Page 8 of She Gives Love a Bad Name

I wave him off with a nod and a halfhearted smile. Mickey’s a good guy, but I really didn’t feel like being around other cops tonight. The pub around the corner is always full of cops—retired, active...it’s the precinct hangout. Not exactly the best place to go when I’m already a pariah among my peers. They don’t say anything to my face, but I know what they say about me behind my back. What they call me. Rabid Richards, a dog with a bone. Relentless and single-minded.

Truth be told, I’d rather drown my sorrows at home alone with a bottle of whiskey. I tuck the files into my leather satchel and switch off the lamp on my desk. Here’s hoping for a quiet weekend so I can get some research done.

I’m one of the last to leave for the day. The minimal night crew waves as I step into the fading sunset. It’s nearly eight. My stomach growls, demanding sustenance.

Maybe I’ll stop downstairs when I get home to grab something to eat before I dive back into these files.

By the time I reach the Black Penny, it’s bursting with local patrons. Much more discreet than the pub cops frequent. A few regulars slap my back as I walk through the crowd. I greet them with a smile, wondering if I should have just gone up and wrangled some food from my sparse cabinets.

Claude notices me from behind the bar. I find an empty stool toward the back of the Irish pub, and he sets a double on a coaster, eyeing me with warmth.

“Rough week?” He leans close as two of the waitresses push past him to help the Sam, the weekend bartender.

“Yeah, you could say that.” I sip the whiskey, thankful my brother has a stash of my favorite brand behind the bar. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full.” I gesture to the bustling commotion around us.

“Weekends are good business.” Claude rests one hand on the edge of the bar and pivots the missing one away from me. “But we can manage well enough.”

I ignore the ever-present guilt about my brother’s missing hand. Should have been me in the jungle, not him. Never him. Claude’s too good-hearted to be a soldier. Me? I’m a jaded asshole. That draft number should have been mine. But somehow, I slipped through without being called to duty. Claude wasn’t so lucky. I’m just glad he made it home alive.

“Pap would be proud of you, keeping up the pub like this.” I salute my brother.

He smiles at the mention of our maternal grandfather. An Irish immigrant, who came to America at the turn of the century, trying to find a better place to raise his family. He built this place, poured everything the family had into it. Then, when Claude returned wounded with an honorable discharge, Pap gave him the bar to instill purpose and direction. Which it did. Damn it if Claude isn’t the best bartender on the East Coast.

“And what would he say about you?” The corner of my brother’s mouth twitches. “You’re gonna work yourself into an early grave.”

“Do I really look that bad?”

“Like death warmed over.” Claude refills my glass, the bottle clinking against the glass rim. “It’s a great look for a homicide detective though.”

“Smart-ass.” I take another drink. “What’s the special tonight?”

“Bacon cheeseburger and fries.” Claude smirks. “Same as always.”

“You need to liven up your menu.” I sigh. “Fine. I’ll take it.”

Claude stops one of the waitresses and gives her the order. She nods before heading to the kitchen.

“Looks like you’ll need to hire more help.” I glance around the bar as it grows louder.

“Good help is hard to find, Grant.” He arches a brow at me.

So many of my own features are reflected in his face. Everyone assumes we’re twins, but we’re not. I’m two years older. We share some strong traits from our father—dark hair hiding ears that stick out a bit, strong, angular profiles, and pale skin splattered with what mom liked to call our beauty marks. She always said we were handsome, but it wasn’t until we grew out of our awkward teen years that we even remotely believed it.

“Isn’t that the truth.” I finish the whiskey and set it aside.

He takes the glass and ambles off to wash it. An old veteran sidles up to the bar and flags him down. I chuckle. They certainly have their own little club, don’t they?

“Hey there, handsome.” A husky voice echoes behind me.

I spin around, and my brow furrows at the interruption. A leggy blonde, her hair poofed and crimped, cocks her hip and rests her hand on it. Her eyes drift over me from head to toe, and I can almost feel those glittering nails scratching a chalkboard when she speaks.

“You looking for a good time?” She winks.

My gaze roams from her overstyled hair to the fishnet-covered toes peeking out of her platform heels. A neon top hangs precariously off one pale shoulder. She snaps her gum and smiles, hoping I’ll take her bait.

I reach into my pocket and pull out my badge. “Why don’t you try the pub down the street?”

Her eyes fly wide at the sight of my shield. With a huff, she spins around, nearly tripping over herself in her haste to get out.

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