Mercy Kill_ A Mystery - Lori Armstrong [81]
Belly full, I focused on the TV screen above the bar, featuring ESPN Classic. I wondered why anyone would watch a sporting event for which the winning outcome had been determined years ago. Then I realized it wasn’t any different than watching a repeat episode of a favorite TV show or a movie. ESPN was running an encore presentation of the 2002 National Finals Rodeo in Las Vegas.
South Dakota cowboys were well represented in the bareback and saddle-bronc categories. I groaned along with the two older Indian guys at the bar, when the heelers in the team-roping division had a devil of a time catching a single hind leg on the calf, let alone two. Trevor Brazile wore the sponsorship colors and insignia of the U.S. Army, which made him my favorite for the coveted all-around title.
The bulldogging section started. I liked watching buff cowboys launching off a galloping horse and throwing a steer into the dirt as much as the next woman, but nature called. And I did not want to miss my favorite event: bull riding.
A crowd in the bar meant a long line for the ladies’ room. Five minutes later I couldn’t cut through the mob to get back to my seat. No surprise a fight had broken out. I looked around for the bouncer and remembered Stillwell’s didn’t employ one.
About then the group shifted, and I saw a jock pummeling a cowboy half his size.
Money exchanged hands among the spectators. Betting on a fair fight was one thing. The scared-rabbit look in the cowboy’s blood-caked eye indicated he was way out of his league.
I looked at the bully—an Indian male in his late teens. A fatheaded, ham-fisted, mean-faced bully. When he smacked the cowboy in the jaw and his teeth clacked together, I’d seen enough.
Snagging a pool cue, I wound through the crowd of voyeurs and moved in behind the jock. I whacked him on the back of the thighs, dropping him to his knees. Then I pulled the pool cue across his windpipe and jerked him against my body, trapping his calves between my boots.
All this took about ten seconds.
His hands clawed at the stick that was cutting off his air supply.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I demanded, directing my question to the bully as much as the worthless ghouls watching the scene unfold without stopping it.
Infuriated and humiliated, the cowboy regained his composure. He roared and charged, his pointed boot connected with the jock’s groin. Hard.
Male groans filled the air, and a few even cupped their nuts in sympathy.
Although I had zero compassion for the bully, I released the pool cue, allowing him to clutch his crotch and curl into a fetal position on the floor. Before I could enjoy hearing him gasp in pain, I was blindsided by a fist to the head.
Dots wavered in front of my eyes. Motherfucking son of a bitch, that hurt. On autopilot, I turned, blocked other blows with the pool cue, and swept the guy’s feet out from under him. Once he was flat on his back, with my foot pressed into his throat, I placed the chalked end of the pool cue on his forehead. “Consider yourself lucky I didn’t crack your skull open for that sucker punch, asshole.”
Red-faced jock number 2 glared at me as he gasped for breath.
I hadn’t even broken a sweat. Fights lasted an eternity on TV and the movies, but in real life? Sometimes it just took one punch. I twirled the chalked tip of the cue across his brow, leaving a blue smear. “Get the hell out of here. Both of you.” I released him, gripping the pool stick like a baseball bat until they scampered away like cockroaches.
Murmurs started. The buzz danced up my spine like burrowing insects. People avoided me, including one stoop-shouldered man I recognized as my dad’s buddy, Denver Jordan, who gave me the stink eye.
I braced myself for his recriminations. Putting myself on display. My utter lack of femininity. Shaming