
It seemed like a typical dive bar.
Most of the clientele was more than a little rough around the edges. There were a few tables of bikers that appeared to be rivals. A few more of some blue-collar workers drinking off a long day. Besides Deelia, the only person who really looked out of place was a generically good-looking guy in navy slacks and a button-down with the sleeves rolled up. Some guys made that kind of look hot. This guy just looked like he was asking for your vote. He kept a baseball hat pulled low over his face.
Between taking orders, delivering plastic cups of cheap alcohol, and dodging groping hands, Riley paid attention. Everyone seemed unusually engrossed in the local racquetball tournament showing on the two screens behind the bar.
She also noticed that about every half hour or so, Betsy would come out and take what looked like a lot of cash from Rod behind the bar. A lot more than what should have been coming in for $2 drafts. She itched to text Nick with an update. Something fishy was definitely happening at Nature Girls.
She wondered if she’d made a mistake in tasking her spirit guides to play bouncer to her psychic visions. If maybe they would have been able to help her connect the dots.
The guy in the hat made a beeline for Betsy the next time she poked her head out of the swinging saloon doors that blocked the hallway to the restrooms and the office. Judging from the girl’s face—all dewy and nervous—this was who she’d been waiting for all night.
Riley got a break at 10:30 when the crowd started to thin out. The racquetball tournament was over, and the hardest drinkers had been poured into illegal taxis. There were only a dozen or so patrons left in the clouds of cigarette smoke and cheap alcohol fumes.
There was no actual kitchen here—not that she would have braved a food order from it. Just stale mixed nuts that God knew how many unsanitary fingers had been in. So she grabbed a soda and headed for an empty table.
“Bite me, Big Mike,” Liz snarled over her shoulder at a customer. “Walk your big ass up to the bar and get it yourself.” She flopped down in the chair Riley had been aiming for.
“Oh. Hi,” Riley said.
“Don’t bother getting comfortable here,” Liz said, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of her apron pocket and propping her feet up on the second chair Riley set her sights on. Most of the pins on Liz’s sash said some version of “Fuck You” and “Fuck Off.”
“Don’t mind her,” Deelia said with a sorority sister smile. “I think she has polycystic ovary syndrome, and it makes her cranky like all the time.” She pulled up two more chairs and gestured for Riley to take one.
“I told you, Dee,” Liz said, lighting a cigarette. “Stop with the Google diagnosing. I was born a raging bitch.”
Deelia leaned toward Riley and stage whispered, “Definitely PCOS.”
“PMS, smart ass,” Liz shot back.
“Whatever. I knew your rage was lady parts related,” Deelia said.
“Where’s Betsy?” Riley asked.
“She left,�
�� Liz snapped through a bad-tempered puff of blue smoke.
Riley did a cursory glance around the bar and noted the well-dressed guy was gone, too.
“So, who’s this dead Dickie guy?” Riley asked, taking what she hoped was a casual sip of her drink. “Some of the customers were talking about him.”
Deelia opened her mouth, looking like she was going to be helpful, but Liz shut her down. “Who’s asking? You a cop?”
Riley looked down at her belly-baring uniform. “Uh, do I look like a cop?”
“People who come in here asking questions are usually cops,” Deelia explained.
“Do you get a lot of trouble here?” Riley asked cautiously.
Deelia shrugged. “Some. Nothing Rod or Dickie—before he got murdered—couldn’t handle.”
“Dickie was murdered?” Riley feigned shock.
Liz snorted, then rotated the stud in her nose. “It happens. Who cares?”
“Did he get murdered here?” Riley pretended to look for crime scene tape and bloodstains.
“No, silly!” Deelia said with a wave of her manicured hand. “People mostly just get punched or sometimes stabbed here. And it’s hardly ever staff.”
Hardly ever. Oh, good.
“Guy got double-tapped in the head at his place,” Liz said, warming to the topic.
“Wow. Recently, right? I think I heard about it,” Riley said.
“Last weekend,” Deelia said, drawing a pretty pout on her lips with a lip gloss wand.
“Guy was a douche. He was basically running this place into the ground and playing around with some nickel and dime betting racket. Who the fuck cares who wins the Dauphin County Over 50 Ping Pong Tournament?” Liz spouted off, jabbing her cigarette in the direction of the bar.
Bingo!
“So someone murdered him over gambling?” Riley feigned concern.
Liz shrugged. “Nah. Probably just stuck his shriveled dick in the wrong vajayjay.”
Riley could tell her line of questioning was wearing thin with Liz. “So, if Dickie owned this place, and now he’s dead, what’s going to happen now that he’s gone? Are we all out of jobs?”
“Business as usual until we hear from Dickie’s partner,” Deelia chirped.
Ding ding ding. Winner winner, chicken dinner.
“If we hear from him,” Liz corrected.
“I’ve been here six months now,” Deelia calculated. “I’ve never seen the partner, just his creepy henchman.”
“That’s because he’s a silent partner,” Liz scoffed.
A silent partner and a creepy henchman? Now, that was a hot new lead. Riley quelled the urge to dance a celebratory boogie in her chair.
“Well, wouldn’t that mean I could see him, he just wouldn’t say anything?” Deelia challenged.
“No wonder you failed out of college.”
“I dropped out. Not failed out. And that’s because I was pregnant. If you don’t start being nicer, I’m taking you to the clinic so they can look at your ovaries,” Deelia shot back.
“Screw Dickie. And screw my ovaries. What I want to know is who’s Tall, Black, and Hot over there by the door?” Liz demanded.
Riley looked up, and Gabe waved to her with a toothy grin that disappeared as soon as he remembered he was supposed to look terrifying. She turned back to the girls. “Oh, him? He’s my boyfriend,” she said.
Liz looked at her with something besides annoyance and borderline disgust now. “How did you—” She gave Riley the once-over. “—land him?”
Every workplace had a Donna.
“I’m really amazing in bed,” Riley announced.
“Good for you! Me, too. That’s how I ended up knocked up,” Deelia said, with a little “what are you gonna do” shrug. She pulled out a phone in a pink, bedazzled case and thumbed through her photos showing Riley a few shots of a chubby toddler. “This is my little snuggle bug.”
“Put the turd maker away,” Liz said to Deelia. “What’s your story, Hot Guy’s Girlfriend?”
“Uh. Not much of a story. I divorced a cheating loser who took all my stuff and got me fired.”
“Men are fucking assholes,” Liz said, stubbing out her cigarette on the tabletop.
“Yo, ladies. Get off your asses,” Rod grumbled from behind the bar.
“Case in point,” Riley sighed.
Liz snorted in appreciation.
By midnight, they were left with a handful of die-hards. Riley was so busy trying not to think about how she had to get up in less than seven hours to go to her actual day job, she failed to dodge the fat hand with the knuckle tattoos that darted out.
Drunk Douche had been aiming for her ass and instead plowed his fingers straight into one of the bruises on her hip.
“Ow! Back off!” Her shouted order brought the rest of the bar to a screeching halt.
Douche thought it was funny and went in for another grab. And that’s when all hell broke loose.
Gabe started tossing tables, chairs, and a patron or two out of his way to get to her. The drunk customers took offense to being thrown like Scottish cabers. But Riley was too busy winding up to pay them any attention.
She swung her beer-soaked tray like a major league batter, catching the idiot in his yellow, gap-toothed grin. The tray connected with a satisfying fwap, and his head snapped back before tilting forward in slow motion.
“No touching,” she shouted over the noise, as the man’s forehead hit the table.
A chair flew past her head, and she ducked. Gabe arrived at her side and hefted the drunk like a sack of dirty, disgusting potatoes. “Perhaps you should take cover,” he suggested as a pint-sized man in a cowboy hat gave a “yee-haw” and launched himself onto a table of bikers.
The bar was a riot in progress. Patrons threw punches and plastic cups like it was the Wild West. Rod climbed over the bar and started swinging a stool like a club.
Riley crawled around the melee and snuck behind the bar.
“Oh, hi there,” Deelia greeted her. She and Liz were sitting cross-legged, drinking straight from a bottle of cheap tequila. “Want a drink?”
“Sure. Why not?” She was definitely getting fired for this. Nick was going to be pissed. And he was definitely going to say he told her so. “Does this happen often here?” she asked, scooting closer. She spotted the shotgun wedged under the bar top and wondered what kind of trouble would warrant a gun instead of a stool.
Liz swiped the back of her hand over her mouth and passed Riley the bottle. “Once or twice a month.”
She took a drink and congratulated herself on not gagging. She wiggled the bottle at Deelia, but the girl wrinkled her nose. “Hand me the Fireball, will you?” she asked, pointing at a bottle above Riley’s head.
There was a loud crash followed by a meaty thud. Riley thought she saw an airborne body fly through the saloon doors into the hallway. There was no sign that the battle was slowing. She hoped Gabe was okay. On the outside, he was a big, intimidating guy. But on the inside, he was a teddy bear.
Crouching, she peeked over the bar. She spotted her second fake boyfriend holding one of the bikers at arm’s length with one hand on his forehead. The little guy in the cowboy hat dangled six inches off the floor from Gabe’s left hand.
Gabe looked like he was enjoying himself. Rod, on the other hand, looked even more pissed off. He held one guy by his scraggly beard while kicking another one in the leg.
Reaching for the bottle, Riley quickly scanned the area for any notebooks labeled “Dickie’s Illegal Gambling Book.” No such luck. Just a stack of mail. She wondered if Betsy had taken it into the back office.
A plastic cup sailed in her direction, and she ducked, dragging the bottle and half of the envelopes next to the register down with her.
“Dammit!” An arc of warm beer soaked her hair and shoulders before splattering onto the papers that littered the floor.
“Don’t worry. Beer is great for your hair,” Deelia said, crawling forward to take the whiskey bottle f
rom Riley.
Liz lit a cigarette and stretched her legs out in front of her. “You’re totally fired, by the way,” she said.
“Me? Why?” Riley asked innocently. She grabbed one of the less filthy bar towels and mopped at her hair. One of the pieces of mail on the floor caught her eye, and her pulse quickened.
Someone must have hit the jukebox because “Ring of Fire” cut off mid-chorus and “Straight to Hell” by Darius Rucker kicked on.
Riley waited until Deelia handed Liz the Fireball before stuffing the envelope into her apron pocket.
“You started the fight,” Deelia said with a wince. “Now we won’t get tips on all those open tabs.”
One of the smaller tables flew over the bar, hit one of the ancient TVs, and landed next to Riley.
“Oops. Sorry,” she said.
Riley tried the knob on the mansion’s front door and rolled her eyes when she found it unlocked.
“I’ve never been in an altercation before,” Gabe said behind her. “I found it exhilarating.”
She looked over her shoulder at him. His black tank top and pants were as spotless as they’d been at the beginning of the night. She, on the other hand, was a beer-bedraggled mess. Her hair hung limply over her forehead. An entire beer could probably be wrung out of her stained blouse. And she’d managed to scratch her leg down one thigh on a broken chair arm scrambling to get out of the bar.
“How is it that I’m the one who looks like she was in a bar fight?” she asked, stepping into the dark foyer.
“Better question. How is it you’re texting me that everything’s fine when I’m listening to reports of a fight at Nature Girls on the police scanner?”
Riley gave a little shriek.
The foyer lights flicked on, and she found herself face-to-face with a pissed-off Nick.
“What are you doing here?” she said, hoping her heart would restart at any second.
“What in the hell happened to you?” he demanded, taking her by the shoulders.
“Nothing. I’m fine. Everything’s fine,” she said.
He sniffed then leaned in closer. “Are you drunk?” he asked, taking another whiff.