“So far.” The lighted Heineken sign reflected off Ernie’s bald dome. At seventy, Ernie had been supplementing his social security a couple of nights a week at Sullivan’s for years. “But while you were in the basement, they downed another pitcher of beer and a round of Jägermeister shots.”
Ernie wiped a condensation ring from the worn-smooth wood.
“Hopefully they’re barhopping, and they’ll move on soon.” Conor checked the head on the ale. Perfect. He poured the test beer in the sink. “If not, we’ll cut them off.”
“Hey, get back over here.” The voice was irritated, male, and drunk.
“I said no, Heath.” The lone girl in the bunch, a slim brunette in painted-on jeans, squirmed her way off a drunken college boy’s lap. Her ponytail and the scattering of freckles across her nose made her look painfully young.
“Don’t be a tease.” Drunk Boy grabbed her with both hands by the waist and tugged her back. With short, dark hair and blue eyes set too close together, his face was predatory, hawkish.
“Stop it.” She spun and swatted at his chest.
“Crap.” Conor set the empty glass down and headed toward the ruckus.
“And here we go,” Ernie muttered.
Conor waded into the spat. “Is there a problem?”
“Yeah.” Drunk Boy’s face reddened. “You butting into my personal business. That’s the problem.”
If the kid had been a regular, he would have backed off at Conor’s glare. But he was full of belligerence, beer, and himself—the trifecta of stupidity.
Conor gave diplomacy a try anyway. “The lady would like you to let go of her.”
“I think I know what my lady wants more than some old dude.”
“Kick his ass, Heath,” one of his friends yelled from the table.
“It’s time for you to leave, boys.” A headache started in Conor’s temples. Longest. Day. Ever.
“Fuck you.” Drunk Boy pushed the girl off his lap and stood up, his posture combative.
Physically, they were well-matched. Drunk Boy was a couple inches over six feet tall and had the lean, athletic build of a lacrosse or soccer player. But size wasn’t everything. At six-two, Conor ran regularly and lugged kegs and cases of beer every day. He’d given up boxing years ago, but he worked out on the heavy bag a few times a week. Plus, Conor had been bouncing his own bar since his twenty-first birthday. He’d introduced a hundred obnoxious drunks to the sidewalk on the other side of the door. If Drunk Boy’s brain cells weren’t pickled in Jägermeister, the younger man would have thought hard before he threw a punch.
But pickled they were.
The punch was slow and sloppy. Conor slapped the kid’s hook out of the way and fired a punch neatly into his jaw. Drunk Boy crumpled on the wood floor as if his bones had evaporated. Shocked silence filled the bar for a solid minute. Then the friends got up and stumbled over.
Ow. Pain rolled through Conor’s knuckles. He was sick and tired of dealing with young assholes.
Drunk Boy blinked and sat up. His nasty squint caught on the brunette. “You’re such a bitch.”
Conor tucked the girl behind him. He addressed the group. “Pick up your friend and get out of my bar. Don’t come back.”
They didn’t argue. Two buddies hauled Drunk Boy to his feet and dragged him out.
Conor turned to the girl. “What’s your name?”
“Zoe.”
“I assumed you didn’t want to leave with them. Can you call someone to pick you up, Zoe?”
“I’ll call my roommate.” Nodding, she pulled a cell phone out of her purse.
“Next time, don’t go out without a couple of girlfriends for backup. Being alone with those guys isn’t smart.”
“I didn’t know they’d turn into such jerks after a few beers. We go to school together.” Big, brown eyes blinked innocently up at Conor. God, she was a pretty thing. But much too young for him. Much, much too young.
Even if she weren’t, he’d sworn off jumping into bed with women he barely knew since the Barbara I-forgot-to-mention-I’m-married McNally episode three years ago. For a relationship that had only lasted a few months, it had left a damned big impression. Being deliberately lied to and used had soured his attitude toward dating, as had the ease with which she’d manipulated him.
“We close at midnight on Mondays,” he said.
“My roommate should be home.” Texting furiously, she slid back into the booth. Conor cleared away the booze, brought her a Diet Coke, and left her watching ESPN. She was still there an hour later when Ernie and the kitchen staff were clearing out.
“Did you get your roommate?”
She shook her head. “No. I’ll take the subway.”
She is not your responsibility. Conor backed away. He needed a pretty college girl about as much as a rash. Both tended to hang around long enough to make life uncomfortable. “And there’s nobody else you can call? Do you want me to call you a cab?”
She shook her head and batted those thick lashes again. “No. I take the subway all the time. It’s fine.”
He glanced out the window. In the light of the streetlamp on the corner, a figure in a hoodie hunched against the rain. South Philly was generally safe during the day. A working-class neighborhood, people looked out for each other. Families tended to stay generation after generation. But a young girl alone at midnight . . .
“Do you want me to drive you to the station?”
“Would you do that?”
“Sure.” Because he was a giant idiot genetically incapable of minding his own business. He’d parked his car illegally in the alley. He had to move it anyway. And that guy on the corner gave off the wrong vibe.
Besides, the sooner he got her out of here, the sooner he could go to bed.
“Oh, thank you.”
“Come on. My car is out back.” Conor locked the front door to the bar and led her out into the back alley. The rain had settled into a steady, soaking drizzle. No sign of anyone or anything that shouldn’t be here.
Conor patted his pocket. “I have to run upstairs for my key. Wait here.”
But she was right behind him as he jogged up the stairs to his apartment over the bar. Conor flipped on the light. His keys were usually on the table by the door. Not there.
Zoe sidled behind him. “I didn’t want to wait in the dark by myself.”
“OK. Wait here. I have to find my keys.” Conor did a quick surface scan. Nothing. The kitchen counters were clear. In the bedroom, he went to the nightstand, moved some books, and shuffled some papers before finding his key ring on the dresser under a stack of junk mail. When he came out of the bedroom, Zoe was standing in the kitchen leafing through an advertisement circular.
“Sorry it took so long.” Conor motioned toward the door. “Let’s go.”
He grabbed an umbrella on the way out, then put Zoe into the twenty-year-old Porsche he’d bought as a junker and spent most of last year restoring. The SEPTA station was only eight blocks down. He pulled to the curb behind a transit bus.
“’Night.” She got out of the car and turned away.
“Good night.” Remembering when his sister had been assaulted in a parking garage years ago, Conor glanced in his rearview mirror. Standing on the sidewalk, digging something out of her purse, Zoe looked so young and vulnerable. Damn it. He jumped out of the car and ran around the back end. “Wait.” He tapped her shoulder.
She whirled, jumping backward, her eyes wide in alarm. She pressed a hand to her chest. “God, you scared me.”
“I’m sorry. Are you sure I can’t get you a cab?”
“No, you’ve done enough.” She backed up a step.
He dug a business card out of his wallet. “Do me a favor? Give me a quick call when you get home.”
She took the card. “Sure. Thanks again.”
; A horn blared. His car was blocking a cab. The driver leaned over the passenger seat and gestured between Conor and the Porsche with irritation.
“Be careful.” He returned to his car and pulled out into the street.
And that was that.
He drove back to the bar and found a parking spot down the block. The guy in the hoodie was gone when Conor circled the bar and went into the alley. At the base of his apartment steps, a faint whimper carried over the sound of traffic on Oregon Avenue. He turned his head and listened. Another thin whine emanated from the darkness under the stairwell. Crouching, he squinted into the shadows.
A dog cringed in the space between the brick building and the wooden stairs. Plenty of strays roamed the city streets, but something about this animal’s posture was off. He ran upstairs for a flashlight and a couple slices of cheese. Back outside, he shined the light into the dark crevice. It was a pit bull or a pit mix, blue-gray in color, and injured.
“You hungry?” Conor squatted and tossed a piece of cheese a few feet in front of the dog. The dog shuffled forward, sniffing the air, body tense and postured for flight as it licked at the aged provolone.
Numerous old scars, fresh cuts, and oozing abrasions crisscrossed the dog’s skin, mostly around its head and face. A meaty collar encircled the neck, and a short piece of heavy chain hung from it, all signs that the pit bull could be from a dog-fighting operation—and a bad one at that. The poor beast was razor thin. Pit bulls were naturally muscular dogs, but this one’s skin was stretched taut over visible sinew and bone. How the hell could a skinny dog fight? Not that this one looked like much of a fighter. There wasn’t anything aggressive about its posture.
Raindrops splattered on the asphalt. Thunder crashed, and a bolt of lightning streaked across the sky. The dog flinched, cringing toward the stairwell.
He should go upstairs. Picking up strays was not his responsibility, and with his current luck, the dog would bite him. He’d spent the last eighteen years of his life helping to raise his younger siblings. Now his family was settled. Business was up. Some debts had been paid. Conor finally felt like he could relax.
Maybe he’d take a vacation.
Alone? Yeah, that was lame, but he hadn’t even had a date in ages. Not that he was really trying. He couldn’t get that curator he’d met in Maine out of his head. Something about pushing the cool blonde’s buttons heated his blood and made the women who tried to pick him up at the bar seem . . . too easy. Dr. Louisa Hancock would be a challenge.
God, there must be something wrong with him. He was thirty-eight. It was time to settle down like his siblings, not go looking for extra work.
Thunder cracked again, and the dog went flat on the pavement. He tossed another piece of cheese on the ground closer to his feet. The dog moved forward, one eye on Conor, one eye on the food. He squatted and held a chunk toward the dog. The rain intensified, soaking Conor’s hair and dripping onto his nose. The dog moved forward and took the food from his hand. A drop of blood dripped onto the blacktop and swirled pink in the eddying runoff. He looked up at his apartment door, then back at the dog. Big, brown eyes blinked at him with a thoroughly pathetic, soulful, woe-is-me expression.
“Just for tonight. In the morning I’m taking you to the animal shelter. I’m not home enough to have a dog.”
The pit licked his fingers.
“Come on.” Holding the remaining provolone in front of the tentative dog’s nose, Conor led him—he glanced back—her up the stairs and into his apartment. He filled a bowl with water and spread a fresh towel on the old linoleum floor. “I’ll be right back. The first-aid kit is in the bar.”
He jogged downstairs. He was halfway to the back door of the bar when footsteps and the metallic echo of a garbage can being knocked over put him on alert. A teenager was making his way down the alley. He stopped, squatted, and inspected behind the Dumpster. Conor sidestepped toward the door without taking his eyes off the kid.
“Hey.” The kid shuffled into the light. Under a black zip-up hoodie, he wore a wifebeater, saggy jeans, and Air Jordans. “You seen a gray dog?”
The kid didn’t look familiar, but the mean glint in his eyes—and the condition of the dog upstairs—set Conor on edge. He shook his head and lied. “Sorry, no.”
The teen postured, spreading his arms at his sides, puffing out his chest, and leaning his upper body toward Conor rooster-fashion. “Guy across the street says he saw a gray dog come down this alley.”
“So?”
The kid’s attention drifted up the stairwell and landed on the door to Conor’s apartment. Under the roof overhang, the steps were dry. Red spots dotted the wood. “You got blood on your hand.”
“Rough night.” Conor took a step forward.
“I don’t let people take what’s mine.” The kid hesitated, obviously surprised when Conor didn’t back off. The teen couldn’t be from the neighborhood or he’d have known better.
“Look, kid. This isn’t a good idea,” Conor said.
“That’s not the way I see it.” The kid shook water from his face. “I want my dog, and you’re a fucking liar.” He pulled a switchblade from his pocket and flicked his wrist. The blade clicked open, the metal shining in the yellow light.
Tonight it seemed stupidity and youth were eternal soul mates.
“You’re making a mistake.” Conor raised his open hands in front of his chest. Talk about idiotic. He’d done some ridiculous things in his life, but risking a knife in the gut for a dog had to top the list.
“Fuck you. You’re the one making a mistake, stealing my dog. I’m gonna cut you. Then I’m going upstairs to see your old lady.” He made a thrusting motion with his pelvis. The kid couldn’t have been more than fifteen, and his baby face made the gesture more vulgar.
He lunged with the knife, right at Conor’s face. Expecting a chest or belly attack, Conor’s parry was a fraction of a second slow. The knife point grazed his cheek as he jerked his head out of the way. He grabbed the kid’s wrist and twisted it backward. Then he plowed a hard right cross into the teen’s nose. The kid’s head snapped back. He dropped the blade and ass-planted in a puddle. Blood spurted from his nose and soaked the front of his white tank.
Conor shook his hand. His already-bruised knuckles smarted, he had spatters of blood on his shirt, and his face stung. “Get out of here. Next time I see you, I’m calling the cops.”
“You’ll be sorry for that.” Holding one hand to his face, the kid snatched his knife from the pavement and got to his feet. “I’m not afraid of the fucking cops. I’ll be back.”
“What you need to do is go home, ice your face, and reevaluate your life.”
The kid flipped him a bloody middle finger as he staggered away. Conor waited until the teen had disappeared from the alley. He went in the back door and detoured to the supply closet for the first-aid kit. He should call the cops and fill out a report. But the kid was long gone, and Conor hated paperwork. Besides, there was always the slim possibility this young teen would actually learn a lesson. The pope was tweeting. Anything could happen.
Back upstairs, he used an antiseptic wipe on the tiny nick on his cheekbone. Damn. That had been close. He settled on the floor next to the dog. “Don’t bite me, OK?”
The dog trembled and looked away as he dried her coat and cleaned the dirt from her wounds.
“I think that’s as good as it’s going to get.”
Sensing the worst was over, the dog stretched out on her belly, nose resting on her outstretched paws. She blinked up at him with dark, liquid eyes. Conor packed up his first-aid supplies and washed his hands. “You won’t destroy the place, will you?”
Not that there was much to destroy. Conor lived a spartan life. He’d never been one to accumulate stuff. His younger brother, Danny, had moved out last spring, leaving the place emptier than ever. But the dog seemed content.
&
nbsp; “Are you hungry?” A few slices of cheese didn’t seem like enough for a dog of her size. He pulled a carton of eggs out of the fridge and scrambled a half dozen. While they cooled, he checked the dog’s cuts. “Better. Most of them aren’t bleeding anymore.”
He served up dinner. The dog shuffled over, sniffed, and nibbled at the food while keeping one skittish eye fixed on Conor. Maybe she’d eat when she relaxed.
“Maybe I should block you in here for the night.” Not that he thought the dog would hurt him. In general, pit bulls didn’t deserve the bad reputation they’d acquired, and this one acted downright submissive. No doubt she’d been on the losing end of whatever fight she’d been forced into. But the dog probably had fleas.
“OK, then I’m going to bed. You stay here in the kitchen.” He blocked the doorway with a low bookcase. “Don’t give me that face. You’re fed, and you have a roof over your head. You should be happy.”
He stripped off his clothes and took a quick shower. As he eased onto the bed, he checked his phone on his nightstand. No call from Zoe. Maybe she wouldn’t even bother. Maybe she’d just toss his card in the nearest trash can. A faint whine sounded from the kitchen. Conor rolled over and pulled the pillow over his ear. Would the teen with the knife be back, or would he write off the dog and pick up another, since there was no shortage of stray pit bulls in the city?
Tonight had been a disaster. He’d had to intervene between the girl and her drunken boyfriend, but risking his life for a stray dog hadn’t been his smartest move.
He must have dozed off, because a shift in the mattress startled him awake. A hot waft of air crossed his face. Wait. Half-asleep, confusion ruled. He’d driven the brunette home, right?
He rolled over. Three inches from his nose, the skinny dog stared down at him, panting.
“You were supposed to sleep in the kitchen. Guess my barricade wasn’t high enough.”
His phone vibrated on the nightstand. He picked it up and read the unfamiliar number on the screen. Zoe? “Hello.”
Midnight Betrayal Page 3