Mercy Kill_ A Mystery - Lori Armstrong [17]
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