Men of Mercy: The Complete Story Read online

  Colette's red lips turned down in a pout, and she stroked a manicured nail down his clean-shaven face. "You do have a soft heart for those less fortunate."

  Evie had a brief flash of diving over the bar and tackling Colette to the floor. Of course, she wasn’t the real enemy.

  "Now, darling." Marcus took Colette's hand in his limp one, raising it to thin lips.

  Evie swallowed the gorge rising in her throat.

  She focused on the woman's purple nails. A few years ago, Evie wouldn't have left the house without her Tickled Pink polish gleaming. Now she was lucky if her nails weren't cracked, chipped, and caked with stale beer.

  "She did dress better than this with me." Marcus's grey eyes traveled the length of Evie's body. His lip pulled up with just the barest hint of a sneer.

  The woman before her was perfect. Statuesque. Just what Marcus longed for, his own perfect Stepford wife.

  Evie glanced down at her loose, torn jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt. Her tight, revealing dresses had been the first part of her Marcus uniform to go. She shook her head. Get it together. "What do you want?"

  "My sweet Evangeline, I need to speak with your mother. Is Maxine in?"

  Evie stiffened. He was the only person who ever used her full first name. The scar on her side burned.

  If he was looking for her mom, it could only lead to bad things.

  "She's not here." She glanced to her left, praying her mom stayed in the back office. Maxine ran the books along with the bar. She was here as often as Evie, but she kept to the back of the house. Plus she had to make the books look legit, and that took a little more time now that they weren’t.

  Filtering in the ‘extra’ revenue brought in by the MRG took finesse. And Evie couldn't think of anyone better equipped to skirt the law than the wife of an ex-sheriff.

  Marcus raised his head, regarding her down his thin nose. "Really? My man said she was just here."

  “Your man? You mean your rent-a-cop?” Evie swallowed, fear choking her windpipe despite her bold words.

  Marcus turned to his date. “Colette, you need to go to the restroom. Your mascara is smudged.”

  Colette gasped and all but ran to the bathroom. Marcus turned back to Evie, the polite façade slipping.

  “I thought a personal meeting was in order, since you were so rude to the sheriff. You might need a reminder of what happens to people who don’t follow orders.”

  Evie barely restrained her tremble. Barely. She inhaled, deep, slow. Tried to calm her heart before it exploded in her chest. “I think we all know what happens to people you disagree with.”

  Marcus’s smile stayed fixed in place. Perfect and deadly. “You know, but I think you need to remember. For instance, I remember what happened to your father after you left. How he finally got caught dealing drugs and using his badge to cover his mess. Too bad that drug dealer had to kill him.”

  Evie’s racing heart stopped cold. The scorching heat from the packed bar turned to ice around her.

  “It would be awful if something like that happened to your mother,” Marcus continued. He reached across the bar and wrapped his long slender fingers around her wrist, then yanked her forward. His Armani cologne invaded her nostrils, chocking off her already dwindling air supply. “We wouldn’t want that, now would we?”

  Evie stood frozen, her limbs locked in horror. She’d worked so hard to block out the memory of her father’s set-up. His murder. She’d always suspected Marcus was involved, but this confirmed it.

  “Are you threatening my mother?” Evie forced the words through her clenched lips.

  Marcus pulled her closer, choking her with his scent. “I would never threaten someone. That’s illegal. I am simply reminding you of the importance of manners. A thoughtful woman would give my offer more consideration before turning it down.” His gaze held her hostage. “A thoughtful woman would remember to take care of her loved ones.”

  Evie sucked in a breath and yanked her arm free. He let go, barely.

  “A thoughtful woman would offer her ex-fiancé a drink.”

  Thoughtful. One of Marcus’s favorite teaching points. Or, as she remembered, his favorite excuse to cause pain. And here he was. In her bar. The man who’d already stolen her father was threatening what family she had left, not to mention her entire existence.

  But she’d grown a little bit of backbone after gathering the courage to leave him. And that backbone stiffened with anger. Evie reached below the bar and pulled open the small refrigerator at her feet.

  "You want a beer?" Evie held up their cheapest, daring to edge forward and hold the drink within smelling distance.

  The bastard before her shuddered and pulled back. Evie couldn't restrain her smirk. The likes of Marcus Carvant didn't touch cheap beer. "I'll take a Peroni."

  "Do you have a wine list?" Colette reappeared, her make-up now spotless, and perched on a barstool. She made as little contact with the pleather as possible, all the while petting her boyfriend. Evie didn't bother telling her not to worry. He was the last creature on this planet she wanted to be near.

  "I'm sorry. You must be lost. We ain't got none of that highfalutin’ stuff." Evie cleared her throat, laying it on as thick as sweet Southern honey. "And we ain't got that beer, neither."

  Colette pulled back, probably afraid of being infected with white trash.

  Marcus looked pissed. He didn't yell, but Evie could see the hardening around his eyes, the tightening of his lips. Tension roiled off him like air on hot cement. She took a step back.

  He smiled and her stomach sank. He knew. He could sniff out fear like a bloodhound trailing a scent.

  He took Colette's hand and stood. "Come, dear, I'll take you to Greenville. This barbaric dump doesn't have what we're looking for." Colette turned to leave, but Marcus's grip on her arm stopped her. He stared hard at Evie.

  "Tell your mother I have every intention of finishing our conversation. With her, or with you. Whichever she prefers." His gaze burned holes into her brain and she felt herself nodding against her will. Her gaze followed the back of his grey blazer until the glass door banged shut behind him.

  She grabbed the sink again and forced her hands to open and close, attempting to get some blood flow to her numb fingers. Anger returned along with her circulation. Her brain decided to function again and all the thoughts of what she would have said to him, how she should have put him in his place, bombarded her. Oh, how she wanted to embarrass him and take away his public golden-boy façade, even if it meant showing everyone the marks he had left on her body.

  And yet she had stood there listening to his insults. And she'd done nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  So much for the stack of personal growth books on her coffee table at home. Apparently Oprah knew a lot about relationships, but she’d missed the chapter on confronting assholes.

  Chapter 5

  "Girl fight!" The music stopped, plunging the bar into silence.

  Then Evie heard it. First a shatter. Definitely a beer bottle. Next a scream. Definitely a woman. A crash—definitely a table. Tables that cost over a hundred dollars each. Crap. Not tonight.

  Several people whipped out their cell phones and started snapping pictures, the flash on their cameras like an invasion of lightning bugs. Bill glanced over his shoulder, then turned back to the beer Evie had finally served to him, the commotion only warranting a grunt.

  John Redman, an anorexic version of Bill, said, "You know, I heard Mike's Market lost a lawsuit to some chick toting stolen beer in her coat pockets. One of 'em popped out of her pocket, busted on the floor, and she slipped and got cut. Somebody took a picture of her bustin' her ass and she got herself a new Cadillac."

  Visions of foreclosure signs flashed through Evie's mind.

  Bill chimed in, "Yep, bought her that old mansion on Redwood too. Poor Mike's workin' the gas station down the road. I bet he's gotta pump gas into that purple Cadillac every week."

  Evie choked. A liability suit would cost mo
re than she could make in ten years.

  "You need a drink, sugar?" John stretched his bony arm out, his own half-empty beer in hand.

  Evie shook her head and cleared her throat, "No thanks."

  Next the sound of splintering wood reached her ears, and Evie could no longer stay tucked behind the safety of the bar. She rushed into the crowd, claustrophobia prickling her flesh like a thousand fire ants. She elbowed her way toward the screams near the stage, the riot of emotions inside her like a Molotov cocktail. She burst free and barely kept from nose-diving into a girl fight gone wild.

  Her grandpa sat on the stage in his army fatigues, swinging his legs and collecting bets. His long grey beard touched the center of his chest, hanging right above the POW lettering on his black T-shirt.

  "Grandpa." Evie's tone sounded more like a parent’s than a grandchild’s.

  C.W. glanced up and grinned, fanning the cash like a bookie on a winning night. A pipe hung from his mouth.

  "Last call!" He hollered above the crowd. Shaking her head, Evie turned her attention to the two women brawling on the floor. They rolled, and when the brunette landed on top, she pulled her fake-jewel encrusted hand back to crack a slap across the blonde's face. The crowd went from a Prius purr to a Harley Davidson roar. She recognized them both. The brunette was Beverly, the blonde, Sue Ellen.

  Evie’s heart rate throttled. She held out her arms, attempting to keep the crowd under control. The only way this was going to end was bad, bad, bad. But hopefully she could avoid a complete disaster.

  "You slut. Don't you ever touch my man!" Beverly struck again. Sue Ellen kicked her assailant to the side, and both women scrambled to their feet.

  Cheri appeared, much to Evie’s relief, and they exchanged a long gaze that communicated a clear plan of divide and conquer. They nodded in unison and charged. Cheri hooked an arm around Sue Ellen's neck and yanked the screeching woman back. Evie grabbed a handful of the other woman’s hair, yanked, and came up with clip-on extensions.

  Bev staggered, clutching the fresh bald spot, and screamed. Evie shook her hand, trying to remove the clumps of fake hair from her fingers, but they stuck like brown leeches hanging on for their last meal.

  Evie took a step back. "Now, let's just calm down. You know we don't allow fighting in the bar."

  Bev swung around, her bloodshot eyes glowing wild with alcohol and fury. She lunged to the side and swiped a full pitcher of beer off a nearby table. She pulled back, ready to hurl the contents.

  Evie held up her hands.

  "You do that and I'm calling the cops!" Her heart rate drummed faster.

  A pitcher of her ice-cold finest hit her in the face. She stood drenched, arms out, beer running in thick rivers from her fingertips.

  Evie's logic disappeared along with her sanity. She knew she was about to play road kill to Bev's Mack truck, but she was done playing victim for the day. Springing forward, she latched on to what was left of Bev's extensions and pulled the taller woman down to her own level.

  Time slowed.

  "Get her, Evie!"

  "I want to change my bet!"

  Shouts roared around her as she fought to hang on, the fear of being stomped into the ground becoming more of a reality with each passing second. Finally, Bev pulled Evie's fingers loose and Evie stumbled backward.

  Bev charged.

  But an arm appeared from the crowd and clotheslined Bev, throwing her to the ground in a twisted tangle.

  Evie stood staring down at Bev, shock jacking her furious heart rate like she’d shotgunned a fifth can of Red Bull.

  "You okay, honey?" Her mother stepped over Bev, careful not to get any beer on her heels.

  Evie nodded, unable to form words.

  Maxine thundered over to C.W. and stuck a long red nail in her father-in-law's face. "We're shorthanded as it is and you encourage this behavior in our bar?"

  He slumped and took a drag from his pipe. "We were just having a little fun. No harm done."

  The crowd returned to their tables, the band cranked up, and Bev's boyfriend, Jerry, helped Evie up from the floor. "I'm real sorry, Evie. I swear it won't happen again."

  Evie turned, completely soaked in beer, to look at him and his woman. Those two assholes were staring at her like they had only watched the fight—not started it.

  "Get the hell out of my bar." The words choked past her clenched teeth.

  Maxine spun and closed the gap between them once more, striding on five-inch platforms like they were old tennis shoes. She propped a hand on her hip. "You need to wash up and change. We can’t call anyone else in to help tonight."

  Evie squashed the little girl inside crying out for a hug. After all, her mom wasn't the butterflies and fairies type. She was pure steel and thorns.

  "I'll shower upstairs."

  Cheri stepped to her side. "I've got a change of clothes in my truck."

  "That's great. All my clothes are back home and I don’t want to tend bar smelling like one."

  As soon as Cheri left to grab the clothes, Evie grabbed her mom’s arm, maybe a little too roughly. Maxine had at least six inches on her, plus another three from her teased brown hair. “Marcus just left.”

  Maxine’s dark brows swooped down, but she didn’t seem as angry as Evie’d expect. Heck, she didn’t seem angry at all. “What did he say?”

  “He encouraged us to reconsider his offer.” Or he’ll kill you.

  “And?” Maxine continued to study her.

  Fear crept down her spine and Evie resisted the urge to back up a step.

  “Doesn’t this seem like a problem we need to address?”

  Maxine’s right brow rose to a sharp point. “When did you decide to grow a backbone?”

  Evie was on the verge of stomping her foot, something she hadn’t done since high school. Her mother had always been able to pull her strings, but since Daddy’s death, she no longer pulled. She yanked.

  “When my ex-fiancé decided to show up in my bar. And now my mother is acting like it’s not a bad thing.”

  Maxine pursed her lips into a thin red line. The battle was on. “Listen here, I might run the club, but I don’t control it. We go with the vote. If you can’t handle it, you need to get out.” The club was what they called MRG when they discussed it in public.

  Evie took a step back and her mouth fell open. Even though she and her mother didn’t always see eye-to-eye, she relied on Maxine to be her rock. But instead of supporting Evie, she was crushing her will.

  “Don’t look at me like that. I’m trying to save you from more pain,” Maxine said.

  “Pain?” She fought to control the shrill edge to her voice. “You think ripping my membership away will make me stronger?”

  Forget Dr. Phil, this crap belonged on Jerry Springer. Her mother’s betrayal, whether it was couched in concern or not, stabbed deep.

  “Dammit, Evie. I lost your father. I’m not turning a blind eye to your affairs.”

  “So you want to work for him? You want his money?” Evie said.

  Maxine didn’t respond. She didn’t have to. The truth crashed into Evie, rocking her to her core.

  Her soaking clothes seemed to freeze on her skin. Chills raced down her legs and anchored her feet to the floor.

  “You know how I feel about that asshole. But I don't get to tell him off. We go with the vote. Period.”

  Where were the tears? The remorse? But Maxine wasn’t the type to cry. She was a machine. A machine that didn’t care about her own daughter. “How could you do this to me?”

  Maxine lifted her chin, looking down at Evie. Just like a mother would a pestering child. “It hasn’t been decided yet. Look, I’ll tell the club you need a break. I think that is best for everyone.” In a show of rare show of affection, Maxine cupped Evie’s cheek. “They will understand you need to sit this one out.”

  “I’ll never understand how a mother could betray her own daughter.”

  Evie spun around, trying to hide the tears. This tim
e she didn't have to fight her way through the crowd. Everyone gave her a wide berth. Her tennis shoes squished with each step, her already-loose blue jeans sagged, and her long sleeve T-shirt clung to her like a spandex glove.

  As Evie burst through the back door, a match flared in front of her, the light temporarily blinding her. She stumbled sideways to avoid running into a lit cigarette.

  "Hey." His Southern drawl put Matthew McConaughey to shame. Slow. Sexy. And familiar.

  Her gaze traveled up the muscled torso to a pair of dark chocolate-brown eyes.

  Holy crap.

  "Hunter James." His name breathed past her lips on a whisper.

  For the second time that night her heart stuttered and her stomach clenched tight.

  Hunter blocked her path, his towering six-foot-four frame packaged in a tight-fitting black T-shirt and jeans that showcased his muscles. His arms had to be twice the size they were the last time he’d been here. His gaze twice as intense. Her reaction twenty times that.

  According to the town gossips, he’d been back in Mercy for a couple of weeks, but so far he’d avoided her. And she’d prayed daily he would stay away. Every time he came home on leave, he seemed to make it a point to show up here. At her bar. With another woman on his arm. Making sure she saw he’d moved on. And each time her heart broke a little more.

  "Need some help?" he asked.

  Her brain took a full minute to kick into gear, then another minute to reconnect to her mouth. "What?"

  "You look like you could use some help. Can I do anything?" His serious voice passed through lips that were way too tempting.

  She couldn't think. The man standing before her had gone AWOL with her heart over five years ago, like the tail end of a twister after a storm. Part of her had been happy he'd left. The other part had been devastated. Their love had been wild and crazy, but ultimately destructive.

  She noticed the knotted wood cane leaning against the table beside him. "What's with the cane?"

  Hunter grinned and shifted his weight to the side. "What's with the wet clothes?" He extinguished his cigarette and stepped away from the doorway leading to the upstairs apartment, his limp noticeable.