The Relic Runner Origin Story Box Set by Ernest Dempsey (non fiction books to read TXT) 📕

in his glass, then slid the empty container off to the edge of the table.

The woman he'd seen before appeared through the blue door and stalked over to the guys at the booth.

Dak saw everything: the annoyed look on the bartender's face, the fear on Merrick's, and the anger on Tanya's as she passed, loosely carrying a notepad in one hand with a pen tucked behind her right ear.

"Do you idiots always have to be so loud when you come in here?" Dak heard the woman ask.

He winced, knowing already that her question would spark further belligerence.

"You sure got a lot of attitude for a plate slinger," the instigator said. If he made an effort to keep his voice down, it was minimal.

"What do you want, Tripp?" she asked.

The man eyed her up and down and licked his lips. "I think you know."

She huffed. "To drink, moron. What do you want to drink?"

"Just because your husband is a cop doesn't mean you have to play hard to get with me. We both know he can't take care of you the way I could."

She tilted her head to the right and put her left hand on her hip. "If, by take care of, you mean annoy and disappoint me, you're right."

The other two men at the table snickered at the comeback.

The one called Tripp blushed, but quickly recovered. "Shut up, you two. It's all part of the chase. Ain't that right?" He started to reach out his hand to touch her other hip but she swatted it away.

"Don't you ever touch me," she warned.

His playful idiocy turned to embarrassment, then rage. Dak could see it in his eyes from his side of the room. He'd witnessed that same look a dozen times back in the days he frequented bars with his buddies. It was a look that always came calling when someone had had too much to drink and was too easily offended.

"Okay," he relented, but the venom in his voice said otherwise. "Bring me a beer. And a round for my friends, too."

"Maybe you've had too many already, Tripp."

"We would have," the tallest one said from across the table. "But your husband interrupted our fun."

"Yeah," the runt of the group agreed. He was stocky, built like a football or rugby player. "So, in a way, you only have him to blame for us being here."

"Exactly," Tripp finished the thought.

"Three beers coming up," Tanya surrendered. She turned to head over to the bar when Tripp stopped her.

"Hey. Aren't you going to ask what kind of beer we'd like?"

Dak saw her eyes roll as she exhaled, exhausting every ounce of patience left in her reserves. She wheeled around on her heels and ambled back to the booth.

"What kind of beer would you like?"

"What have you got?" Tripp antagonized.

"You know exactly what we have. Same as we always do. Stop being an idiot. Just because your daddy is the sheriff doesn't mean you have the right to be stupid."

The two friends cackled again, adding in some ooo's and ahh's.

"What kinds?" Tripp demanded, choosing to ignore the barb.

A few of the other patrons hastily collected their things and started making their way out of the bar. The few who still had food on their plates ate faster, sensing either something bad was about to happen, or just too uncomfortable to deal with the scene.

"We have an IPA, a lager, and a pale ale from local breweries," Tanya recited. "All major domestics, both on draft and in bottles."

"Three IPA's on draft then," Tripp said. "And bring us fresh ones every ten minutes."

She spared the energy of fighting the demand and spun around. She reached the computer station with a sigh of relief and started entering their orders.

The bartender slid over to Tanya, looking at her apologetically. "I'm sorry," she said, quiet enough for only Tanya to hear, though Dak caught it too. "They'll have a few beers and be on their way."

"I know," Tanya said, forcing herself to be strong.

Dak admired her immediately for not letting them see any weakness.

"Sorry about all that," Merrick said under his breath, leaning over the table. "Those guys, they think they own the town."

Dak hefted the fresh glass of beer and took a sip. "Do they?"

"Yeah. They definitely think that."

"No," Dak corrected. "Do they own the town?"

Merrick's right eye twitched at the question, and he shook his head. "No. I mean, I don't think so."

"Who does?"

The server blinked rapidly. "I mean… no one questions what they do." He lowered his voice out of caution. "Tripp is the sheriff's son."

"And who does the sheriff answer to?"

Merrick swallowed, suddenly aware that he'd been standing at the table for far too long.

"I know you have other tables to take care of," Dak said, attempting to ease the young man's mind.

Merrick glanced over his shoulder. "Actually, one just left and one looks like they're about to."

Dak reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver money clip. He pulled back two slides on either side and pressed them together, loosening the fold. He produced a hundred-dollar bill and slid it across the table. There was at least another that Merrick could see, along with several more bills of unknown denominations.

"I'm going to keep this table for a while," Dak said. "This is for your trouble."

Merrick eyed the money hungrily. It was more than he'd make in his entire shift, or at least close to it.

"And I'll give you another one if you let me sit here until you close down."

The server stared at the bill for several seconds, then met Dak's intense gaze. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. All I ask is you keep bringing me drinks every twenty minutes or so. Make it look like I'm drinking them. I have no intention of getting hammered tonight, so if you don't fill them up that's fine by me. Understood?"

"I think so, sure."

"Good." Dak nudged the hundred an inch closer to the server. "Go on. Take it. And another one at closing."

"Okay. Thank you."

"You're welcome. And thank you."

Merrick started to turn and