Check out this installment of the thrilling chapters series, where we dive right in the middle of the action for a fun excerpt from one of my books.
This sample is from PAPER TIGER and it stars Micah Reed.
It’s about a little squabble at a bar in Kansas that turns into something a little deeper.
***
I open the door of the Longmire Saloon to find inside exactly what I expected: a shit-kicking bar full of country music and rednecks swilling beer. Peanut shells on the floor and the heads of dead animals on the walls. Not that I’m in a position to judge; I’ve spent more than my fair share of time in establishments such as this one. Out in rural Oklahoma, you rarely have a choice when you’re thirsty.
I sidle up to the bar, and a bartender eases down to see me. She’s a little younger than me, maybe twenty-five. She’s white, with brilliant blue eyes and blonde hair braided down her back. Eyelashes a mile long. Her hands are lined with tiny cuts and bruises, like the mark of someone who works for a living. I can respect that.
“What can I get you?” she says.
“A menu, please.”
She grins with only half her face, which strikes me as uncannily sexy, for some reason. Her working hands drop a laminated menu on the bar. Bright pictures of all the typical American pub fare. “Running a special on pork ribs today.”
“Sure, that sounds great. I’ll have that with fries.”
“Coming right up, sugar. Anything to wet your whistle?”
My eyes travel across the selection of beer taps lining the bar. One beer should be fine, I think. I have a rule against drinking and driving, but I also have a sinking feeling I might not be driving anywhere today. “Budweiser draft.”
She nods, and I feel guilty, but it’s already been a hard day. I need to forgive myself. Once this is over and I’m back in Denver with the shoebox by my side, none of this will have mattered. Just a pit stop on the way to success. Hopefully.
While I’m waiting for my food, I spend time people-watching around the bar. It’s not crowded. Maybe fifteen patrons total across the room. People eating, drinking, keeping to themselves.
One table in particular gains my interest, though. Three young men, all wearing flannel shirts, and Carhartt jeans. A dwindling pitcher on the table between them, no food. They’re loud and brash and remind me of the sort of ruffians I used to squabble with in school. These guys are all too old to be in high school, but they do act like they’re teenagers. A major topic of their conversation is some guy they don’t like named Chester and all the particulars about why they don’t like him. The list goes on for five minutes, often punctuated by raucous laughter about Chester’s deficiencies. This is juvenile and dumb, but I shrug it off. I don’t want to get involved.
But it’s not until they turn their conversation to a woman they don’t like that I can’t tune them out any longer. The reason they don’t like this woman is that she’s apparently a slut. All three of the rednecks at the table have slept with her, and they toss insults about her left and right.
I know I should stop listening now and mind my own business because there’s nothing I can do. It’s not as if I can march over there, slam my beer on the table, and say, you need to respect women, or I’m going to punch you in the face until you learn a lesson. Maybe it’ll make me feel better for a brief second. Probably, it won’t, and it’s not going to change their behavior.
They berated poor old Chester for about ten minutes. The conversation about this woman has now been going on for at least that long. My skin is crawling. The urge to throw my beer at them grows on me like an itch. A little at first. By the time I’ve finished my ribs and I’m on my third beer, their conversation is really bothering me. They won’t stop degrading this poor girl.
And it’s bothering the other patrons in the bar, too. The older couple I saw coming in here earlier is now throwing ugly looks at the rowdy crew. The bartender repeatedly frowns at them, but she’s not actively doing anything about it, either.
No one is going to tell these punks to keep their voices down. Why is it falling to me?
I catch one of them scoping me out of the corner of his eye. I tilt my head away, back toward the mirror behind the bar, but it’s too late. He stands. He’s huge, at least six inches taller than me, with tree-trunk arms and stubby legs. A scraggly beard rims his jowls.
The bearded one struts across the room and stops next to the bar, facing me. My eyes are still forward, and I’m watching him in the mirror.
“You got a problem?” he says in a thick voice, like molasses. A lot of bass in his tone. He’s hovering close enough that I could elbow him in the crotch, but I’m still hoping for a non-violent solution to this utterly dumb situation.
“Nope,” I say. “No problem here.”
“I saw you staring at us. Doing—what do you call it?—eavesdropping on our private conversation.”
“That’s not what was happening. I think you made a mistake.”
The man leans in, and I can smell the cheap beer on his breath. A necklace dangles as he leans. A silver crucifix hanging from a chain. “Are you calling me a liar?”
“No,” I say, eyes still forward, “I said you made a mistake. It’s not the same thing.” I would love to add the word dipshit to the end of my sentence, but I refrain.
My restraint doesn’t matter, though. He grabs my arm, just above the elbow. For a fleeting moment, I feel a lament. Lament about the sheer number of bar fights I’ve had in my life that have all begun like this, or something close to it. And, that I’m certain this won’t be my last.
He slides one hand down, toward my wrist, and I know exactly what he’s doing. I’ve done it too. He wants to twist my arm to tilt me off balance and ruin my leverage. Probably slam my head into the bar.
I’m not going to let him.
I jerk my arm back, freeing it from his grasp. Despite consuming three beers, I’m nowhere close to drunk. Not even buzzed. The redneck, though, sports bleary eyes. Unfocused. He’s blitzed, and it shows.
I kick the barstool back as I swing up my other hand, cracking him in the jaw. He stumbles back, two steps, three steps, and he slips on a peanut shell. The back of his head smacks into a nearby table as his two friends stand up.
“Not inside!” howls the beautiful bartender. “Take it outside right this minute!”
It’s too late for that. While the bearded redneck is lying on the floor, grunting and trying to roll over, the other two come rushing for me. One is closer, so I target him first. I spin, letting my hand gain momentum. It cracks against his jaw, which feels like a block of ice. For a moment, I’m jarred. Think my hand might be broken.
It’s so surprising that I don’t see the other one slip behind me. He wraps his hands around my arms, just below the armpits. Grip is solid, like steel. He cinches his arms together behind me, locking my arms behind my back. The tension in my shoulders makes me want to cry out, but I’m too busy trying to wriggle free.
The first one, rolling his jaw, raises his fists. I can’t get away. He draws back and throws a punch into my gut. The air rushes out of me, and my abs tighten, making my lunch rocket from my belly, up into my throat. Everything goes woozy for a couple of seconds.
He’s drawing back to punch again. Big smile, mouth full of yellow and black teeth. Meth-heads. Now, it all makes sense. I used to deal with angry Crankster Gangsters all the time back in my old job in Oklahoma.
As he starts his forward motion, I jab the heel of my shoe onto the toes of the guy behind me. He releases his grip on my arms, and I allow my body to crumple to the floor. I can feel air whoosh as the redneck’s fist whiffs above my head, smacking his buddy in the chest. It’s a bit of poetic justice.
Behind us, a shotgun cocks.
I jump up to my feet and catch the blonde out of my peripheral, lowering the barrel of the shotgun. Pointed in our general area, not at anyone in particular. But it gets their attention.
“I told y’all a million times not to bring this shit into the bar. If you gotta swing your dicks around, you are going to do it out—”
And I’m off before she can finish the sentence. Sights set on the front door, I don’t bother to note where anyone else is. I’m solely focused on getting out into the street and away from this craziness. Twelve steps from my position to the door outside.
As I burst through the door, I squint down the street toward Zeke’s Auto. Sun above beating down, a bright and clear blue-sky day. I see my car backing out of the garage, into the parking lot in front of the shop.
I pivot and sprint in that direction. Heart pounding, racing across the street and treading the grainy gravel under my feet.
Zeke steps out of my car, pinching the keys in his hand.
“What’s the charge?” I shout as I near him in the parking lot.
He gives me a funny look. “Huh?”
I skid to a stop a few feet in front of him. “What’s the charge?”
“Well, all it really took was some duct tape to get her going, but you’re gonna wanna take that thing into—”
I yank out my wallet as I snatch the keys from his hand. “The charge.”
“Sixty bucks for parts and labor.”
I grasp three twenties and toss them, fluttering in the air and floating to the ground in front of him. When he bends over to pick them up, I yank the car door open and leap inside. Slam the keys in the ignition and throw it into reverse.
And as I back out into the street, I see those two rednecks rushing out of the saloon, toward their truck.
As soon as I start mine up, so do they.
