Mercy Kill

by Lori Armstrong

  I almost said screw it to John-John’s no-drinking-on-shift rule right then and there.

  Several college kids instigated a beer-pong tournament. Lefty, a crusty rancher who’d last spoken to me when I was a sixteen-year-old with a wild streak and a fast truck, joined the fun. Happy as it made the old coot to be winning, color me glad the vomit-inducing game was held close to the bathrooms.

  A cluster of young cowboys wearing big buckles and big attitudes sauntered in. They loaded up on cheap beer, eventually wandering to the back room, where the construction workers shot pool. The single women immediately followed—not that I blamed them. Before too long I was inundated with orders for blow jobs.

  John-John and I managed to keep straight faces for thirty seconds. And I thought I could be crude? John-John let loose a barrage of lewd comments that’d make a porn star blush. Even a gay porn star.

  By nine o’clock I’d changed out the kegs seven times.

  A group of Indian bikers wearing matching club jackets snagged a table in the corner, where they could monitor the entire bar. Talk about an air of entitlement. Winona rolled her eyes at their impatient finger snaps. Maybe in their normal hangout, bar staff afforded them reverence, jumping at their classy finger-popping attention getters. Not in Clementine’s. The governor could grace us with his presence and the wait-your-fucking-turn attitude wouldn’t change a lick.

  When Kit McIntyre ambled in, the phrase “cowboys and bikers and dickheads, oh my” flitted into my head. Ol’ White Hair stopped to schmooze with the drunken bunco ladies before bellying up to the bar. “Hey, Mercy. Where’s Muskrat?”

  It stuck in my craw, making nice with Kit, but he dropped a pile of cash in Clementine’s, so my personal issues went the way of the dinosaur while I was on duty. “He has the night off.”

  “So you’re the bouncer?”

  “Me ’n’ John-John. Why? You planning on causing problems?”

  “With you on duty? Hell no.” His greasy smile didn’t reach his snake eyes. “We both know you got no problem kicking ass—mine especially.”

  “Did you come in specifically to flatter me? Or is there something else you need?”

  “I’ll take a pitcher of Miller Lite and a half-dozen cups.”

  I shoved a pitcher under the tap. “You guys having another pipeline meeting?”

  “No. It’s a strategy meeting for Bill O’Neil’s campaign committee.”

  “And you’re meeting here?” Clementine’s was a rough bar. Most respectable folks with money, influence, or both steered clear.

  “A last-minute change. Had no idea you’d be so busy tonight.”

  Leon Tasker, a rancher with a low tolerance for bullshit and a high tolerance for bourbon, scowled at Kit. “Don’t know why in the devil Bill threw his hat in the ring in the first place. He’s too damn old to be sheriff.”

  “Says the man who asked me for a senior citizen’s discount last week,” I said dryly.

  Kit chuckled.

  “I’m surprised you’re backing a losing candidate, McIntyre,” Leon said.

  “Maybe Bill ain’t ideal, but he’s got a better grasp on what’s best for people in this county than Dawson does.”

  “Think that’s enough to win votes?”

  “Mebbe. I guess we’ll see soon enough.” Kit snagged the pitcher. “Any other guys come in here looking for the meeting, send ’em back, will ya?”

  “How will I know who they are?”

  “Easy. They’ll be wearing the hangdog look of defeat.”

  The door opened again, disgorging another cluster of partiers, and I groaned. Seemed everybody in the damn county had shown up tonight.

  Lost in thought, I glanced up at the new customer who’d taken Kit’s spot at the bar next to Leon.

  Hello, Gorgeous. Talk about being a credit to his Native American ancestry—this guy was Hollywood hot. Built, too. His face was stunning, all sharply chiseled features plus full, pouty lips that should’ve looked ridiculous on a man, but were sexy as sin. His eyes weren’t dark, like the blackstrap molasses color of his hair, but the honeyed hue of cognac.

  Mr. Tall, Dark, and Indian earned a genuine smile from me. “What can I get you?”

  “A double shot of Crown and a glass of water.”

  “Coming right up.”

  I felt his gaze on me as I poured the whiskey. He hadn’t been in before; I definitely would’ve remembered him. “You want to start a tab or settle up now?”

  “A tab.”

  “No problem.” I busied myself at the other end of the bar. Chatting up customers wasn’t my thing. Luckily, the majority of our clientele were loners who came in to knock back a drink or ten without the social niceties.

  Winona did a double take seeing the brooding male sexpot classing up the joint. She turned her head, mouthing “Oh my God,” and fanned herself with the tray.

  I muttered, “Tell me about it. So whatcha need?”

  “A pitcher of Coors Light and three double shots of Chivas. Pronto.” She scowled. “What kind of asshole says pronto? I wish they’d stop coming in here.”

  “Who? Those matching-jacket guys?”

  She nodded.

  “First time I’ve seen them.”

  “Consider yourself lucky.”

  Winona didn’t flirt with our good-looking stranger while I filled her order—another reason I liked her. She wasn’t working as a cocktail waitress to pick up guys.

  I kept an eye on the door to see what respectable citizens deigned to cross our dirty threshold in support of Bill. A few of my neighbors ducked in. The bar filled with people I didn’t know. Twenty years can change the makeup of a community entirely.

  John-John scooted next to me. “How’s the meeting going?”

  “The guest of honor hasn’t shown up yet.”

  “It’s probably past old Bill’s bedtime.” He frowned. “Don’t know how I feel about Clementine’s becoming a meeting place. Don’t any of those people know that Dawson is a regular customer?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Be funny as hell if he walked in and saw exactly who was plotting his downfall, eh?”

  I bumped him with my shoulder. “Hey, don’t be wishing for trouble, since I’m the bouncer tonight.”

  John-John gave me a sly look. “Neither of us would mind bouncing on the hot dude at the end of the bar, who is trying very hard not to listen to our conversation.”

  “And you know that … how?”

  “Years of experience, doll.”

  “Wanna start touting your blow-job expertise again?”

  He smoothed his hands down his leather vest. “I’ve never been one to brag. Besides, he’d rather have a blow job from you than from me.”

  I laughed. Hard. I shot Mr. Indian Hottie a sideways glance. He was not so amused.

  Bill O’Neil came in, bolting into the back room without so much as a friendly wave.

  And the night was just getting weirder and weirder.

  With the sundry mix of clientele, Trey’s appearance shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did piss me off. I said, “Kit’s in the back room.”

  “So? I’m off duty.” He parked his ass on the stool in front of me. Threw his keys and his can of Skoal on the bar. “Bottle of Bud Light.”

  I rooted in the cooler, snapped the cap off with the opener, and slid it in front of him. “Three bucks.”

  “I’ll start a tab.” He took a drink. “You know I’m good for it.”

  “’Bout the only goddamn thing you’re good for,” I muttered, moving away before I said something I’d regret. Or he said something that’d make me punch him in the face.

  When I had to return to his section, he said, “Busy night.”

  I ignored him.

  “Ain’t talking to me?”

  “I’ll serve you, but I don’t have to talk to you.”

  Cowboy Trey lifted his head, peering at me from beneath the brim of his hat. “Afraid you might have to defend yourself ?”

&nb
sp; “Against what?”

  “This and that. Mostly about who’s keeping you company some nights.”

  Trey knew nothing. But his smug attitude burned my ass. “Wanna know what I think?”

  “You ain’t paid to think.”

  Ooh. This was gonna be fun.

  Trey eased his lanky frame back. “Look how the mighty have fallen. Got no other options besides servicing drunks in this dive? Sad commentary on your skills after your years of military service.”

  Don’t rise to the bait. Don’t smack his head into the bar. And for Christsake, don’t shoot him.

  “Don’t got nothin’ to say?” A mean smile distorted his mouth. “You’re just pissy I got the jump on you last year.”

  Maybe just one small bullet. Right between the eyes.

  “You know I could’ve killed you in your sleep.”

  I leaned over the bar and pressed the tip of my index finger into the hollow of his throat. “And you know I could still kill you in yours.”

  Cowboy Trey froze.

  “Don’t got nothin’ to say?” I mimicked.

  “Mercy?” John-John said, “Is there a problem here?”

  Pressure-point training, what a beautiful thing. If I moved my finger an inch higher, I could put Trey on the floor, screaming in agony. Tempted, I pushed a littler harder. When he whimpered, I whispered, “Is there a problem?”

  “Trey?” John-John asked.

  “Ah. Nope. No problem. It’s all good.”

  I backed off. Smiled. “Excuse me.”

  Things slowed down. I restocked my station without fear it’d be overrun with thirsty customers. I was on my knees restacking napkins when I heard, “What’s it take to get a damn drink around here?”

  I hoisted myself to my feet.

  J-Hawk crouched over the bar, impatiently tapping his fingers on the counter. The man didn’t look good. If his glassy eyes and sallow complexion were an indication, the last thing he needed was another drink.

  “You are working. Jim Beam and Coke. A double.”

  “Jason, you okay?”

  “I’m fine, why?”

  “You seem … I dunno. Off.”

  “If I’m ‘off,’ it’s because I’m sick of being stuck in buttfuck South Dakota.”

  Was it my imagination or had he yelled that?

  “Hey, buddy, watch your mouth,” Vinnie snapped, plunking an empty pitcher on the counter.

  “Or what?” Jason sneered. “You gonna kick my ass?”

  “Yep. And as soon as I’m done busting you up, there’ll be a line of guys waiting to get their shot in. No one wants you here, so maybe you oughta just leave.”

  “Make me.”

  Five guys crowded Jason. Three scrappy construction workers and one of Vinnie’s buddies.

  Not good.

  Jason laughed. “Am I supposed to feel threatened? You’re all a bunch of hillbilly douche bags.”

  The surrounding area didn’t go silent, but he definitely got everyone’s attention.

  “If you don’t like it here, go the fuck home,” Vinnie’s friend suggested.

  “Better yet, why don’t you go back and tell the oil company greasing your dick and your hand that we ain’t like the pansy asses in North Dakota. We can say no. We don’t bend over for no one,” Vinnie said.

  “You’re all so stupid. You think anything you do or say is gonna mean jack shit? This is big money. Your state will lay down and spread its legs like a money-grubbing whore, just like mine did. The pipeline is coming, whether or not you like it.” Jason grinned and invaded Vinnie’s space. “But I bet you like being bent over, doncha?”

  Vinnie shoved Jason, and he flew backward.

  Jason stumbled but righted himself, flashing the knife in his hand. “Gonna have to do better than that, cocksucker.”

  For Christsake. A knife fight? Before I could jump in, Vinnie’s buddy dragged Vinnie from the fray, muttering about parole.

  “That’s what I thought.” Jason closed the knife and clipped it to his belt. “Anyone else?”

  Then two of the construction guys—Rocky and Mike—rushed him, getting him on the ground. Encouraging shouts from other patrons muted the sounds of flesh hitting flesh.

  Enough.

  I vaulted the bar and dragged their stupid, drunken asses away. Jason just lay there with his eyes closed, letting their punches land without fighting back.

  When I turned, I was right in Rocky’s line of fire. His wild swing caught me in the face. My head snapped back. The vertebrae in my neck popped like someone had stomped on Bubble Wrap.

  Goddammit, that hurt. I squinted through my dimmed vision, slamming my boot heel into Rocky’s knee, knocking him on his ass, and leveling a blow to Mike’s stomach so hard he doubled over.

  “We done?” I asked, watching them both wheeze.

  Mike nodded and backed off from me immediately, helping his limping friend to his feet.

  “You’re throwing them out?” someone in the crowd yelled. “That’s bullshit!”

  “Yeah.”

  I heard a crash and whirled around to see beer cans and bottles flying at J-Hawk’s head. The dumbass lay there. Like he deserved it. God. And I thought I had self-loathing issues? At least mine were private.

  John-John materialized beside me with a wooden Louisville Slugger baseball bat. He shouted to be heard above the din. “No more of that shit in here, or me ’n’ Louis will start busting heads.”

  “But he started it,” Rocky complained, pointing to Jason.

  “Jesus, Rocky. What are you? In third grade?” I demanded.

  “I’m finishing it,” John-John said. “Any more questions?”

  Muttering, background rumbles, but no one piped up to contradict John-John. No more bottles sailed through the smoke-clogged air.

  “Mercy, doll, you okay?”

  I touched my cheekbone and winced. “I’m fine.”

  John-John loomed over Jason and spoke succinctly. “If I ever see you in here again, I’ll beat you bloody.”

  Sometimes I forgot John-John wasn’t a pushover; he’d split his fair share of lips and heads. Any gay man who participated in the Sun Dance every year was truck tough. He’d forged this bar against all odds, building a place where past misdeeds didn’t matter as much as current cash.

  “I’ll get him out of here.”

  “No. He’ll either walk out or crawl out on his own, but either way he chooses to go, you ain’t helping him.”

  That made no sense.

  John-John met my confused gaze head on. “I can’t have you talking to him anymore, Mercy. Look around. My customers are pissed you didn’t let Mike and Rocky beat him to a pulp. Your job is to cater to the local folks who spend money in here week after week. You don’t owe this flight-by-night troublemaker nothin’.”

  I owe him my life, danced on the tip of my tongue.

  I ducked beneath the bar partition so John-John wouldn’t think I was helping J-Hawk to his feet.

  He picked himself up off the floor and rested against the counter. “Looks like I’ll be drinking alone from here on out.” He slid me a twenty-dollar bill. “Can I get a bottle of Jim Beam to go?”

  I brown-bagged the bottle and set it next to him. “What the hell were you thinking, spewing that shit? Were you looking for a fight?”

  “Didn’t get much of one, did I?” he sneered.

  I rolled my eyes at the former Army Ranger. “You against an entire bar? Did you whack your head on the concrete in your fall from grace?”

  “I wish.” Jason grabbed the bottle, acting hesitant.

  I didn’t want him to leave either, but I had no choice. “Where will you go?” I asked softly.

  He shrugged. “Not far. But it’ll still feel like I’m light-years away from where I want to be.”

  “Jason—”

  “Go help your loyal local customers, Mercy. Forget about me.”

  Although everyone stared at him, no one spoke to Jason as he walked out the door.


  A bar fight put people in a drinking mood. John-John and I barely kept up. If he wasn’t out on the floor helping Winona take orders, he was behind the bar mixing drinks. I handled bottled and draft beer and poured straight shots. Even the traffic for off-sale booze stayed steady. At one point I had five customers in line.

  Frazzled, I demanded, “IDs?” to a pair of underage punks.

  “We’re buying beer for our dad. He’s out in the parking lot waitin’ for us.”

  “Really?”

  “Uh-huh. He wants a suitcase of Keystone Light.”

  “Got an ID?”

  “No. But—”

  “No ID, no beer.” I peered around him and shouted, “Next.”

  “Come on,” the short blond argued, getting up in my face. “He’s right outside.”

  The snot-nosed punk was high as a kite and spoiling for a fight. Not a good combo. After the night I’d had, not a smart move on his part to push me. “Then send him in.”

  “He’s handicapped, and you ain’t got no wheelchair access,” the red-haired one sniveled. He rubbed the back of his hand beneath his nose. “It ain’t his fault he can’t come in and buy it himself. That’s why he sent us. So sell us the goddamn beer.”

  I hated meth heads. These little lying sacks had thought of everything—except fake IDs. “Nice try. Let me repeat. No ID, no beer.”

  One last glare at me and they spun away. But they stupidly approached the last guy in line.

  I yelled, “I catch any of you buying booze for those two minors, and I will permanently blackball you, got it?”

  No response, but they all looked to the real boss.

  John-John didn’t miss a beat. “Any names she passes on to me, I’ll pass along to Muskrat. I guarantee you won’t step foot in here again.”

  Muskrat’s name invoked way more fear than mine.

  Pissed off, the boys tried to cause a scene but were old news by the time the door hit them in the ass.