Midnight Betrayal (Midnight #3)(7)

Conor lifted the hinged partition and moved behind the bar. Tilting a glass under the tap, he tested the flow of ale.

The part-time bartender, Ernie, was at the register, ringing up a customer.

“Is Terry still here?” Conor asked. His old friend, now a beat cop, had been nursing an off-duty beer when Conor went downstairs.

“He just left,” Ernie said.

“Figures.” Just a ten-minute walk from the Sports Complex, Sullivan’s was a postgame stop-off for fans either commiserating a loss or celebrating a win. He nodded toward the college crowd. “Are they behaving?”

“So far.” The lighted Heineken sign reflected off Ernie’s bald dome. At seventy, Ernie had been supplementing his social security a couple of nights a week at Sullivan’s for years. “But while you were in the basement, they downed another pitcher of beer and a round of J?germeister shots.”

Ernie wiped a condensation ring from the worn-smooth wood.

“Hopefully they’re barhopping, and they’ll move on soon.” Conor checked the head on the ale. Perfect. He poured the test beer in the sink. “If not, we’ll cut them off.”

“Hey, get back over here.” The voice was irritated, male, and drunk.

“I said no, Heath.” The lone girl in the bunch, a slim brunette in painted-on jeans, squirmed her way off a drunken college boy’s lap. Her ponytail and the scattering of freckles across her nose made her look painfully young.

“Don’t be a tease.” Drunk Boy grabbed her with both hands by the waist and tugged her back. With short, dark hair and blue eyes set too close together, his face was predatory, hawkish.

“Stop it.” She spun and swatted at his chest.

“Crap.” Conor set the empty glass down and headed toward the ruckus.

“And here we go,” Ernie muttered.

Conor waded into the spat. “Is there a problem?”

“Yeah.” Drunk Boy’s face reddened. “You butting into my personal business. That’s the problem.”

If the kid had been a regular, he would have backed off at Conor’s glare. But he was full of belligerence, beer, and himself—the trifecta of stupidity.

Conor gave diplomacy a try anyway. “The lady would like you to let go of her.”

“I think I know what my lady wants more than some old dude.”

“Kick his ass, Heath,” one of his friends yelled from the table.

“It’s time for you to leave, boys.” A headache started in Conor’s temples. Longest. Day. Ever.

“Fuck you.” Drunk Boy pushed the girl off his lap and stood up, his posture combative.

Physically, they were well-matched. Drunk Boy was a couple inches over six feet tall and had the lean, athletic build of a lacrosse or soccer player. But size wasn’t everything. At six-two, Conor ran regularly and lugged kegs and cases of beer every day. He’d given up boxing years ago, but he worked out on the heavy bag a few times a week. Plus, Conor had been bouncing his own bar since his twenty-first birthday. He’d introduced a hundred obnoxious drunks to the sidewalk on the other side of the door. If Drunk Boy’s brain cells weren’t pickled in J?germeister, the younger man would have thought hard before he threw a punch.

But pickled they were.

The punch was slow and sloppy. Conor slapped the kid’s hook out of the way and fired a punch neatly into his jaw. Drunk Boy crumpled on the wood floor as if his bones had evaporated. Shocked silence filled the bar for a solid minute. Then the friends got up and stumbled over.

Ow. Pain rolled through Conor’s knuckles. He was sick and tired of dealing with young *s.

Drunk Boy blinked and sat up. His nasty squint caught on the brunette. “You’re such a bitch.”

Conor tucked the girl behind him. He addressed the group. “Pick up your friend and get out of my bar. Don’t come back.”

They didn’t argue. Two buddies hauled Drunk Boy to his feet and dragged him out.

Conor turned to the girl. “What’s your name?”

“Zoe.”

“I assumed you didn’t want to leave with them. Can you call someone to pick you up, Zoe?”

“I’ll call my roommate.” Nodding, she pulled a cell phone out of her purse.

“Next time, don’t go out without a couple of girlfriends for backup. Being alone with those guys isn’t smart.”

“I didn’t know they’d turn into such jerks after a few beers. We go to school together.” Big, brown eyes blinked innocently up at Conor. God, she was a pretty thing. But much too young for him. Much, much too young.

Even if she weren’t, he’d sworn off jumping into bed with women he barely knew since the Barbara I-forgot-to-mention-I’m-married McNally episode three years ago. For a relationship that had only lasted a few months, it had left a damned big impression. Being deliberately lied to and used had soured his attitude toward dating, as had the ease with which she’d manipulated him.

“We close at midnight on Mondays,” he said.

“My roommate should be home.” Texting furiously, she slid back into the booth. Conor cleared away the booze, brought her a Diet Coke, and left her watching ESPN. She was still there an hour later when Ernie and the kitchen staff were clearing out.

“Did you get your roommate?”