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John-John materialized beside me with a wooden Louisville Slugger baseball bat. He shouted to be heard above the din. “No more of that shit in here, or me ’n’ Louis will start busting heads.”

“But he started it,” Rocky complained, pointing to Jason.

“Jesus, Rocky. What are you? In third grade?” I demanded.

“I’m finishing it,” John-John said. “Any more questions?”

Muttering, background rumbles, but no one piped up to contradict John-John. No more bottles sailed through the smoke-clogged air.

“Mercy, doll, you okay?”

I touched my cheekbone and winced. “I’m fine.”

John-John loomed over Jason and spoke succinctly. “If I ever see you in here again, I’ll beat you bloody.”

Sometimes I forgot John-John wasn’t a pushover; he’d split his fair share of lips and heads. Any gay man who participated in the Sun Dance every year was truck tough. He’d forged this bar against all odds, building a place where past misdeeds didn’t matter as much as current cash.

“I’ll get him out of here.”

“No. He’ll either walk out or crawl out on his own, but either way he chooses to go, you ain’t helping him.”

That made no sense.

John-John met my confused gaze head on. “I can’t have you talking to him anymore, Mercy. Look around. My customers are pissed you didn’t let Mike and Rocky beat him to a pulp. Your job is to cater to the local folks who spend money in here week after week. You don’t owe this flight-by-night troublemaker nothin’.”

I owe him my life, danced on the tip of my tongue.

I ducked beneath the bar partition so John-John wouldn’t think I was helping J-Hawk to his feet.

He picked himself up off the floor and rested against the counter. “Looks like I’ll be drinking alone from here on out.” He slid me a twenty-dollar bill. “Can I get a bottle of Jim Beam to go?”

I brown-bagged the bottle and set it next to him. “What the hell were you thinking, spewing that shit? Were you looking for a fight?”

“Didn’t get much of one, did I?” he sneered.

I rolled my eyes at the former Army Ranger. “You against an entire bar? Did you whack your head on the concrete in your fall from grace?”

“I wish.” Jason grabbed the bottle, acting hesitant.

I didn’t want him to leave either, but I had no choice. “Where will you go?” I asked softly.

He shrugged. “Not far. But it’ll still feel like I’m light-years away from where I want to be.”

“Jason—”

“Go help your loyal local customers, Mercy. Forget about me.”

Although everyone stared at him, no one spoke to Jason as he walked out the door.

A bar fight put people in a drinking mood. John-John and I barely kept up. If he wasn’t out on the floor helping Winona take orders, he was behind the bar mixing drinks. I handled bottled and draft beer and poured straight shots. Even the traffic for off-sale booze stayed steady. At one point I had five customers in line.

Frazzled, I demanded, “IDs?” to a pair of underage punks.

“We’re buying beer for our dad. He’s out in the parking lot waitin’ for us.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh. He wants a suitcase of Keystone Light.”

“Got an ID?”

“No. But—”

“No ID, no beer.” I peered around him and shouted, “Next.”

“Come on,” the short blond argued, getting up in my face. “He’s right outside.”

The snot-nosed punk was high as a kite and spoiling for a fight. Not a good combo. After the night I’d had, not a smart move on his part to push me. “Then send him in.”

“He’s handicapped, and you ain’t got no wheelchair access,” the red-haired one sniveled. He rubbed the back of his hand beneath his nose. “It ain’t his fault he can’t come in and buy it himself. That’s why he sent us. So sell us the goddamn beer.”

I hated meth heads. These little lying sacks had thought of everything—except fake IDs. “Nice try. Let me repeat. No ID, no beer.”

One last glare at me and they spun away. But they stupidly approached the last guy in line.

I yelled, “I catch any of you buying booze for those two minors, and I will permanently blackball you, got it?”

No response, but they all looked to the real boss.

John-John