Page 1 of Bartender Daddy's Girl
1
JUDGE
Sheriff Larry Kimble sits opposite me with that shit eating grin of his. The one that saysI win and there’s nothing you can do about it. He snorts, scoffs, and chuckles, sizing me up while his partner taps the tip of his pen against an old, dirty clipboard.
“Two guys left in a puddle of blood, beer, and piss, and you’re still standing.” Larry looks over his shoulder at the remnants of my altercation. Broken bottles, flipped over tables, and two chairs missing a few legs each. “Wanna tell me how that happened?”
“No,” I say. Larry’s visits are becoming more frequent. Always for the same reason, some dumb bastard who screwed around and learned their lesson.
His face hardens, jaw tenses, and I can see he wants to say something a cop shouldn’t. Maybe a threat, maybe something worse. However, it rouses a chuckle out of Frasier Murrow on the far side of the bar counter.
“Something funny?” Larry’s head snaps over to Frasier.
“Sure,” the old man replies, turning a page in his newspaper. Like me, he doesn’t go any further. We’re the sort of guys who keep our business in-house, our lips tight, and give the law nothing.
“Why don’t you run it by us again?” Emmette Anderson, the deputy sheriff, tries to diffuse the mounting tension.
“They hit me,” I say. “They hit me. There’s not much more to say about it.”
He jots down my answer on a sheet of yellow paper attached to the clipboard.
“Why did you hit them?” Emmette doesn’t look at me. Head down, gaze focused on the page, afraid.
“I was cleaning up a mess. If you want a report of what happened, you should ask Laura.”
“We did,” Larry takes over again. “But we want your account.”
“They hit me. I hit them,” I say.
Small town fuckery, that’s all this is. I’m new here, six months, give or take. But trouble has a way of following me around, and that’s bound to place me in their crosshair. This didn’t happen when I lived in the city. No cops coming by to break up bar fights.
The more I think about it, the more I realize that Larry’s just looking for his moment in the sun. A big bust to justify wearing the badge, even if it means barking up a tree that doesn’t carry any fruit.
“Over a little ass grabbing?” Larry leans in close. “The Stonework’s not exactly the cleanest bar in town, Mr. Harrow. It’s bound to happen in a place like this.”
“A little ass grabbing?” I snarl. It’s my turn for a hardened face and stiff jaw. “How quickly would I meet the business end of your Colt if I grabbed your ass, sheriff?”
Running a bar in a small town has its ups and downs. Most days are quiet. A couple of mouthy lads looking for attention anywhere they can find it, but one look at me is usually enough to scare them off. Days like today? Well, those guys got what was coming to them. No one fucks with my people without facing justice.
“Mighty quick, Mr. Judge. Mighty quick, indeed.” He speaks with savage honesty.
As the long time local sheriff, Larry probably celebrated with Laura’s family on her birthday. This prick should be patting me on the back for protecting her, rather than drilling me with this bullshit. But he’s been looking for an excuse to lock me up since the day I got into town. The sheriff must not be a fan of tattoos … or maybe he’s just upset that I’m taller than him.
He pauses for a while, for effect, I suppose, but by the time he starts talking again, my attention has drifted. Far past him and Emmette, over the wreckage left behind from a midday squabble, and toward the fair-haired beauty who just wandered in.
It wouldn’t take a genius to figure there’s something wrong with her. Standing in the doorway, scanning the faces to make sure she doesn’t recognize anyone, shaking like a leaf in a babyblue sweater. A sweater too tight, squeezing her breasts . . . suffocating them.
As much as I want to stare longer, I lift my eyes. Can’t preach about beating folks up for taking advantage of someone just to do it myself. I’m not that kind of a hypocrite.
Larry speaks again. Muted words that penetrate my ears but don’t resonate as human sounds. Threats, probably. Cautiously veiled behind a thin mask ofwe just want the full story.
She looks so scared. Vulnerable. Like at the tender age of under twenty-five, the world has chewed her up and spat her out. Even the chaos spread across my barroom can’t penetrate the layers of terror holding her in place. Here. With me.
They’re nothing compared to what she’s been through.
“Do you understand?” The question snaps me back to Larry.
“Nope.”
