Page 2 of Smooth Sailing

If he knew how to use it, it would pack a mean punch.

If he didn’t, it could slow him down. Make him vulnerable.

But four on one wasn’t good odds for anybody, no matter how they could handle themselves.

This being why Pete and Rush quickly wound their way through the bar to the front door and out of it.

Rush was young, fit, and he knew how to take care of business.

Pete had long since passed his days where he could throw down.

Shit, he had to brace in preparation just to stand up from a chair. His knees were bad. His back ached most days. His neck got stiff easily. Even his hips got to hurting on more than the rare occasion. Cold weather seized him right up. He went through ibuprofen like he owned stock in that shit.

The thought of throwing a punch, or catching one, made his stomach curl into itself.

But this was Harlan.

This was Jackie’s boy.

So Pete would get trounced to dirt if it came to it.

Rush pushed out the door first, Pete followed, and they both stopped in their tracks right outside.

Barstool was flat on his back on the pavement, and he looked like he was out cold.

One of his crew was bent double, his hand to his face, blood streaming through his fingers, hollering, “You broke my nose, asshole!”

Another was on his knees, both hands clutching his junk, a look on his face no man needed translated.

The last was backing off from Harlan, his hands up.

“Well…shit,” Rush whispered.

That said it.

What, it took them half a minute to get out there?

Impressive.

“Banned,” Harlan’s low, rough voice came, his gaze centered on Hands Up.

“You just earned a lawsuit,” Hands Up threatened.

“Got cameras everywhere, man. They caught that genius”—Harlan jerked his head toward the prone man on the pavement—“doing his grab-ass shit in the bar. Caught him refusing to leave when it was made clear he was no longer welcome in this establishment. Caught him shoving me and winding up to land a blow. Out here, caught him doing the same, then that professor”—an additional jerk of the head to the one bleeding—“jumped on my back.” Another jerk in the other direction. “That one tried to pile on. Now, you tell me, what judge is gonna see some assclown grab a woman’s ass, refuse to leave when asked, all four of you throwing down against one guy, and give you that first dime for me protecting myself and the women in the bar, something I’m employed, in part, to do?”

Before Hands Up could speak, Harlan kept at him.

“None of ’em. Trust me on this, I been doin’ it for a while. Now gather your troops and get gone. Don’t come back either. Lifetime ban.”

Hands Up was pulling Nuts Busted straight and talking trash. “Was a shit bar anyway.”

“Good you won’t miss it,” Harlan muttered.

Hands Up, Nosebleed and Nuts Busted dragged Barstool, who was regaining consciousness, to his feet, at the same time they glared at Harlan. Pete noticed their attention often bounced to Rush, who was standing not near, but not far, from Harlan’s back.

They ignored Pete. Then again, even he had to admit he wasn’t much of a threat.

Harlan didn’t move, nor did Rush or Pete as they watched the four men make their way to an SUV.

---