Bad Attitude (WereWitch Book 1)

by Renée Jaggér

  Jurgensen stood before the young man with his hands on his hips, his bony face displaying a hint of sympathy but mostly annoyance.

  “You’re under arrest, my friends,” he stated, “although you are entitled to medical attention as well. Don’t you worry about that.”

  “What?” Chris protested as the two paramedics circled around the two cops to examine him and his friends.

  Jurgensen by now had shifted his right hand to the nightstick at his belt. “Go picking fights by calling her a ‘bitch’ again and I’ll billy-club you myself.”

  Pouting as he slowly climbed to his feet and wincing from all the blows he’d taken, as well as his twisted ankle, Chris stammered, “But I thought you were protecting us! ‘To protect and serve,’ isn’t that you guys’ motto or something?”

  “Yeah,” said Jurgensen. His partner came up beside him. “That is protecting you, dumbass. You boys look familiar. If you’re from around here, I would’ve thought you’d understand things in this town have a unique way of working. If you’re knocked unconscious, you can’t go around spewing stupid, troublemaking shit like that where her brothers will have to take notice.”

  All four of the defeated quartet were now fully conscious again and either sitting, kneeling, or standing. All their heads turned toward the other quartet at the bar.

  Bailey was ignoring them, focused on her beer. Her brothers, though, were staring menacingly at the dance floor. Even the smallest of them was almost the same size as the beefy dude who’d punched Bailey on the cheek. The eyes of the huge towering one practically smoldered, as if he were fantasizing about murder and giving serious consideration to making his daydream a reality.

  Those on the dance floor all looked at the floor or walls instead.

  The paramedics finished their examinations and one of them stood up.

  “Okay,” he began, “two broken ribs on the big guy. Broken wrist on the skinny guy. The gentleman over there has a mild concussion, and this guy,” he pointed at Chris, “doesn’t have any major injuries we can identify, but we’d better look him over in more detail.”

  “Right,” Jurgensen assented. “Do so.”

  The paramedics led the four battered ruffians out the front door, aside from the largest one with the busted ribs, whom they’d placed on a gurney. The other cop chaperoned the group while Officer Jurgensen hung back, then slowly strolled toward the bar and came to a halt beside Bailey.

  “You, young lady,” he intoned, “need to work on managing your anger. I’m getting pretty tired of these kinds of incidents.”

  Bailey puckered her lips out in a fake pout. “Aww, but Officer, this is how I manage it.”

  “Real cute,” Jurgensen replied. “But see to it that you don’t manage it into some kind of disaster that brings in the press or the outside authorities. I’m willing to overlook crap like this to a point out of respect for your family, and Sheriff Browne understands. It’s another thing entirely if the State Police—or, God help us, the feds—get involved.”

  Kurt piped up. “Dang! I didn’t know the FBI investigated bar brawls these days.” He sipped his Coke. Jacob shot him a glance, not sure whether to smack him or burst out laughing.

  “Watch it,” Jurgensen grumbled, and strode out the front door without further words.

  As he exited, he passed a woman coming in, a blonde in her early thirties or so—Tomi, the long-time waitress, who usually worked both lunch and dinner.

  Tomi glanced around. “Damn, looks like I just missed the excitement.” Shaking her head, she went to get her apron.

  Meanwhile, another of the handful of spectators, most of whom seemed disappointed that the fight was over already, wandered toward Bailey. He was a good old boy in his late twenties or so with an almost perfectly round goatee.

  “Hey,” he interjected, “you’re Bailey Nordin, aren’t you? You work at the body shop, right?”

  The girl took another swig of beer. “Yeah, that’s me,” she confirmed. “Don’t work there as much as I ought yet, though.” She gestured behind her with a nod of her head. “And those three guys over there are my little brothers.”

  The guy waved at them but did not make eye contact for long. “They don’t look all that little, but okay. Listen, I was thinking of doing some improvements on my truck.”

  Bailey perked up and gave the young man her full attention. “Oh, really? And what was your name again? Don’t think you mentioned.”

  Her new friend smiled. “Chris. No relation to that other guy you just beat up, ha, don’t worry. See, I was thinking my truck could stand to be lifted—you know, so it sits higher on the wheels—and maybe add a flame decal on the front. And an oil change.”

  “Really?” Bailey quipped. “Well, we could get you set up at the shop, or I can give you some tips on how to do it yourself, although it helps if you already know a few things about motor vehicle repair and improvement.”

  The Nordin brothers watched as Bailey regaled the guy with a virtual encyclopedia’s worth of knowledge about the intricacies of cars and trucks—all sorts of technical details and obscure procedures. Chris the Second nodded along, although something in his eyes suggested he was growing increasingly baffled and was uncomfortable because he didn’t know what she was talking about.

  “And there goes her chance at love,” Kurt lamented, shaking his head sadly even as he bit down the corner of his lip to keep from smiling. He drained the last of the Coke from his glass and then used it to gesture at the eldest brother. “I blame Jacob.”

  Jacob snorted. “Hey, now. Learning vehicular maintenance and how to improve cars is a noble calling, in addition to being a useful skill. People make a living off that shit. Besides, who was it got her into fighting and whetted her taste for that?”

  He and Kurt both looked at Russell, not bothering to venture answers, and not expecting one. It was pretty much a rhetorical question.

  The tallest of the trio shrugged his huge shoulders. “It was either fight with her or put up with her wanting to play ‘tea party’ with me. What would you have done?”

  Russell’s voice was so deep it was almost a thunderous rumble. Hearing it, Cheryl, the newer waitress who’d been there when the brothers had first sauntered in, shivered despite herself.

  The second woman, Tomi, had just gotten her apron on, and could not help noticing her coworker sneaking glances at the brothers, the huge Russell in particular.

  Tomi sauntered up to Cheryl and put her face just above her shoulder, lips aimed at her ear.

  “Why do you think I’ve kept this dead-end job for all these years?” she whispered. “The eye candy, and ear candy too, is worth another hundred dollars a week, minimum.”

  Cheryl tried not to blush. “I can understand that.” She’d already encountered Jacob a few times, and it always made her day when he actually spoke to her beyond just the formalities. Now, though, she wasn’t sure if she liked him or Russell better.

  Tomi snickered and pretended to adjust her apron. “Well, if you do move on for greener pastures, you ought to make sure you have a list of local girls who’ll want to be notified when the position becomes vacant. Some of them will even pay you money for the privilege. Helps them get a jump on the competition to fill your spot.”

  The younger waitress did blush now, although she had to acknowledge that Tomi had made a damn good point.

  Both women strolled toward the side of the bar, headed for the break area, where Cheryl would take five minutes to have herself a drink and Tomi would finish the preparations for her shift.

  Tomi added an extra tidbit to the conversation they’d had a moment ago. “You know, there’s already a few other gals with money down on this, and not people you’d necessarily expect.” She laughed.

  Cheryl smiled. “Oh, really?”

  “Yup. And Mr. Quaile, he don’t mind the fights too much as long as nobody gets killed or anything like that. It brings in customers. Boys come in after Bailey, and so do her brothers,” she explained
. “And then all the ladies come in after Jacob and Russell and Kurt.”

  They disappeared into the rear corner where the small break table was set up, and Cheryl laughed openly as she took a seat. “Makes sense.” She grabbed the water bottle she’d left there and took a swig as Tomi checked her makeup in a pocket mirror.

  Back out in the dining-and-drinking area, Chris the Second had excused himself from the premises. Bailey finished her beer with an appreciative “ahh,” and placed the bottle firmly on the bar. Mr. Quaile retrieved it at once and added it to the empties tub.

  Kurt looked at her. “You know, alcohol has a drying effect,” he pointed out. “So really, after all that exercise, you ought to be hydrating with some good old-fashioned water.”

  Bailey snorted and ruffled her younger brother’s hair. “Be quiet, Kurt. It’s not the same thing as whiskey. Beer’s mostly water anyway, isn’t it? Besides, I’m out of here.”

  Jacob raised an eyebrow. “Where you headed?”

  She put her hands on her hips and her hazel eyes went distant. “Think I’m gonna go back to the shop,” she answered him. “Clear my head and relieve some stress after all this nonsense. I swear, a girl can’t even come in for a morning beer anymore without having to deal with idiots like those guys.”

  Quaile the bartender waved to her. “You can come in for a beer anytime you want, Bailey. Just do like the officer said and don’t bust things up too much. You’re good for business, and we all know you’re well over twenty-one.”

  She waved back without looking at him and turned to leave. Something the man had just said seemed to have rankled her.

  Tomi stood near the door in a position where she could delay Bailey’s exit, forcing her to acknowledge her but not technically blocking her.

  The waitress caught the younger woman’s eye. “Bailey, dear, pardon my asking, but, how old are you, again? I don’t recall.”

  Bailey frowned, and again her eyes took on a distant cast, as though her mind were far away. The next Gathering of the Packs would be happening sooner than she’d like.

  Rather than answer Tomi’s question directly, she just said, “Not twenty-five. Not yet.”

  Chapter Two

  Gunney’s Auto Repair Shop was less than half a mile from the Bristling Elk, so Bailey just walked. It was a cool day, mostly cloudy and with scattered showers that dropped proper rain for a few minutes, then misted for half an hour, and then went dry, only to return an hour later and repeat the whole process.

  That was nothing new here, and Bailey wasn’t afraid of the great outdoors or the natural elements. Braving them was in her blood.

  The Bristling Elk lay on Main Street, which ran through the center of town—the lowest, flattest part of the valley. From there, almost anyplace else was going to be at least slightly uphill.

  Her path took her a short way down Main, then she hung a left and walked down 7th Street for a quarter mile or so, passing the gun store and the hardware store, as well as the office of a small regional credit union, the road undulating as it sloped upward into the Cascade foothills. The mountains, thickly forested with pines of dark emerald and swathed in white mist, loomed ahead.

  A kid on a bike aged ten or so rode by in the opposite direction, gravity lending him speed beyond what his legs could do. His hair and coat flapped in the damp, chilly air. He caught sight of Bailey and waved a hand at her as he flashed by.

  She returned the gesture, then turned to look after him. “Be careful,” she shouted. If he didn’t start braking, he might burst out into the main road too fast to stop if a car was coming. She stopped to watch him. To her relief, he killed his speed near the intersection and then took a right, rather than crossing the street.

  A couple of minutes later, the shop appeared, squatting comfortably on a broad and otherwise empty lot. It was separated from a nearby residential neighborhood by just enough of a state-owned, wooded slope to avoid any trouble with the zoning commission.

  Most of the building was a faded ivory color, although a stripe near the top of the structure, as well as the logo, were bright red to make the place more visible to those who might need its services. Nothing about it was fancy, but it didn’t need to be. Just stepping onto the lot felt like coming home.

  Bailey saw that all three bays were open, and cars sat on all three of the lifts. It looked like they were only working on the two to the left, but Gunney and his boys probably meant to move on to the third within the hour.

  She quickly identified the vehicles. On the left was a dark blue ’96 Toyota Camry; not the most exciting car, but a reliable one, and it appeared that the owner had tried to take good care of it. Most people in these parts took vehicle maintenance seriously and attempted to hold on to their rides for as long as they reasonably could.

  Next, up on the central lift, was something a little more interesting: a ’95 Ford F-150 pickup truck, two-tone. The colors were divided horizontally across the body, the lower half of the truck being cherry-red, and the top half snowy-white. Something about it reminded her of an oversized peppermint.

  In her opinion, it would have looked cooler with red on top and white on bottom, but that’d put the white part closer to all the dirt and mud hereabouts. She had to respect the owner’s decision.

  Finally, on the left was a maroon Chevy Blazer, apparently ancient. She couldn’t determine the year just by looking at the damn thing. Mildly embarrassing, but it wasn’t one of her favorite models, and even she couldn’t keep track of everything.

  Besides, she somehow suspected that it belonged to someone from out of town. Greenhearth didn’t get many visitors, but occasionally someone from a neighboring town would bring their vehicle in for cheaper repairs than what they could get at home.

  Or, alternately, “mountain virgins” from Seattle or Portland or California would pop their shitty tires trying to get up a winding dirt road to a scenic overlook or something and have to haul their cars in. Gunney took all comers.

  In front of her, a full-timer named Gary emerged from the front office, carrying a candy bar he’d bought from the vending machine. He was apparently on his way back to the pit. “Hi, Bailey,” he greeted her. “I thought this was your day off.”

  “Hi,” she replied. “It is, but don’t tell Gunney that. He doesn’t need to know.”

  Chuckling, Gary disappeared behind the F-150.

  Bailey approached the bays and saw Gunney standing next to the Camry, half-leaning against the wall and looking over a clipboard. Presumably it held the sheet that summed up the vehicle’s current ills. She was pretty sure he’d heard or even sensed her coming, but he didn’t look up just yet.

  She spoke first. “Hey, Gunney. What’s up? You need any help?” She stood, waiting in her sweater and jeans and boots, hands in her pockets.

  “Maybe,” he mumbled, distracted. Then he looked up and his bright green eyes focused on her.

  Gunney was probably between fifty and fifty-five. Bailey had never bothered to ask him how old he was, although he was of an age with her father. In fact, someone who didn’t know any better might wonder if perhaps he was her father.

  Both the man and the girl had dark brown hair, although Gunney’s, along with his beard, had turned the color of dull iron in many places and had fallen out entirely in others. There was a similar earthy toughness to their features and in the way they carried themselves. Both spoke using some of the same turns of phrase.

  The one area in which they didn’t resemble each other was in height, at least relative to their respective sexes. Gunney was about an inch shorter than Bailey. He claimed to have been taller in his youth.

  “So,” he began, his tone more jovial than his words, “what are you doing here? Trying to sabotage my business? I’m almost positive I recall giving you today off. Why don’t you head down to the Elk?”

  His eyes twinkled, and he removed his navy-blue baseball cap and wiped his brow with the cleaner part of a rag he’d been using to rub away oil residue. The hat s
lid back onto his head with the perfect ease of familiarity.

  “Gunney, dammit,” Bailey stated, “I just came from the Elk. How do you think I got this?” She pointed to the bruise on her cheek. “That whole business kinda left a sour taste in my mouth. There’s just no escape from assholes anymore, I swear. Around this place, people are at least a little more civilized.”

  One of the other mechanics, who had apparently been listening to them, burst out in snorting, barking laughter at that. Bailey extended her middle finger in his general direction but kept her eyes on Gunney.

  The older man smiled in a faint, wistful fashion. “I take it you didn’t get into any serious trouble. Mighty nice of the sheriff’s deputies to cut you some slack. Anyway, what else is on your mind?”

  “Shit,” she countered, “I don’t even know. Everything, I guess.” She kicked an empty motor oil bottle out of the walking path and toward the big metal trash can in the corner, where no one would be liable to trip over it.

  “I see.” Gunney nodded. “Well, the Camry here needs the truck to come in before we can get to it, and the F-150 is just minor stuff, so I ain’t in a hurry at the moment.”

  Bailey shrugged. “I guess… I don’t know. Sometimes I just get tired of the fact that everyone in this valley—hell, this whole section of the mountains—seems to know who I am and everything about me. You know? Also, what’s with the candy-cane paint job on that truck? Little too much holiday spirit if you ask me.”

  The mechanic glanced to the side. “It’s solid red and solid white. It ain’t a mass of swirly stripes. Not sure why it makes you think of a candy cane. Anyway, the paint job is none of our business. Just the oil and the filter. Oh, and the oxygen sensor.”

  She made a sour, pouty face. “Yeah, yeah, fair enough, old man. Gotta be all respectful to the customers.”

  He waved one of his thick, callused hands. “Anyway, I know what you mean. About people knowing too much about you, that is. Well, more or less. I grew up down in Bend. It was a lot smaller back then, and everyone knew everyone else. Everyone talked about everyone else. By the time I was about your age, I’d just about had enough of it.”