Page 11 of Harrison Hyde and the Runaway Bride

“Bull.” She swung the bat hard, taking Billy Bob right across the kneecap. He howled, hopping on one foot, holding his knee in both hands. “Gimme your phone right now, Billy Bob, or I’ll crack your other knee. And I’ll bust this one!”

“Awright, awight!” He wrestled his phone from his jeans pocket, handed it to her. She swiped then held it toward his face to unlock. Then she tapped to the “Find my device” app, and sure as all get out, her phone was listed on there.

“You tracked my phone! How’d you do this?”

He lowered his eyes. “Shared location from your phone to mine when you weren’t lookin’.”

Rolling her eyes, Maria said, “I wouldn’t have thought you were smart enough.” She deleted her phone from his finder, then her info from his contacts, then threw the phone back at him. “Git your sorry, phone-spyin’, woman-beatin’, beer-swillin’ carcass outta here, Billy Bob. I never want to see you again.” She raised the bat and advanced as she spoke, and he hobbled toward the exit. He made it through and tumbled down the three front stairs to land on the small parking strip in front.

She stopped in the doorway. “If I were you, I’d never set foot back in Quinn. There’s nothin’ for you here. You been warned.”

He scrambled backward, and she backed inside and closed the door. And then finally, she turned to poor Harry.

He was sitting up. Manuel was crouching nearby, holding an ice pack out in offering.

“I had no idea he would do that,” she said, and she took the ice pack herself, crushed it to activate, and pressed it to the worst-looking side of Harry’s face.

“Ow.” He took the ice pack from her. Then he started to say something more, and winced. “Hurts to talk.” He let her help him stand. There was salsa dripping down his face and onto his shirt.

The couple from the corner table had put away their weapons. The husband went to the counter to pay up, and Manuel joined him there to take his cash. The Gringo in the corner had put his gun away, drained his glass, and resumed his nap.

Manuel set a first aid kit the size of a toolbox onto the bar. She said, “Jeeze, Manny, you do surgery on the side or what?”

“Saturday nights get rough.”

“Thanks. I’ll tend to the worst here, and then take him back home for the rest.” She got busy with disinfectant wipes.

“We’re going back to Quinn?” Harry asked. He was looking around, confused as hell. One eye was swollen, but once she’d cleaned off the salsa, his face wasn’t as bad as it had looked.

She helped him to his feet, but he was none too steady. “You think you can make it to a chair?”

He nodded, took a step in the wrong direction, sagged.

“Shoot!” Maria snapped an arm around his waist and helped him stay upright as he shuffled determinedly toward the batwing doors, saying, “I can make it to the car,” while trying to use his ice pack to wipe the salsa off his shirt. She didn’t think his head was working right. “You might have to drive.”

He stepped into the parking lot, and then stopped and looked left and right, seeming even more confused. But this time, so was she. Because Harry’s little blue Volvo was no longer there.

Then Harry passed out cold at her feet.

“Well, shoot,” Maria said. “This day just keeps gettin’ better.”

The couple had left while she’d been tending to Harry, but Sombrero remained. Maybe he lived there. Manuel picked Harryright up off the ground, carried him over to the bar, and laid him there. Then he returned to the door and put up the closed sign. He grabbed the first aid kit, placed it near Harry’s head, and opened it up. “I’ll get water,” he said, heading into his kitchen.

“You look rough, Harry,” Maria said softly. “I’m real sorry you got dragged into my mess. You’re prolly gonna be mad as a hornet at me when you wake up. I am sorry, though.” She unbuttoned his shirt, spread it open. The blood from his nose had soaked through onto his chest, the poor guy. Nice chest, though, bare and lean, defined but not in a bulgy, braggy way. Just right for running one’s hands over or resting one’s cheek upon.

What strange thoughts to be running through her mind at a time like this.

She pushed his shirt sleeve down one arm, and had to move him around quite a bit to do it. Manuel came back with the water as she got the shirt completely off, and she took her phone out of her pocket, tapped it, and told it to call Bubba. Then she set the phone nearby on speaker, took the wet, soapy cloth from the water basin, and started washing the blood and salsa off Harry’s chest.

Bubba answered on the first ring. “Maria Michele? Where the hell are you, cuz? You okay?”

“I’m fine, but I need your help. You still have a truckful of my cousins?”

“He does,” Willow said. Apparently, Bubba’s phone was on speaker, too.

“I’m at Manny’s.” One of the cuts on Harry’s brow line was still bleeding. She used saline in a hypodermic to clean it more thoroughly, and he moaned through his stupor. Good thing he was out.

To Bubba and Willow, she explained, “I hitched a ride with a stranger and Billy Bob tracked my phone here, beat the tar outtathe poor guy, and stole his car to boot. So we’re stranded and he’s hurt. Hand me the Neosporin, Manny.”

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