Wild at Whiskey Creek

by Julie Anne Long

  Chapter 9

  When Eli picked up the phone at the sheriff’s station he thought Glenn was shouting “MAYDAY! MAYDAY!”

  Then he realized it was “MELEE!”

  This became clearer when he heard what sounded like breaking glass and furniture crashing and a little feminine shriek of fright.

  “My kajoo!” someone bellowed. “You motherfucker! You stepped on my kajoo!”

  “Get here!” Glenn shouted to Eli, and he ended the call.

  Good God. How could a chamber of commerce mixer devolve into a brawl?

  Oh wait: it was open mic night, too, that was how.

  Glory was there.

  He could extrapolate from there.

  The citizens of Hellcat Canyon were treated to the rare sight of three sheriff’s deputies cruisers roaring down Main Street, sirens wailing and lights blazing.

  And when the deputies leaped out of their cruisers, they could hear grunting and thumping and the odd crash from outside the Misty Cat before they even entered.

  Eli pushed the door open and they all burst in together.

  It was still dimly lit for open mic night and the floor was as warm with bodies, some rolling on the floor, a few pinned and taking what amounted to bitch slaps, a few others locked in what looked like grappling, drunken tangos. Hardly a world-class group of fighters, but they were drunk and angry and they had projectiles to hand if they really wanted to go Wild West in here.

  And then—Dear God—he saw Glory was in the middle of it trying to pull some guy off what looked like Marvin Wade, who was flat on the floor. She had the guy by one arm and was tugging, leaning back on her heels, like some kind of waterskier. She looked up, then her eyes flicked past him and she dropped the arm she was tugging.

  “Eli! Look out!”

  He spun around.

  Mick Macklemore had hoisted a squat bar stool and Eli saw its four legs coming at him sideways. He knew in an instant that it was too late to duck completely. He was going to get nailed good.

  Then Glory hurdled Marvin Wade’s prone form, cocked her arm, and hurled a punch at Mick’s jaw.

  His head snapped back and he flailed, skidding in spilled beer and landing on his ass. The stool rolled away from him and landed with a thud. Glory set it upright and gave it a pat.

  Eli was on top of Mick in an instant and got him in cuffs.

  Eli and Scotty waded into the rest of the idiots fighting and got them separated and shaken and scolded into submission then cuffed and lined up like bad children on a bench in the front of the Misty Cat, ready to load them into cruisers or release them on their own recognizance, once they got all their statements.

  Eli was going to let his deputies take care of the paperwork part.

  He searched the shocked crowd—who knew open mic night at the Misty Cat was so exciting?—and saw Glory sitting on the stage, her head in her hands, surveying the wreckage with a sort of glum, philosophical resignation.

  He took a seat next to her. She glanced up at him ruefully.

  They didn’t speak for a moment.

  “I just hope they all make bail before the next open mic, because there goes my audience if not,” she said dryly.

  He smiled at that. “How’d it all start?”

  She sighed. “Mick got drunk and apparently wrote a dirty song about me on kazoo.”

  Dear God.

  This was deeply horrible and about the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

  “Mick wrote a dirty song about you? On kazoo?”

  “I managed to grab the mic from him before he got to the worst part of the song. Then someone yelled ‘you suck!’ at him, and Mick went in there swinging. And it all kind of escalated from there. That’s the capsule version of it anyway.”

  She looked up at him. He’d had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing, and she saw that his eyes were watering, and hers flashed wickedly for an instant.

  “Guess he took the breakup kind of hard,” Glory said with great, great irony.

  “Yeah, well, to be fair . . . you’re kind of hard to forget.”

  She looked up at him sharply.

  And then she smiled softly, and as he looked into that familiar blue of her eyes, just for a moment his whole being was a song.

  They sat for a moment in silence.

  “Hey,” she said suddenly. “Why is your hand half green?”

  “Oh.” He held it up. “I caught Aidan Parker right after he’d spray painted tits on the road sign out on the highway. Couldn’t get the paint all the way off.”

  “Huh. Actual tits, or the word tits?”

  “The word.”

  She tilted her head. “Wow. That’s even harder.”

  He laughed. “Let me see your hand.”

  She hesitated a moment. So funny that this was now fraught with meaning, this simple, casual touch. He held his breath.

  And then she gave her hand to him.

  He took it gently. Held it as though she’d handed him a baby squirrel that had fallen from a nest.

  She had beautiful hands, long and slim fingered, from their tough tips and short, striped nails to their tender palms. She had a little scar on one wrist. She’d burned herself toasting marshmallows when she was about twelve, as he recalled.

  “I count all five fingers.” His voice was kind of husky.

  Her voice was a hush. “Doesn’t hurt. I know how to throw a punch.”

  “Yeah. You sure do.”

  Neither of them said but you really shouldn’t. It probably wouldn’t have made a difference.

  They both became aware that he was still holding her hand. They’d gone very still together, even as the place was still recovering from the uproar.

  He ran his thumb lightly over her fingers, tracing each knuckle in turn, gently, slowly.

  It was officially a caress.

  A statement.

  And her head lifted slowly to look into his eyes.

  And there was no reason to keep holding on to her. But he didn’t want to let her go.

  And she didn’t pull away.

  “Punch with the knuckles on the outside,” she said softly, finally. “Use the first two knuckles. The way you and Jon . . .”

  She stopped.

  Froze.

  Realizing what she was about to say.

  The way you and Jonah taught me, she almost said.

  She looked up at him. A hunted, furious sort of yearning look flickered across her face.

  “Anything else hurt, Glory?” He risked, softly.

  He knew what the answer was.

  Only everything.

  He could have said same here.

  Suddenly, from seemingly out of nowhere, fucking Franco Francone emerged from the remainder of the milling crowd, strolled across the stage, and sat down in the middle of it right next to Glory, as if he owned the damn place. As if he owned her. As if he was the rock star. And he looked like a rock star: tall and whip lean, black shirt open at the throat worn over a pair of jeans, some kind of leather necklace thing around his neck, very expensive-looking boots that the jerks in Oasis or what have you probably wore.

  Glory gently pulled her hand away from Eli.

  Folded it in her lap.

  Eli’d stirred up the old pain and it was going to stay stirred and there was nothing he could do about it at the moment.

  “Evening, Deputy,” Francone drawled. “Glory . . . what can I say? You were glorious.”

  “Where the hell were you, Francone, when she was in the middle of that fight?”

  Francone’s head jerked toward Eli. They locked gazes for a moment of raw, mutual, undisguised dislike.

  Glory watched this warily, shocked.

  It was very unlike Eli to be so very blatant. And rude.

  “I was in the poolroom, Deputy. The guy went up there with a kazoo, for God’s sake. No sane person would stick around for that. And I had to go hide my tears after she sang the hell out of ‘Songbird.’ By the time I came out to check out th
e ruckus it was pretty much over.”

  Eli swiveled his head toward Glory. “You sang ‘Songbird’?”

  He hadn’t meant to make it sound like an accusation.

  Glory held his gaze a moment. And then she shrugged with one shoulder. “Seemed like that kind of night. Felt like I . . . felt like I needed it.”

  The last time he’d heard her sing that was the night they’d taken his father’s ashes down to the creek.

  He often thought the only reason he hadn’t lost it that night was because that song, and the way Glory sang it, had done the crying for him.

  And finally, as the three of them sat there, Eli was able to put his finger on one of the things that bothered him about Franco Francone: it was the sheer indolence of the man. As if Glory wasn’t something he needed to fight for or earn or live up to.

  As if he quite simply had the right to her just by virtue of who he was.

  Eli stood up from the stage abruptly, driven by some sharp knot in his gut. He took a few steps back from the two of them.

  “Eli!” And to his surprise, Bethany half jogged half skipped over to him and looped a friendly arm through his.

  “Hey!” He smiled down at her. “I didn’t know you were here! Are you all right?”

  “I was here for the chamber of commerce thing earlier—I got an informal invitation, and I’m kind of representing the crew on The Rush, and I stayed for Glory’s show. I was hiding behind the counter with my hands over my head.”

  “Sensible,” he complimented her.

  That was for Glory’s benefit.

  Glory fixed him with a dark look.

  “But I popped out to watch when you guys came in to break it up. That was so impressive, watching you be a cop and wrestle all the bad guys into handcuffs and stuff.”

  “Yeah. Wrestling people into handcuffs is what he does best,” Glory said laconically.

  Fuck it. He ignored that.

  “I’ve never incited a riot,” Bethany said. “That was very rock and roll of you, Glory.”

  Glory wished she could have replied “It was a first for me, too,” but she wasn’t entirely certain that was true.

  “Thanks” was what she settled upon, finally.

  “Franco should have gotten in there,” Bethany added. “He’s amazing at martial arts. Those fight scenes in Blood Brothers were amazing. And didn’t you give a demonstration on Ellen once? I have a friend who helps choreograph fights for TV and movies. It’s very cool.”

  “I don’t usually like to get into the middle of fights for the hell of it,” Franco said easily. “Not anymore, anyway. I pretty much reserve my fighting for the camera.”

  “And then when you’re done fighting on camera someone like Bethany fixes your mascara for you?” Eli asked mildly.

  Whoa!

  Glory shot Eli a worried look, astounded.

  And the look those two exchanged then was enough to make the hairs stand up on the back of her neck.

  One fight with her in the middle of it was enough for the evening.

  Bethany seemed to miss all the undertones and undercurrents, but then, she wasn’t precisely listening for them. “Well, it’s not so much mascara as it is a sort of clear gel, Eli,” she said brightly. “At least that’s what I usually use for guys. Makes their lashes more distinct. Glory, you have a little bit of . . .”

  And then Bethany’s pretty face was right up in Glory’s face, and she was squinting her doe eyes and chummily removing a bit of schmutz from below Glory’s eyes.

  She’d probably been splashed with beer. She was definitely sweating a little from trying to pull that guy off poor Wade.

  Who was off to the side, holding ice to his face. Sherrie was fussing over him.

  Bethany laughed. “Sorry. Force of habit. Most so-called waterproof mascara is actually only water resistant. Not everyone knows that. But I just have to tell you . . . you’re so talented, Glory. It was absolutely beautiful and you made me cry, but you see? No running.” She pointed to her own eyes. “I can’t believe you haven’t been discovered yet.”

  “I agree it is a wonder,” Glory said ironically.

  Glenn bustled over, looking mostly unruffled. It wasn’t the first melee the Misty Cat had seen over its storied history, not by a long shot, and probably wouldn’t be its last. Most of the damage could just be swept up off the floor.

  “Hey, kiddo. We haven’t had a fight in here in a long time, so I guess we were overdue. You gonna help clean up some of this mess? Mop’s in the back.”

  Life, such as hers was, went on. She was probably lucky he didn’t fire her for being drunken Mick’s muse.

  “Sure,” she said glumly. “Of course.”

  Glenn pivoted around and raised his arms up into the air like Moses accepting the commandments. “OUT! Unless you’re a deputy or one of my employees or the deputies need to talk to you, time to get on out! Good night and thanks for coming!”

  Glory looked back at Eli.

  Eli’s head was ducked close to Bethany’s, the better to hear what she was saying. They were walking as they talked, drifting closer and closer to the door. What on earth did they talk about? Eli probably did a lot of listening.

  But it wasn’t hard to see why Eli would like Bethany. Not only was she both genuinely nice and hot, she was probably pretty soothing company. And, as she’d said, she’d never incited a riot, thereby making his job a little harder to do.

  Her head felt peculiarly light.

  And then she realized she’d tightened every muscle in her body as she watched Eli with Bethany. As if she was literally bracing for or about to withstand a knife attack.

  Franco slid gracefully forward and took Eli’s place next to her. He was close enough to her now that she could smell him. And he smelled clean and expensive and exotic.

  She sincerely doubted she smelled anywhere near as good at the moment. Unless he considered a splash of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale an aphrodisiac.

  He seemed to be considering what to say. He leaned forward and folded his hands on his knees.

  “Glory . . . you’re astonishingly talented. I was just blown away. I’m not just saying that, even though it would be like me to just say that.”

  “Thank you,” she said carefully. After a moment. She cast a sidelong look at him, reluctant to give him her full attention. For some reason, it seemed critical to keep Eli and Bethany in her sights. “That means a good deal.”

  “Listen,” Franco said suddenly. “I want to take you out to dinner. I want to discover more reasons to like you.”

  She pivoted toward him, for some reason stung. “Some invitation, Franco. I might be no angel but I sure as hell don’t jump just because a hot actor ‘wants’ me to.” She put wants in air quotes.

  He blinked.

  She immediately regretted the outburst.

  He regarded her for one assessing moment, and then his mouth quirked wryly.

  “You’re absolutely right, Glory. I apologize. You’ve had a rough night, and I could have done and should have done that with more grace. I was just trying to be macho, like that cop. He really doesn’t like me, does he?”

  “Deputy,” she corrected. “And nope. He really doesn’t.”

  Franco gave a short, humorless laugh at that.

  “You’re just . . . very different guys,” she tried to explain. “Oil and water.”

  “I’ll say,” Franco muttered.

  Franco swung his legs, and the heels of his boots thumped the stage.

  “Okay. I get why you wouldn’t believe me when I say this, and why it sounds like a line, but I genuinely want to know you. I suspect you don’t have a boring bone in your admittedly very appealing body. Is it okay if I point out that last part?”

  She sighed. She turned to look at him full on. He was worth looking at, for sure.

  He was amusing, she’d hand him that. She could field his kind of flirtation until the cows came home.

  “Just . . . take this.” He held out a card. “All m
y contact info is on it.”

  She hesitated. It felt oddly portentous.

  Then, because there was really no reason not to take it, she did. Gingerly. And looked down at it.

  And in a dizzying flash she could imagine the kinds of people he might know, the connections in entertainment that fanned out from him like spokes on a wheel.

  She stole a glance toward the door. Eli was now conferring with the rest of the deputies; he seemed to be issuing orders. They’d apparently stuffed all the various handcuffed guys into their cruisers, Mick included.

  Bethany was hovering off to the side. As though she was waiting for him.

  And then, suddenly, he was out the door. And out of sight.

  And so was Bethany.

  Glenn shut the door behind them.

  The sound of that closed door seemed to echo unduly in the now mostly empty restaurant.

  Glory stared at it.

  She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I’m really sorry I snapped at you,” she said to Franco.

  He shrugged. “Hey, I deal with actresses all the time. That was nothing.” He made the word actresses sound like live ammunition. “You got your cell phone on you?”

  “Nope.” She didn’t volunteer that it was because she didn’t currently have a cell phone. She and her mother had trimmed everything but the bare essentials from the budget.

  “Text me if you want to have dinner with a ‘hot actor.’” He used air quotes, too.

  She smiled at that, albeit crookedly.

  Her heavy heart seemed to be holding down the other side of that smile.

  He smiled back at her. And damn, but he was a gorgeous devil. He really knew it, too, and was pretty happy and content about it. His looks were like his Porsche: something he possessed that made most of his days much more pleasant than everyone else’s days.

  They continued gazing at each other, and for a wild moment, she thought he intended to kiss her.

  For a wild moment, she thought she might not mind.

  But not for the right reasons. Which were: She wanted a distraction from being herself. She wanted to be reminded that she was wanted.

  But Franco apparently had more discretion than that. “See you at The Baby Owls’ show, regardless?” he said lightly.