Page 7 of Devious Madness

When we get home, I’ll take you for one of those roast beef sandwiches.

The dark-haired pixie skitters around the bar like a mosquito drawn to a light.

She hasn’t had a break in the three hours I’ve been watching her this shift. If she hadn’t taken a nap between her dinner shift and the bar shift, I’d be worried she was going to pass out on her feet.

But even with the nap, the fatigue shows in her eyes. As tucked away in a dark corner of the bar as I am, she hasn’t noticed me yet. Last night was the first time I let her see me, but I’ve been watching her for days.

She’s too caught up in work to notice much outside of the drinks she carries and the drunk assholes she has to maneuver around to do her job.

She’s a hard worker, which surprised me. I’d expected to find her hiding out, avoiding her troubles. Tracking her down was even more of a challenge than I had thought it would be when I agreed to do Alexander Volkov a favor.

Mira Pierce hadn’t just run away from home; she’d covered her tracks as well as she could. She relied on cash, so tracking her through credit cards and debit cards didn’t help. And she’d stopped using her cell phone months ago.

“Do that again and you’re out of here!” The redheaded waitress working with Mira tonight shoves a finger in a guy’s face two tables over.

“What? I just wanted to say thanks, darlin,’” the drunk asshole’s words slur as he wobbles on his stool.

“Don’t touch the girls.” The bouncer slaps a hand on his shoulder. “Do it again and you’re gone.”

“Whatever.” The drunk guy waves his hand in the air. “Fine. Fine!”

He shrugs off the bartender’s hand.

“Fuck off!” A fight is brewing near the pool tables.

The same two men from last night who couldn’t keep their heads cool are back tonight. And it seems whatever their problems with each other are, they’ve carried them inside with them.

My phone dances on the table as a text comes through from Sasha. He’s been doing more tracking for me on another issue I had to put aside to follow the Pixie around the Midwest.

No movement. You going there next?

I glance up toward the pool tables as the yelling andchest thumping escalates. Men who can’t control themselves turn my stomach. These are the same men who will grope a waitress and hope to get her alone so they can shove a tongue down her throat and call it a conquest.

Keep tabs for me. I’ll let you know.

After I shoot back my response, I finish off the beer I’ve been nursing for the last hour. What I really want is an old-fashioned, but I tried one last week, and the bourbon they have here is far from top shelf. This is purely a beer and whiskey dive.

“Whoa!” Another shout goes up as a fight breaks out. One fist flies through the air, then another.

I’m barely off my stool, moving to position myself where I can watch Mira to be sure she doesn’t get hit like she almost did yesterday, when I see her dive between the men in an attempt to break them up.

Damn it. Impulsive fool.

Shoving the men starting miniature brawls on the sidelines aside, I push my way toward the main fight. I’m too late. A fist lands, striking Mira across her chin and sending her spiraling back. In the next instant, she’s on the ground, crumpled in a ball.

Charlie, the fucking bouncer who should have been there before the first fist was thrown, jumps in and grabs one of the fuckers, shoving him back until he’s pressed against the wall.

“Fuck, Brad. You knocked her out!” The guy who the fist had been intended for stands over Mira.

I want to rip his head off, but first I need to see if she’s all right. She’s not getting up off the floor, and when I squat beside her and roll her to her back, I see why. A cut about an inch long runs along her eyebrow, and it’s deep. She must have hit the edge of the pool table on her way down.

“Get them away,” I bark as the crowd starts to inch closer to get a look at the bleeding waitress on the sticky floor of this shit place.

“Oh, shit.” The redheaded waitress meets me on the floor, casting her gaze over Mira. “She’s out cold.”

“Fuck. I didn’t mean to get her—hey, let me go!” I turn for a second to set eyes on the asshole who landed the punch.

The prick must feel my glare on him, because his eyes go wide before he meets my stare. Even in the dimness of the bar, I can see the color running from his face.

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