Kira Sinclair – Rescue Me (страница 2)

The mingled scents of beer, women and something earthy hit him as he walked through the heavy front door. The bar was huge, a big old wooden structure on the outskirts of San Antonio that, from the outside, looked like a run-down barn. But the inside...

The place was packed, even early on a Friday night. And not just with the wild boys from Lackland Air Force Base down the road. Men and women of all ages were mixing together. Laughing, dancing, sharing drinks.

“Hey, sugar. Can I get you anything?”

The redhead stared up at him with vibrant green eyes. If she was a day over twenty-one then he’d eat Duchess’s harness for breakfast tomorrow. Dewy, Southern-girl innocence clung to her like the scent of roses that swirled around him when she moved close.

Finn took the barest step away.

“A table and the darkest beer you have on draft.”

The redhead twittered, countering his move by inching closer and settling a hand on his arm. Dammit. He really wasn’t in the mood to get hit on by his waitress tonight. What he wanted was a dark, out-of-the-way corner, so he could sit and watch.

“The beer I can handle, but the table might be a problem. You should have gotten here a half hour ago if you wanted someplace to sit.”

Shifting, Finn moved so that the waitress’s hand fell away. “I’ll remember that for next time.”

“You do that,” she said, flashing a megawatt smile that probably won her a lot of tips. He didn’t have the heart to tell her it wouldn’t get her anywhere with him.

Heading toward the back wall, Finn found an empty spot in the shadows. It would work. A good place to observe.

Off to the side, a rowdy group crowded around a mechanical bull. They let out a raucous cheer as a huge dude got bucked off, hitting the mats with a resounding thud.

On the other side of the bar, the dance floor was packed. Couples were bumping and grinding to the country music blaring from speakers strategically placed all around. And was that...? Yes, it was. The mirrored ball revolving lazily over the floor was shaped like an armadillo.

That pretty much summed up the place. Quintessentially Southern honky-tonk tacky.

Reaching behind him, Finn found Duchess’s head and gave her a good scratch behind the ears. A German shepherd, Duchess was one of the best dogs he’d ever had the pleasure of handling.

Her demeanor was so calm, especially when working. Even as a puppy, she hadn’t been rambunctious like the others in her litter. She could scent the smallest amount of marijuana, the tiniest packet of cocaine lodged in some of the most insane cavities on the human body. She was a machine, and a very well-behaved one.

Several feet away, a group of rowdy thirtysomethings began to gather their things from a table. Finn took several steps in that direction, intending to claim the space while he had the chance. He’d been on his feet since before dawn this morning, called by his commanding officer when word of Freeman’s OD came in. His entire body ached, something he was hoping a beer would fix.

From the other direction, Finn noticed a group of college kids eyeing the same table. Not on your life.

Picking up the pace, Finn was intent on reaching it first, but a warm, golden voice had him halting in his tracks.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

It didn’t help that the words were accompanied by the most compact little dynamo slipping right in front of him and blocking his path.

Her hands were balled on lush hips, blond hair cascading in curls down her back. The deepest blue eyes he’d ever seen flashed at him, full of outright anger.

Over her shoulder, Finn watched the competition grab the chairs around the table, pull them out and plop their infantile butts down.

This was the most irritating end to a day full of shitty experiences.

“Hey, I’m talking to you. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

The tiny blonde, who tried to compensate for her five-foot-nothing height by wearing the most insanely impractical heels he’d ever seen in his life—even though she was still over half a foot shorter than he was—crowded into his personal space. Her finger landed in the center of his chest and she poked.

Her gaze darted behind him, landing on Duchess. Fear flashed across her expression before she tamped it down.

Great. It didn’t happen often, but occasionally Finn encountered people who were afraid of dogs. And while Duchess was one of the sweetest, gentlest animals he’d ever met, there was no getting around the fact that she was big and could be intimidating. That impression wasn’t helped when people learned she was a trained military dog.

Yes, she could take down bad guys, but only on command. Not that this woman wanted to hear that right now.

“You can’t bring a dog into a bar. Get him out of here.”

Finn cocked his head and for several seconds seriously considered picking her up and moving her out of his way. He bench-pressed more than she had to weigh. “Her.”

“What?”

“My dog is a her. Just because she’s big doesn’t mean she’s male.”

Shaking her head, the sprite of a woman said, “She can be male, female or in the process of gender reassignment for all I care. She doesn’t belong in my bar. Get her out of here.”

Her bar?

Finn let his gaze travel down her body again, a little more intrigued this time.

It fit. The impractical shoes were a perfect complement to the armadillo spinning lazily overhead. Her jeans were well worn and molded to her body. She might be small, but it was obvious she had curves in all the right places. And the black T-shirt she wore, emblazoned with the logo of a local craft beer, emphasized that fact.

As she leaned closer, the pressure from her finger increased. That was really beginning to irritate him.

“You have to leave,” she reiterated.

He could argue with her—actually, Duchess was legally allowed to be on the premises. But considering his purpose for being at the Kentucky Rose in the first place, it probably wasn’t a smart idea to piss off the owner. Yet.

So he’d try to cajole.

“I just ordered a beer.”

“Too bad. Your dog isn’t welcome.”

Or maybe not.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Finn stared down at her. “My dog is a highly trained military working dog. She’s a decorated war hero. She’s a hell of a lot better behaved than half the people in this tacky excuse for a bar.”

The minute the words were out of his mouth, Finn realized he’d made a tactical error. She might have been angry before, but now she was downright pissed.

Her skin flushed a deep pink. Her eyes turned glacier, but somehow still had the ability to burn straight through his skin.

“Tucker.” Someone yelled the name out across the crowd. He didn’t realize the voice was addressing the woman in front of him until the brute attached to it appeared behind her. You could’ve fit her inside the man’s clothes twice and had room to spare. But the guy was all frickin’ muscle.

Not that it particularly mattered to Finn. He’d fought guys bigger and badder than this one and come out on top.

“You need help with this guy, Tucker?” he asked, keeping his gaze trained on Finn.

Tucker. That was interesting. He’d never have pegged her for a Tucker, although something about the name fit. Unusual and dynamic, just like the woman.

“Nope. He and his dog were just leaving.” Her eyes flashed a warning. For some strange reason, he really wanted to ignore it, just to see what she’d do.

But out of the corner of his eye he saw several more men who were obviously the brute’s backup slide into place on either side of him. Finn’s mother hadn’t raised a complete idiot.

“All right.” Finn held up his hands. “Duchess and I will go.” For now.

But they’d both be back. Because the Kentucky Rose was the first real lead in finding and stopping the meth that had cost them several soldiers in the last two months.

He wasn’t about to walk away from that.

* * *

BLOWING A BREATH that fluttered her bangs over her eyes, Tucker watched the door slam shut behind the soldier and his dog.

It was a shame he’d been such an arrogant asshole—bringing a dog into a bar—because he was a gorgeous one.

She didn’t mean to study the way his jeans clung to his tight ass as he’d walked away. Or the bulge of his strong biceps beneath the tight edge of his T-shirt. Or the sexy stubble that covered his cheeks and did nothing to hide the dimple in the center of his chin.

There was no question, the man was rough around the edges. She hadn’t needed him to tell her he was military, she’d known it before he opened his mouth by the way he held himself. That alert, prepared-for-anything way his gaze had moved around the room.

She’d grown up with an airman, her dad the only real family she’d ever had. And while she loved him, she also knew damn well she wanted nothing to do with any more soldiers. She’d had her fill of the uncertainty and fear that came with living that life.

Which possibly made opening a bar right outside an Air Force base a little like selling water on the edge of the desert. A smart business decision, but terrible for her personal life, considering the majority of the men she met were ones she refused to consider dating.