Whiskey Sour (Crow Bar Brute Squad Book 3)

by Abby Knox

  Whiskey Sour

  Abby Knox

  Copyright © 2021 by Abby Knox

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Edited by Aquila Editing

  Cover by Mayhem Cover Creations

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Abby Knox

  Chapter One

  Dash

  * * *

  Scanning the crowd of usual drunks and sketchy characters at Crow Bar that night, Dash felt uneasy.

  "You look on edge."

  The statement rang right in his left ear from Dash's fellow bouncer at Crow Bar, Levi Spanos. The new bar owner had insisted on the entire staff wearing headsets as if they were a security team at a pop concert. Dash felt ridiculous wearing those things.

  "It's the stupid headsets," Dash grumbled into the mic. "Keeps getting tangled in my hair."

  Even though Levi was clear on the other side of the room, keeping an eye on some drunk college girls, Dash could detect the note of sarcasm when Levi replied, "That must be it. I'm sure a man bun will solve your problems."

  Dash shot back, "Stay in your lane, buddy. You know, the lane with the college students you're so fond of." Dash knew that low blow would have earned him an elbow to the gut. Levi had met his college-age girlfriend Fiona when that loudmouth creep Jerry Walls had harassed her. Though what the governor's daughter was doing at Crow Bar, the roughest bar in Newcastle, was anyone's guess.

  Tonight, there were more college students than usual. Having been the spot where, on New Year's Eve, the capo's punk son had attempted to shoot the governor, Crow Bar had become somewhat of a tourist spot for all kinds of locals who would never otherwise set foot south of the river.

  Not only were those new customers unaccustomed to the neighborhood, but the Brute Squad had the challenge of preventing dust-ups between the newbies and the surly dockworkers, loudmouth drunks, sailors on leave, wise guys, biker gangs, and — god forbid — The Recruiter. Two women had disappeared from Dockside in the last year, but police and FBI had yet been unable to connect the disappearances to organized crime. Nobody knew who The Recruiter was, but when the alcohol flowed, wise guys talked. And the bar staff low-key listened to every conversation.

  Apart from the headset, Dash had no specific reason to feel as if he was standing on the edge of a knife that night. The crowd was relatively calm. The usual customers were in a good mood, even. For a good reason: The city's top crime boss, Ralph Girardi, and his top generals were sitting in jail awaiting trial for suspected ties to the political assassination attempt. The FBI was investigating the Miami Mafia, which had attempted to poach the Girardi family's assets in the meantime. And Dockside's longtime corrupt representation on city council had just been arrested on bribery charges.

  The vibe was slightly less paranoid around the neighborhood and likewise in the neighborhood's favorite bar.

  Just as Dash had begun to talk himself out of his hyper-vigilant state, she walked in.

  Harper Ross.

  His spidey-sense must have been tingling; her presence anywhere always set Dash's teeth on edge. Apart from the Ross and the Fitzgerald families' immovable hatred for each other, Harper Ross was simply a thorn in his side.

  She was always prancing into Crow Bar, fired up about something, gathering signatures for a cause, drawing attention to herself.

  Dash positioned himself on the far wall, and Holden, handling the door, warned him via the headset. "Firecracker incoming."

  His best friend, Holden, used that code word to talk about Harper. The term was appropriate. With her red curls, small size, and zippy way of talking people into joining whatever cause she was into at the moment, she was the embodiment of a firecracker.

  That night, she walked right up to Holden, her clipboard in hand. Dash rolled his eyes, readying himself for a lecture.

  "Did you know about the sinkhole on Tenth Street?"

  He sighed. "Yeah. Everybody knows about it."

  She held out a pen. "Good. Then you'll be relieved to know that tonight is your last chance to sign my petition to get the old underground tunnels filled in and tell the city that Dockside will not be ignored during the current budget talks. Are you listening to me?"

  Dash was listening, but he was also watching a creepy-looking dude who was staring at Harper's backside.

  "Not really. You should go."

  She cocked her head. "Am I making you look uncool in front of your Butthead Squad?"

  "Brute. We're called the Brute Squad, and you know that we didn't make up that name. Also, you know my name is Dash."

  Harper smirked. "Oh, I know lots of things. I also know the sinkhole adds extra delivery time for the bar's suppliers since the trucks have to be re-routed through alleyways and other streets that can't handle the weight, which will ultimately result in more sinkholes…you see where I'm going with this?"

  Dash had been trying not to look at her but then finally made eye contact. Her blue eyes narrowed, awaiting a response.

  Dash was ready for her to be gone. He didn't like how some of the sketchier folks in the bar turned to look at her the louder she voiced her opinions. And he didn't like her, or the way she tried to rile him.

  He tried to maintain his calm. "That's more a concern for Declan. Why don't you go talk to him about that shit?"

  Declan O'Donnell had owned Crow Bar for a month, and he, in typical newbie fashion, welcomed Harper every time she stopped by to harass the staff and customers. The fact that his hipster boss enjoyed Harper's visits just made Dash resent her presence more.

  Harper quirked an eyebrow. "I already got Declan. You're the only staff here who hasn't signed." She waved the pen in the air. "So what do you say? I'll even let you throw in a free pot shot at me as a thank you. I won't even argue."

  Dash glared down at her. "If by signing this, it'll mean I won't have to see you coming in here to be a little mosquito in my ear ever again, yammering on about shit I don't care about, then fuck yes. I'll sign all the things. Please, god, save me from the red-haired menace of Dockside."

  Right away, Dash knew he'd gone too far. He stared down at Harper and waited for the fallout. He saw her narrowed eyes soften slightly. H
er nostrils flared. He'd hurt her feelings, and he'd have to apologize. But he would never. A Fitzgerald never apologized to a Ross.

  In that half of a second that felt like a century, Dash watched her face change to conceal the hurt. She always had that sass chambered and ready.

  "Typical Fitzgerald, thinking everything I do is about making your life miserable. Get a grip, and stop obsessing about me, why don't you?"

  With that, Harper spun around and left, but not before collecting a couple more signatures on the way out.

  Dash could have been wrong, but he could have sworn she almost sashayed her little ass for his benefit as she walked away.

  As if that would ever, in a million years, do anything for him.

  As if her tight backside in those too-tight ripped jeans made him want to look. Or touch. Or grab…or shred that denim to smithereens.

  Or bend her over and tease her plump bottom until she cursed and begged for more.

  Nope. Harper would never make him think about anything like that. No matter how hard she tried.

  Harper was a Ross. He was a Fitzgerald. Who was he to let her try to crack through three, four generations of mutual loathing?

  At least the headset was good for one thing. "Billy," he said. "Make sure Harper gets to her car safely when she leaves."

  Chapter Two

  Harper

  * * *

  Harper Ross planted her feet on the sidewalk, bracing herself against the stiff wind that swept in from the harbor. She rarely cared about composing the perfect selfie, but that day, everything was about to change.

  Behind her in the frame towered the gothic structure that housed the Newcastle Dispatch, the face of its famous clock tower positioned just adjacent to Harper's head.

  That building was her favorite in the entire city, and that day she would enter its revolving doors as an employee.

  She must have looked every bit as hapless as she felt; after a few disappointing snaps, a young, professionally dressed woman about her age approached. "Need help with that selfie?"

  Harper thanked the woman and handed over her phone. After she was satisfied with the result—an authentic smile and not too much glare—the woman informed her she was headed inside to work and asked if she wanted a complimentary coffee mug from the newspaper gift shop on the main floor.

  Proudly and still barely able to believe she could legitimately say the words, Harper replied, "I work here, too! First day!"

  The woman introduced herself as Ainsley Donovan. Harper's mouth fell open. "I read your stories all the time." She stuck out her hand in greeting. "I'm Harper Ross. Greg just hired me—"

  Ainsley's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "The author of all those guest editorials? That Harper? Wow."

  Harper couldn't tell if the reporter—her favorite reporter—appeared pleased, shocked, or put off by this news.

  Flashing a smile, Harper said, "Weren't expecting them to offer me a job? I know, I don't have the same background necessarily, but I'm eager to learn."

  Ainsley shook her head. "No, it's not that. I thought you'd be a man."

  Harper didn't quite know what to say about that. "I guess my name could go either way. Sorry, does it matter?"

  Ainsley motioned them toward the revolving doors. "In general? No. It's just…well. We don't have enough male reporters and photographers to maintain an adequate buddy system when we go out to cover stories, that's all. Anyway, doesn't matter now, does it?"

  The seasoned reporter blew out a breath when they entered the lobby and looked Harper up and down. She seemed unimpressed by Harper's diminutive size. "Well, I've been assigned to give you the tour and orientation. Shall we?"

  Floor by floor, Ainsley guided Harper through each department of the media conglomerate. The company also operated a major television network on the second floor and at least three radio stations in Newcastle.

  But more exciting to Harper was the sixth floor: the archives. As Ainsley quickly explained how to access back issues of the Dispatch, Harper inhaled the scent of old paper and wood into her lungs. "This smells better than the distillery," she commented.

  Ainsley narrowed her eyes in confusion while in the middle of explaining how to handle papers of a certain age properly. Harper had to clarify that Horace Ross Distillery was a family business into which she'd been born.

  "Never heard of it, but I'll have to try it sometime. Anyway, on to pop your cherry. Hope you're not afraid of heights!"

  Confused, Harper looked from Ainsley to the archivist, who sat at his desk scanning pages on the most oversized scanner that Harper had ever seen, ignoring them both.

  "I…uh…" Harper rarely found herself at a loss for words, but Ainsley had such an odd assertiveness as she switched from one topic to the next.

  Ainsley looked a tinge exasperated with Harper. "It's an initiation thing for all new reporters. Don't worry; it's not a gang thing. We're not going to make you kill anybody."

  Harper cringed as that jokey comment echoed around in her head while following Ainsley back to the elevator and up to the building's top floor.

  When the elevator doors open, Ainsley stepped out into a sterile hallway of offices and clip-clopped to one end. At the end of the hall, she opened a narrow doorway and stepped onto an old, tight, twisting staircase.

  "We're technically not supposed to do this, for safety reasons, but every virgin reporter has to go up to the clock tower."

  "Oh. I'm not a virgin," Harper had said and then realized, when Ainsley had laughed, what she'd meant.

  "Sure you're not afraid of heights?" Ainsley repeated when they reached the top of the stairs, resting her hand on the handle of a latch above her head.

  "Honestly, I have a harder time with tight spaces like this stairway than heights."

  Ainsley's eyes flashed. She looked as if she'd done this orientation thing before. Opening the hatch and stepping out onto the landing, she beckoned Harper to follow her.

  Harper followed with ease, though she wished she'd worn a warmer coat, like the long coat Ainsley wore.

  The view from the clocktower was so beautiful, even on that cold, gray morning. "It really is a beautiful city, isn't it?" She turned around and faced the other direction. The other side of the river was her home, Dockside. From up there, she could see everything. All of her local haunts. The boardwalk and the Main Street access to the public beach. The docks, with all of the massive cargo ships being loaded and unloaded with goods and raw materials. Her school. Her house. Her family's business. Even that silly dive bar on Haven Street where the tallest, rudest jerk in the entire city worked. From up here, the whole neighborhood looked so quaint, she would never have guessed it was riddled with miscreants. She could even see the sinkhole along Tenth Street that the city had yet to barricade off for safety. Harper would be calling City Hall about that later. "Look," she said to Ainsley. "See that sinkhole? It collapsed like 600 feet away from my family's distillery, and it's had a major effect on business. It's because of the old underground tunnels. The paper should be writing about that. It's systemic neglect."

  Ainsley looked thoughtful. "We definitely should. Well, cherry popped. Welcome to the Newcastle Dispatch. Time for the budget meeting."

  Downstairs in the main newsroom, Harper finally felt like she had walked into the real deal. The old-school wooden desks, the smell of stale coffee, and the crackle of the police scanner mesmerized Harper immediately. The energy of the place was electric, just like a big city newspaper should be.

  However, the way they did things wasn't exactly how she had imagined. That first daily budget meeting at the Newcastle Dispatch was a lot more boring than what Harper had thought it would be.

  She had expected to hear about down and dirty crime stories. She'd looked forward to listening to grizzled reporters smarting off to their editor. She was low-key hoping to watch a verbal sparring match over revealing one source or another's identity.

  But none of that happened. A crowd of young-ish looking repo
rters gave updates about loads of stuff that Harper could not care less about, most of it to do with the university. Someone else talked about their trial coverage of the Girardi crime family and the Miami mafia syndicate's extradition. Not a single murder or undercover investigation was going on. The most grizzled staffer was an older man with a long gray ponytail who wrote a column about gardening.

  Suddenly, her boredom switched to discomfort as the spotlight was upon her. "Great run down, everyone. And before we head out, I'd like to introduce you to our newest staffer, Harper Ross. Fridays are usually pretty slow news days for us, so I thought today would be a good day to dive in and help her get to know how things work around here."

  Greg had kind eyes; everyone else blatantly sized her up as they introduced themselves one by one. They each had the same reserved and abrupt manner as Ainsley, as if they were all keeping their guard up about something.

  "I'll say this for her," Ainsley said, now having shed her coat and standing there looking ten times as stylish in her blazer as Harper. She tried not to worry too much about her jeans and sweater, as Greg had not mentioned a dress code. "Unlike some of you guys, she didn't faint like a little bitch at the tower initiation."

  Some laughed; others gave themselves away by looking at their feet.

  "Alright, alright," Greg said, taking back control of the meeting. "What do you have for us, Harper?"

  Instantly, Harper could feel her pulse beating in her throat. The managing editor was asking her to come up with her own story? Perfect. Well, I may as well go big or go home on my first day, she thought.