Wickedly Dangerous (Baba Yaga, #1)(17)
Not his top three traits in a woman, for sure. It had been so long since Melissa . . . left . . . he didn’t really remember what those three were. But not odd and mysterious and infuriating. He much preferred his life predictable and calm. That’s why he was sheriff in a little corner of nowhere, instead of someplace noisy and crowded.
Although The Roadhouse was certainly both.
Liam eased the squad car into one of the few open spaces of the gravel parking lot in front of the long, mustard-colored wooden building. It didn’t look like much from the outside. Which was probably just as well, since it didn’t look like much on the inside either. Truth in advertising, you might say.
Nonetheless, The Roadhouse was a favorite with the locals, a no-frills country bar with live music on most nights and all the fried food you could eat, including the best chicken wings in the county, if you didn’t mind having the skin on the inside of your mouth incinerated.
He left his gun locked in the glove box, since he was technically off duty, and strolled in through the entrance, wearing the same thing most of the others inside were wearing: blue jeans and a tee shirt. A few of the women were wearing tight skirts and dancing to the band playing bluegrass-funk with more enthusiasm than talent on the platform to the right of the bar. Round wooden tables sat four to eight people each, with just enough space between them for the overburdened servers to slide through with trays of drinks and artery-clogging delicacies. The air was redolent with the scent of old beer, new cologne, and the occasional whiff of pot smoke from a dim corner, which Liam determinedly ignored.
The place was packed—except for the area around Baba, who perched on a stool surrounded by empty space, as if she had an invisible Do Not Approach sign over her head. People were staring at her but trying to pretend they weren’t. He didn’t blame them. She looked damned good.
Better than good, really, in a skinny black halter top that revealed lots of creamy white cleavage and bared her flat midriff and toned arms, and some kind of short, hippie-looking multicolored skirt. Spike-heeled sandals rested on the brass rail that ran along the bottom of the bar, and her dark mass of hair swirled around her shoulders and flowed down over her back. A half-empty beer bottle sat in front of her, some fancy foreign brand Liam would have sworn The Roadhouse never carried.
Mouth suddenly dry, Liam walked up to her and noticed something remarkable. More remarkable than the smell of orange blossoms in the midst of a dusty country bar.
“Those are some tattoos,” he blurted out. “Very unusual.” He slid onto the stool next to her and gestured to Tyler, the bartender, to bring him his usual Samuel Adams, wishing he’d thought before he’d spoken. Nice opening line, McClellan. Smooth. What was it about this woman that turned him from a tough rural lawman into a babbling idiot?
Baba’s teeth gleamed in the dim light as she gave him the hint of a smile. “Thanks,” she said. “I’m quite fond of dragons.”
Liam had the feeling she was teasing him, but couldn’t figure out how. Then Tyler put Liam’s beer down with a foamy thud, and Liam decided he didn’t care.
Cool and slightly bitter, the first sip tasted like heaven and the second like wherever people in heaven went on vacation. “Ah,” he said with a sigh, “that’s better.”
“A good beer is one of the great blessings of the universe,” Baba agreed, taking another swallow of her own.
“You’ve got that right,” Liam said, making the “two more” gesture at Tyler when he could catch the bartender’s eye. The tall, skinny man with fading red hair moved so fast, pouring drinks and uncapping beer bottles, his hands were a blur of syncopated motion.
The tip jar in front of him held a mountain of change, and he smiled cheerfully all night long, no matter how rude or drunk anyone got. If they hadn’t attended the same grief support group for a couple of months, Liam would never have guessed that old sorrow wormed its way through Tyler’s bones like bindweed in a field of corn. Losing a child would do that to you. Liam knew that better than anyone.
“Here ya go, Sheriff,” Tyler said, full bottles dangling from one large, big-knuckled hand. He winked at Baba. “Nice to see you finally hanging around with a better class of people.”
Baba bit her lip, clearly amused.
Liam just rolled his eyes. “I’m a policeman. I usually spend my time with either criminals or lawyers. Hard not to improve on that company.”
The bartender grinned, working some sort of alchemical magic with orange juice, vodka, and about six other ingredients. “I heard there was a commotion over at the fracking meeting. Did somebody finally take a shot at Peter Callahan?” His freckled face looked mildly hopeful.
“Not this time,” Liam said. “Just high tempers getting the better of folks. No big deal.”
Tyler nodded and moved off, taking his potent elixir with him.
“You know that wasn’t just high tempers, right?” Baba asked, a serious look replacing her amusement at Tyler’s good-natured ribbing.
Liam sighed, draining the rest of his first beer and plunking the bottle back down on the bar. On the other side of the room, the band surged enthusiastically into an Elvis medley.
“We’re not going to be able to hear ourselves think in here,” he said. “I don’t suppose you play pool?”
One corner of Baba’s mouth edged up, and she put her own empty bottle down decisively next to his. “I have been known to knock a few balls around, from time to time,” she said. An evil glint flitted into her eyes and then vanished before he could be sure he’d actually seen it. “I find it mildly entertaining.”