Twenty-two years of active living had seen to that.
Out of habit and her now wasted training, A.J. scoped out her surroundings. To her left was a beat-up bar. A bored dishwater blonde stood behind it, half-heartedly cleaning used glassware. Two patrons sat on stools at the end: male, forty-something, and most likely Latino. They were speaking quietly in Spanish, probably enjoying man-time away from wives or girlfriends. To her right in the second booth was a pair of thin neo-Goths, looking more in need of sandwiches than alcohol. At the single table in the center, four union types bent toward each other around a shared pitcher, plotting who knew what offenses against management or maybe their own workers. The pool table at the back hosted a quartet of bikers in worn leather and ripped denim. They were drinking but not wasted. A.J. filed them under Not An Immediate Concern.
The drug handoff one bearded lovely executed with the busboy made her itch for her surrendered badge and gun.
Fuck it
, she told herself.
You are permanently off duty
.
She and the blonde bartender were the only females there.
Satisfied no cop from her precinct would venture into this dive except to arrest someone, she took her five feet eleven inches of rangy muscle to the line of empty stools. She was no twelve-year-old Nancy Drew anymore, chasing every shadow that caught her eye. She’d trained to be quick and cool under fire. Her trigger finger was as steady as her amber brown gaze was sharp. She was courteous to the public, tough, and—according to her department file—had a knack for soothing fear and rage. In her brief tenure on the force, she’d earned a commendation for bravery.
None of that mattered when push came to shove from the higher ups.
Not relaxed enough to sit, she sidled between two seats to rest her elbows on the bar rail.
The bartender noticed and stepped over. “What’ll it be, hon?”
What should it be? It was barely four in the afternoon.
Fuck it
, she swore again to herself. It wasn’t every day a lifelong dream bit the dust.
“Whiskey. Two fingers. No rocks. Plus a half pint of Guinness or whatever you’ve got that’s close.”
The bartender supplied the drinks neatly. A.J. dug out a couple bills to pay, tossed the whiskey back in one go, then turned her beer glass in a circle while she waited for her eyes to stop watering.
“You’re not my usual sort of patron,” the blonde observed.
A.J. coughed out a ragged laugh. “Was it the rack that gave me away?”
“Nah. You just smell better.”
A.J. didn’t have the energy to smile. “You ever notice how doing the right thing can get you into worse trouble than being a corrupt dickhead?”
“Not personally,” the bartender said. “But that does seem to be the way of the world.”
A.J. took a swallow of beer and sighed. It
was
Guinness, she noted.
“You want another shot of Jim Beam?”
A.J. shook her head glumly. “If I wake up hungover, I’ll be even more depressed.”
“I could make your tomorrow a little brighter,” the blonde suggested. “You know, if you roll that way.”
A.J. looked up in surprise. She hadn’t seen that coming.
“Oh never mind,” the bartender said. “I can read that expression.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to give you the wrong idea.”
The bartender smiled, looking less tired and more pretty. “You didn’t. I just figured I’d try my luck. You’re a tall drink of Tabasco. I’m Gina, by the way.”
“A.J.,” she responded, reaching to shake the offered hand.
“Bad day, I guess.”
“And then some,” A.J. agreed.
Seeing she wasn’t going to elaborate, the bartender left to serve the two older guys at the other end. She seemed to know them, exchanging quips in fluent Spanish like it was no big thing. This was obviously a local watering hole, rundown but familiar to the people who drank at it. A.J. wondered how Gina had ended up working here. It couldn’t be the worst place in New York City, but it was far from the best. Was Gina down on her luck? Maybe on the run from an abusive ex?
Cut it out
, A.J. ordered.
No one’s paying you to do social work now either
.
She heard the drunken laughter before she saw the group it was coming from. The street door swung open, thunking the wall by the entrance. She turned from the bar to see, her hand moving to check for the sidearm that no longer hung at her hip.
“No, no, no,” protested a female voice, too amused for her refusal to be taken seriously. “Luke, we can’t go in there.”
“Chicken,” accused another woman.
“Oh, it’s
brilliant
,” declared a third in a plummy UK accent.
The glare of the light outside obscured A.J.’s view until the door swung shut behind the newcomers. As it did, a man stepped into the bar ahead of the three women. Despite being hard to shock, A.J.’s breath caught halfway to her lungs.
He was the most breathtaking specimen of maleness she’d ever laid eyes on.
Being tall herself, A.J. liked tall guys. This fellow was six and change—maybe as much as a nickel. Even without him in it, his suit was yummy.
Bespoke
was what tailors called clothes like that. No tie obscured his strong brown throat, and his collar was unbuttoned. A serious chest shaped the smooth white cotton, though not an inch of the cloth was strained. His shoulders were football broad, his trim waist circled by a dark belt.
A.J. had a feeling his trousers cut across his designer shoes at some mathematically ordained spot.
Despite the perfection of his apparel, as he looked around the bar he seemed at ease rather than prissy. He could have been gay, but her gut said not. He had genuine scruff on his cheeks, the bristle the only not-polished thing about him. Like an ad for a luxury an average Jane like her shouldn’t covet, he removed his sunglasses.
A.J. suspected they cost more than her severance pay.
His eyes were some light color, creased at the corners and observant. His mouth, which was slightly pursed, made her wish she were sitting down.
It was the sort of mouth any woman would dream of exploring.
“Shit,” the bartender said in an undertone. “This is not going to end well.”
For one stupid second, A.J. thought Gina was talking about her attraction to the guy.
She wasn’t. When A.J. glanced at her, she jerked her head toward the group of bikers around the pool table. They’d stopped playing to watch the newcomers.
“Hel-
lo
, ladies,” murmured the bearded one with the big belly.
Okay, A.J. should have noticed Handsome Man’s companions before then. She checked now and found three stunning, made-up, blown-out fashionistas in outfits too skimpy and eccentric for the joint they’d walked into.
None wore shoes she could have run two steps in.
A.J. didn’t know if it were wise or stupid that the group ignored the bearded guy’s greeting.
“We’ll have a quick one,” their male escort said.
“A quick one!” the Brit complained. “Luke, we’re celebrating.”
Luke chucked her gorgeous caramel colored chin, her jawline sharp enough that he should have cut himself. “This is my round. Don’t forget I’m poorer than you three.”
“Not for long,” sing-songed a willowy redhead who was almost as tall as him. “ITM frickin’ signed you today. You’ll be whipping out your black Amex before you can say Sean O’Pry.”
“That’s not all his fans will want him to whip out,” joked the final girl. Yet another six-footer, the curly haired brunette had a face as cute as a Kewpie doll.
Shit
, A.J. thought, belatedly adding up the pieces. They were fashion models. Their clothes were eccentric because they were couture.
The man they called Luke smiled indulgently. He seemed less impressed over his good fortune than the women.
“Come on,” he said, herding his flock of beauties to the bar.
He nodded at A.J. as he reached it—but as if he’d been raised polite rather than like he’d noticed her. A.J. nodded back dazedly. He’d already turned away. He looked even better at close range. Younger, too. About her age, she guessed. His hair was light brown with gold highlights. The streaks weren’t natural, she didn’t think, but they complemented his clear green eyes. Her nostrils flared as she caught a whiff of clean man and nice cologne. He smelled totally delicious.
Maybe he felt her staring. He glanced at her again and furrowed his eyebrows. His gaze was like a laser, reaching all the way into her. A.J. had trouble breathing. That amount of focus couldn’t help but make a person feel singled out.
Special
, she thought irrationally.
She shook herself at the foolish thought, forcing her attention away from him. She didn’t need to add herself to the countless gawkers he likely had every day.
Despite the scold, her eyes slid back the moment he looked away.
“Bourbon?” he asked his companions, who all nodded. “I’ve got a hundred,” he said to Gina. “Please don’t make me spend more or I’ll have to wash dishes.”
Gina nodded in the same dumbstruck fashion as A.J. Her cheeks were a hotter pink than before . . . though maybe not on Luke’s account. His companions were probably more her cup of tea.
“I’ve got some 14-year-old Wild Turkey,” she said faintly.
This was the good stuff. A.J. hoped Luke knew his hundred wouldn’t get them more than a drink apiece. He didn’t seem worried one way or another. He slid the bill across the bar like he wasn’t going to ask for change.
His girls appeared satisfied, though only the Brit paid attention to what she sipped. The other two were busy arranging themselves in not-casual poses, showing off their cheekbones or their necks or whatever body part they thought needed admiring. It was as if they expected a camera to materialize any second to capture their grace and style. Being that vain struck A.J. as exhausting. Then again, she couldn’t stop sneaking looks at them.
Naturally, this was true for all the bar’s patrons.
“All right,” Luke said as the final drop was tipped down the final throat. “That’s it for this pit stop.”
“Aww,” the redhead pouted, lounging fetchingly back against the bar. “I like this place.”
Crap
, A.J. thought as the bearded biker with the belly stepped into the opening he’d no doubt been waiting for. He held the cue stick like he knew how to break bones with it.
“I’d be happy to buy the lady another drink.”
His voice was saying friendly words, but his piggy dark eyes were cold. A.J. knew—the way she knew her own name—that simply buying this silly hothouse flower a drink wouldn’t satisfy his effed-up, drug-dealing soul. Even if the redhead accepted, he’d find an excuse to do her harm. The model would wrinkle her nose, or laugh the wrong way, or refuse to blow him in the back hall. The reason wouldn’t matter. He’d make sure the beautiful, privileged girl never forgot him.
“That’s nice of you,” Luke said, “but I’m afraid we’ve made other plans.”
She supposed in some situations his politeness would have worked. She certainly gave him points for sounding calm and respectful. Unfortunately, no amount of good manners could squeak them out of this.
Bearded Guy grinned at him. “I have other plans myself.”
Luke started to open his mouth to speak.
He didn’t get a chance. Bearded Guy swung at him. The biker knew how to fight, on top of which the object of his assault wasn’t prepared to block. Fist slammed face and then knee slammed balls before A.J. could intervene. The models shrieked as their friend went down.
Bearded Guy’s buddies seemed to think he shouldn’t have all the fun. They advanced en masse to help thrash the pretty boy.
The fire in their eyes was as eager as their leader’s.
“Call the cops,” A.J. ordered the bartender.
“Bitch,” Bearded Guy took a moment to say to her. He drew back his steel-toed boot to kick Luke again. The model’s nose was bleeding, his body curled around his injured groin.
He didn’t realize his ribs were the next target.
A.J. grabbed the stool she’d never sat on, swinging its seat full force into Bearded Guy’s shoulder. The metal legs were a decent fulcrum, augmenting her natural strength. The biker roared as his arm bone cracked. Sadly, this didn’t mean he was out of fight. He rushed toward her and then his friends did too.
There were four of them, all bigger than she was, but she’d been trained by New York’s finest. Better still, her opponents had more to drink. Their diminished coordination worked in her favor. They didn’t exactly fall like dominoes, but she drove them back enough to protect the man they were trying to attack.
The union guys had already made themselves scarce, but after a minute, possibly shamed by her example, the two older Spanish-speaking men waded in to subdue one biker.
Her odds improved, A.J. used her own fighting boots. Though they weren’t steel-toed, she sent another outlaw into dreamland when her foot connected with his sternum and he cracked his head on the edge of a booth’s table. That left two mutts to take care of. Luke was groaning but struggled to get up. The British model rushed forward to help him.
With more strength than her toothpick limbs suggested, she dragged Luke out of the line of fire.
“Don’t,” he said. “She can’t fight two of them by herself.”
A.J. could and would. Bearded Guy had dropped his pool cue on the sticky floor earlier. Channeling every ounce of frustration inspired by her day from hell, she grabbed it up and whirled. The cue stick’s end took Bearded Guy’s last ally upside his head. His eyes rolled back as he crumpled.
“You’re crazy,” Bearded Guy accused, holding his broken arm and panting.
A.J. made the pool cue whistle like a ninja weapon and backed him into a corner. She noticed she didn’t hear sirens yet.
“Didn’t you call 911?” she demanded of Gina.
“I . . . we’ve been having trouble with our license,” she said apologetically, nixing any chance A.J would switch teams for her. “I can’t afford to bring them here.”
Bearded Guy grinned at her.
New York’s finest weren’t the first folks A.J. wanted to see either. She wasn’t one of them anymore, nor did most have reason to believe she was anything but a traitor to the uniform. With her luck, they’d twist this fight around so
she
ended up seeming in the wrong. It was, after all, how they’d responded to her accusation that her sergeant skimmed money from drug busts.