No Saint

by Mallory Kane

  “Hey, Sin-city, let’s go,” Nina, one of the waitresses, called out as she picked up a huge tray laden with drinks and deftly moved among the tables in her platform heels, never spilling a drop.

  “Relax, Nina, I’m here.” Lusinda signed in on the computer.

  “Hey, Bobby,” she called out to the painfully shy boy who was stacking glasses on a shelf. “Could you put my bag under the counter? They’re groceries. I couldn’t make them fit into my locker.”

  Bobby nodded without speaking.

  “Thanks, hon,” she said, which made him blush as he went back to stacking glasses. The first day she’d met Bobby, Lusinda had asked Darla about him.

  “Oh, honey,” Darla had cooed. “Of course he’s underage. But if you think about it, all he’s doing is handling glasses and boxes. He’s just working. He’s not drinking.” Darla’s tone told Lusinda that what Bobby did or didn’t do was not her problem.

  As Lusinda finished signing in, she took a look at Rick, who was working the bar. His black hair was carelessly slicked back and a bored frown marred his face as he strained a strawberry margarita into a glass for a guy who seemed to have a few too many sweat glands. A woman in a sleeveless dress that emphasized the crepey flesh on her arms was waving a vapor cigarette and flirting with him as he swiped condensation off the bar.

  Nina twirled her empty tray as she sidled up to Lusinda. “Hey, girl, check out the new guy.” She took Lusinda’s place at the computer and entered an order.

  “Yep,” Lusinda said, trying to sound uninterested.

  “What? You don’t go for the lean and hungry type?” Nina asked. “Good, ’cause I do. Look at those abs and the biceps—whoa.”

  Lusinda felt heat climbing up from her neck to her face. She couldn’t tell Nina that she had not only seen the abs and biceps, she’d felt them, thanks to her overeager descent down the stairs that had resulted in her tripping and falling on him. She’d felt them and—more. Her mouth went dry and a shiver slid through her.

  “Whassup?” Nina asked. “Are you getting sick?”

  “No. Just got a lot on my mind. He really is a—a hunk.” She gave Nina a small smile, which earned her an odd look.

  “Okay, whatever,” Nina said. “Hurry up. I’m swamped. You’ve got tables seventeen through thirty-two.”

  “Half the house? You mean there’s only two of us?” Lusinda asked, but Nina’s attention was on Rick. He was filling her order and Nina had eyes for no one but him. The whole time he was mixing drinks, Nina leaned forward so her arms pushed the tops of her breasts together, and she whispered to him. He nodded and shrugged and, it seemed to Lusinda, finished the order as fast as he could.

  As Lusinda headed to the table filled with the most impatient customers, she laughed to herself. With his face and body, and his attitude, Rick was doomed. Before another hour passed, he’d have people fawning over him as though he was the Pied Piper. She wondered if he knew how irresistible his bored, detached scowl and his dark, hooded eyes were.

  Of course he did. As she took drink and dinner orders and served them, doing her best to dodge languid dancers and people milling about talking to each other, she reminded herself of who he was, why she was here and how much she was not fooled by his too-cool attitude.

  People kept coming in and eventually, she and Nina were forced to squeeze in between customers to get to the computer to place their orders. Lusinda inserted herself between a rough man with sweat stains on his shirt and a boy with dreadlocks. The man ignored her. The boy leaned away, frowning. He had cheek tattoos and large ear gauges. She nudged his ribcage with her tray, a trick Nina had taught her. With a mumbled curse, he stepped backward.

  “Thanks,” she called with false cheeriness as she set her tray down with a clatter and entered the drink order into the computer. Rick had barely acknowledged her all evening, but she’d been watching him. He moved with a confident ease that surprised her, considering that he was a cop, not a bartender. She noticed that he kept his phone on the counter behind him and consulted it often. He was looking up how to make the drinks.

  “Rick,” she called out. He glanced up at her with the same small frown he’d had for her all evening, then looked back at the drink he was mixing. He stabbed a slice of lime and a cherry with a toothpick and slammed the drink down in front of a fat man, spilling another two drops onto the counter. He swiped at them with his cloth the same way she swiped at roaches with her broom.

  “What do you need?” he said, stepping over to her. His expression when he dealt with Nina and his customers hovered between neutral and slightly bored, but it wasn’t bored now. The frown deepened. Someone called to him from the other end of the bar. He nodded in their direction, then turned back to her, brows raised.

  “Can you hand me a can of juice from that bag?” She pointed to the shelf below the computer.

  “What is all this?” he asked.

  “Nothing you need to be concerned about.”

  He fished in her grocery bag and pulled out a small can of orange juice. “Seriously?” he asked, making a face. “You drink this stuff? It sucks. Why didn’t you get fresh?”

  “The cans are cheaper and less waste,” she muttered, reaching for it. He held it out of her reach, then dropped it back into the bag.

  “At least you bought fresh eggs.” He grabbed a dispenser, flipped the switch with his thumb, then filled a glass with orange juice. Fresh, cold orange juice. He set it in front of her.

  “I didn’t order that. Please give me the can.”

  “You’re allowed non-alcoholic drinks during your shift. Didn’t anybody tell you that?” His dark gaze slid down her neck to her breasts and back up. “You look like you could use the calories.”

  Her face burned at his scrutiny. She lifted her chin. “I don’t need the calories or the charity,” she said, trying for dignity, but her mouth was watering for the fresh, sweet juice.

  He ignored her and pushed the glass toward her. “Want something in it?”

  “What? No. I know we’re not supposed to drink on the job.” She bit her lip. She hadn’t meant to say it like that. On the job was off-duty cop code. To another officer, it meant I’m a police officer too. Had she just outed herself as an undercover cop?

  Chapter Four

  Rick shot her a narrow look. Before he could speak, Lusinda opened her mouth to head off any questions, but a woman down the bar called out for a refill. Rick turned away.

  Lusinda breathed a sigh of relief and took a drink of the cold juice. The tart sweetness made her shudder and the coolness loosened some of the tension in her back and neck. She pulled out her pad and leaned against the bar as she ran through her orders for the evening.

  Then she felt a hand brushing her hip and heading for her bottom. “Hey,” she warned, pushing away the hand without otherwise acknowledging the jerk. It wasn’t the sweaty Strawberry Margarita who’d been sitting there. That guy must have left while she was parrying with Rick.

  The hand was back on her bottom. “How much for a quickie?” he drawled.

  Lusinda arched away and twisted her expression into a bored smirk. He had to be on the far side of fifty, and not carrying it well. His face was pasty white and his glasses looked as thick as her wrist. His voice was a bit slurred, but the eyes behind the lenses were pale blue and seemed way too sharp.

  Lusinda caught his wrist and moved his hand away politely. She’d learned how not to piss off the paying customers years ago, after she’d run away from home. “Oh, honey, no,” she said, shaking her head good-naturedly. “Nice try, though.”

  But there was nothing good-natured about the man. His pasty face turned red and he grabbed her upper arm, squeezing it harder than she’d have expected, given the clammy softness of his flesh. “Don’t get all uppity with me, bitch,” he whispered. “I said how much?”

  She felt a frisson of apprehension. He smiled as if he were ordering a drink, but there was a frenetic quality in his voice that reminded her of her stepfathe
r, and it scared her. “No. Please let go. That hurts,” she said as quietly as she could. He tightened his grip and pain shot up her arm.

  He pulled her closer to him and she got a fetid whiff of whiskey and stale garlic. She nearly gagged. “I pay extra for the bruises. Now let’s go in the back.”

  The back. She could get a look behind those curtains. Her brain raced. She could find out what really went on back there. The smart money at NOPD was betting that Beauregard was up to his neck in bad dope. But her rational mind screamed, Not with this guy!

  She flinched as the man’s hand squeezed her sore arm again. He was freakishly strong, but she was extremely well trained. She could break his hold in about three seconds. Her muscles were tensed and she was in a balanced stance. But she didn’t dare. If she used her police training, he or someone else—meaning Easterling or the bodyguards she’d noticed standing in the shadows near the mysterious drapes—might recognize the move and make her as a cop.

  Pasty-Face’s hand tightened again. He was about to jerk her up against him.

  Quick! Think! Although her primary assignment was to watch Easterling, how could she ignore the opportunity that this pervert had dropped in her lap? Behind those dark curtains lay information that might not only solve the growing number of deaths from the contaminated heroin, but could also uncover the source. Could she do it? Could she handle this disgusting piece of flesh if she went back there with him?

  Just as she was trying to make up her mind, Pasty-Face jerked her arm. She leaned into the pressure, trying to keep her shoulder from being dislocated. As she struggled to stay on her feet, a large hand grabbed his pale one and, instantly, her arm was free. She caught the edge of the bar to regain her balance.

  “Ah! Get your hand off me, you faggot!” the man squealed.

  “The lady doesn’t want to go with you,” Easterling growled, a muscle ticcing in his jaw. Lusinda watched in fascination and growing apprehension as he tightened his grip around the man’s wrist until Pasty-Face whimpered.

  Lusinda saw a movement and realized that on the other side of the man stood a large black man dressed in black who she hadn’t noticed before. He was Pasty-Face’s bodyguard.

  “Sure—she does,” the man whined. “Tell him, sugar. I’m paying her big money. See?” Sweat rolled from his forehead into his eyes as he fumbled for a roll of bills in his coat pocket with his other hand. “T-take some,” he wheedled. His pallid face went totally white.

  Then, too fast to track, the bodyguard’s hand snapped out and hovered just above Easterling’s.

  Lusinda was transfixed as the three hands seemed to freeze in time. The fat, white one, Easterling’s large one and the dark hand of the bodyguard, even larger.

  Then Easterling let go.

  The bodyguard shifted, but Pasty-Face shook his head. He cradled his wrist and shot a murderous look at Lusinda, then at Easterling. Then he got up and walked out.

  Before following Pasty-Face, the bodyguard leaned in toward Easterling. “You got no idea what you just did,” he snarled.

  Easterling’s dark gaze followed him until he disappeared through the door.

  A few of the customers had turned to look when the man squealed but they’d gone back to what they were doing almost immediately. A minor tiff between a bartender and a drunk customer was hardly worth their time or attention.

  Lusinda’s pulse was racing and she was shivering with equal parts gratitude and fury. “What the hell do you think you were doing?” she hissed.

  “What the hell are you so pissed about? The guy was threatening and assaulting you.”

  Lusinda swallowed the fear that stuck in her throat when the man had jerked her toward him. Instead, she straightened and tugged the sleeves of her shirt down to her wrists. “You call that assault?” she muttered.

  From the corner of her eye she noticed one of Beau’s inconspicuous security guards moving toward the bar. He was carrying heavy on his left side. Easterling shook his head almost imperceptibly, signaling to the guard that everything was okay but the guard kept coming. Rick met the guard halfway. The two whispered for a few seconds, then Rick nodded and went back behind the bar. He looked grim.

  “Well, he was a little late to the party,” she said wryly.

  “What?” Rick looked up. “Oh. He was just making sure everything’s okay. The bartenders are supposed to watch out for the servers. You’re a cocktail waitress, not a bargirl.” The inflection he put on the word bargirl sounded accusatory.

  She gave him what she hoped was a flirtatious glance. “You’re not just a bartender, are you?”

  His gaze snapped to hers and a muscle in his jaw tensed. She realized how her question had sounded. He was afraid she’d made him as a cop.

  “I mean, I didn’t recognize you without your horse and your shining armor.”

  The jaw muscle ticced. “No shining armor. Just good sense. Speaking of which, what the hell were you thinking? That guy could have really hurt you.” Then he did something that seemed totally out of character. He reached out and touched her arm where the man had grabbed her. She winced and pulled away, not because it hurt, although it did, but because the warmth of his fingers soothed the pain.

  “Hurt me? That guy?” She scoffed. But Rick’s lightning-fast reaction to the man grabbing her ran in her head like an instant replay on TV. Before she’d even noticed Rick move, he had grabbed the other man’s wrist. As he squeezed Pasty-Face’s wrist, Rick’s biceps and forearms strained with lean muscle. As angry as she was with him, another part of her, deep and intimate and extremely un-cop-like, quivered with a different reaction.

  Oh, don’t go there. But her rational brain was too late. Her imagination was already there. When she’d fallen on Rick on the stairs, his lean hardness had surprised her. Now she knew how fast, how strong, how protective he could be, and damn it, she wanted him. Given the chance, she’d rip that tight black T-shirt off him and wipe the scowl off his face with kisses and caresses. He’d think danger if and when she decided to turn him on.

  As the thoughts skittered through her head, heat rose to her face. “He was nothing. I could handle him with one hand tied behind my back.”

  To her surprise, Easterling chuckled. “You can barely handle a tray with one hand. Admit it. He scared you,” he countered.

  “I’ve dealt with men like him. He was just a bully.”

  “Yeah, and he pays extra for the bruises. I heard what he said. Do you know who he is?”

  “No, who?” Lusinda said, a little puzzled by the strength of his fury, until she reminded herself that he didn’t know she was a cop. He didn’t know how much self-defense training she’d had. The warmth curled inside her again, just like it had when his fingers gently brushed the bruised skin of her arm. She pushed the feeling aside, reminding herself of why he was here, and why she was.

  He shook his head. “You’ve got customers,” he said dismissively.

  But Lusinda wasn’t done with him. She glanced toward her tables and saw a woman waving at her. She quickly took care of the order, noticing that the glut of customers at the bar was thinning.

  When she had another break, she leaned on the bar and waited for Rick to finish a drink order for Nina. “Seriously,” she said when he was done and Nina was delivering the drinks to her table. “What’s the deal here? Do you get extra pay to bodyguard the waitresses? Because there’s a security guy right over there. He was all set to intervene until you shook your head. Who’s the boss? Him or you?”

  “There was nothing for him to do. I took care of the guy.”

  “Yeah, by assaulting him.”

  “He assaulted you.”

  “No. All he did was grab me. If I’d wanted to break his wrist, I’d have done it myself.”

  “You couldn’t do that,” Rick scoffed.

  “You don’t know me,” Lusinda said coldly. “So is Mister Beauregard that concerned about his wait staff? Because treatment like you just gave that guy has got to hurt business. I’
m sure Beau would be thrilled to have fewer paying customers. Know what I mean?”

  “You know Beau? How long have you worked here?”

  She had to give him credit for that. He was fishing, hoping to get information that might help him find the source of the bad dope. She chuckled wryly. “Yeah, right. I don’t know anything except what was on the news and the gossip I’ve heard around here.” She ducked her head for no more than a couple of seconds, long enough to give Rick the impression she might be lying. It wouldn’t hurt if he suspected that she knew more than she was saying about Beau. It might give him an incentive to hang around with her. “Why? What do you care about Beau?”

  Rick leaned over so close his nose was almost touching hers and his breath tickled her lips. “Listen to me, Sin Stone. I’m not sure what kind of game you’re playing here. But if you’re really that naïve, then do your best to stay that way. You can’t have been here more than a week. This is a dangerous place in a dangerous part of town. I’ve seen pretty little girls who mess around in places like this with people like that. They don’t end up so pretty.” His eyes smoldered like dark fire before he backed away.

  Lusinda started to pick up her glass of juice, then decided her hand might be shaking a little too much. Having him so close, his gaze literally burning into hers, was a level of intimidation and intimacy that she wasn’t sure she could counter.

  “Top off that juice for you?” he asked evenly, only to turn immediately at another call from down the bar. Business was picking up again after the short lull. If Lusinda was going to put her plan into action, she needed to get started now. She almost laughed at herself, calling it a plan.

  He glanced back at her and his gaze swept from her head down her shoulders and arms, across her bosom and back up to meet her gaze. Her breath caught in her throat. How could someone who wasn’t interested in her, and whom she was only watching because it was her job, exude such potent sexuality and such a strong sense of safety and protectiveness toward her? And how stupid was she to get caught up in his magnetism?