Hour of the Lion by Cherise Sinclair (reading a book txt) 📕

almost like… She snorted. Nah. No way. Then again, she was looking for werecats. So, maybe, maybe, right here and right now, she had two mini-men who were escapees from the casting room of Lord of the Rings. Dwarves.

That had been a great movie, but the operative word was movie, not real life. God help her, was she going to have to investigate dwarves next? This task Lachlan had given her was turning into a complete cluster-fuck.

She set the tray down on the women‘s table with a thump that rattled the wine glasses.

Forcing a smile, she said, 'Here you go.' After setting out the drinks, she glanced around the room. It was too busy right now to investigate that corner table. Rosie had gotten sick and left work early, leaving Vic the only waitress in a packed tavern.

And who had put on an Elvis Presley tune? Blue Hawaii—in Washington? That was just wrong.

Who needed a drink next? First, clear off the table by the fireplace. Then swing by the pool room. Most of the people in the main room should be okay for a while. Her gaze lit on the table nearest the door and the two older men who Calum had been serving. One man was pudgy and short with drooping jowls like an overweight bulldog. The other was over sixty, but looked like a junk-yard dog—just plain mean and with the scars to prove it.

The two glared at her as if she‘d keyed their favorite pick-up. She checked the bar, but it was surrounded by people, which meant Calum couldn‘t see their pitcher of beer was empty.

Apparently, the table was her responsibility. Duty calls.

She made her way over. 'Gentlemen, what can I bring you to drink?'

'You can‘t bring me bird droppings, monkey face,' the pudgy one said in a low voice. 'Get away from my table before your stench makes me puke.'

'Well.' Considering she was supposed to also be the bouncer, maybe Calum would let her toss the asshole out the door to see if he‘d bounce. No. Be good, Sergeant. Besides, starting a fight wasn‘t exactly considered covert. 'Fine, then. If you need something, please go to the bar to get it.'

He didn‘t answer, just slammed his almost empty mug down so hard that beer splashed across the table.

Stepping back hastily, Vic bumped the other guy‘s knees.

Junkyard Dog shoved his drink away and rose to his feet, his deep-lined face distorted with rage. 'I don‘t want you in here. Not you'—his maddened gaze turned toward the table of three women—'and not them either.' Snarling like a rabid dog, he lunged at the wide-eyed college girls. 'Get out.'

'Oh, fuck.' Vic tossed her empty tray on the table and caught the man by his collar. With a hard yank to pull him away from the shrieking women, she whirled, intending to push him out the door.

Rather than pulling away, he slammed himself backwards and elbowed her in the gut.

'Oof.' She lost her grip on his shirt. He took two steps, and back-kicked, trying for her gut.

Jesus. She jerked sideways, and he missed. That was a very fast old man just spoiling for a fight. She grinned as adrenaline bubbled into her veins. A chance to play? Mustn"t kill him.

When he tried again, she grabbed his foot and twisted sharply.

Not wanting her to dislocate his knee, he hit the floor, rolled onto one shoulder, and kicked at her with his free leg. She let go before he could break her fingers.

Sneaky move. With a respectful nod, she stepped back. Had he gotten the venom out of his system yet?

She glanced over her shoulder to check her six. The other SOB had a knife.

He lunged at her, the blade coming in fast. She sidestepped. A quick punch to Pudgy‘s face yielded a satisfying flash of blood. God, this was fun. A sweep of her foot took his feet out from under him, and he landed heavily on his side.

The bitter old guy regained his feet all too fast, moving faster than a SEAL on speed, and dammit, her gut still ached from his elbow. He circled around her, looking for a hole in her defenses. She heard Calum‘s deep shout and ignored it. There were a ton of people between the bar and here.

She studied Junkyard Dog, waiting for his move. His eyes didn‘t look right—he wasn‘t just drunk; he was crazy mad. When he sprang for her, she dodged without retaliation. He recovered fast and spun around. Fucking-A, but he really wanted to kill her. Now what? Her job was to keep the peace, not send drunken assholes to the hospital.

The indecision cost her, and his fist slammed into her face in a blast of pain and light. She fell against a table, sending people spinning backwards with angry shouts. Mugs and glasses shattered; liquids spilled everywhere.

Flushed with shame, her cheek hurting like hell, she rolled out of the tangle and back to her feet. The bastard smirked at her, damn him. She sprang at him, faking a high punch. His block left him open for a side-kick to his gut and an immediate hard follow-through to his face with the same foot. The impact ran up her leg, and he flew like an overweight bird, landing on another table.

She winced. More damages. Calum would be royally pissed-off.

The pudge was up, and somehow, he‘d regained his knife. Even as she tensed, Calum grabbed him, yanked his head back by the long stringy hair, and curled his fingers around the thick neck neck. 'If I must rip your throat out, I will have an intolerable mess, and I will be even angrier than I am now.'

Pudge froze, his eyes widening.

'Well, hell, brawd, are you saying I can‘t gut this one?' Crouching, Alec had one knee on Junkyard Dog‘s neck, and a knife poised above his belly. The sheriff‘s face was cold and hard and furious. He looked fully ready to disembowel the older man.

Whoa. A bar-fight around here got deadly awfully