Rules Of Engagement

25

We screech to a stop outside an Irish pub. d**k doesn’t bother to turn off the engine, he simply flings open his door, jumps out, and runs inside faster than I would have imagined a paunchy middleaged man in a tight polyester leisure suit could possibly run.

Within seconds, he reappears. Without Mason.

He jumps back into the car and we’re off again.

“You gotta phone on you?” “Yes, in my purse. Why?”

He takes a corner at top speed, throwing me against the passenger door. “Google every bar within a one mile radius.” “Oh dear.”

“You have no idea. Hurry up.” Then, under his breath: “Thank God he doesn’t have practice today.”

I dig around in my purse for my phone. “Maybe I oversold his level of anger. It wasn’t like he shouted or got into a fight or anything.”

“Were his nostrils flaring?”

I pause, remembering. “Yes.”

“Did he have crazy eyes?”

I think of the unblinking intensity with which he regarded my mouth. “As a matter of fact, he did.”

“Plus the growling,” says d**k, shaking his head. “Yeah. We got a situation.”

I find the phone, open the web browser, and type in Bars near me, then wait impatiently for the results to load. “Do these situations happen a lot?”

His chuckle is dark. “You don’t read the sports section much, do you?” “Too busy feeding all my cats,” I mutter, peeved. “Isn’t he in therapy?” “Yup.”

“And that’s not helping with his anger issues?”

Dick looks over at me. “Just cause you let some steam escape from a nuclear reactor doesn’t mean it still isn’t about to blow.”

“I’m pretty sure the only time steam escapes from a nuclear reactor is when there’s been a meltdown.”

“Exactly,” says d**k, nodding. “And what you got then is some radioactive s**t that’s gonna get up into the atmosphere and poison all the air and cause mass destruction. Are you understanding me yet?”

He paints a very depressing picture. “Make a right at the next light. There’s a bar halfway down the block on the left side. I’ll bet he’s there.”

“What makes you say that?”

I say drily, “It’s called ‘The Quiet Woman’.”

Dick looks at me strangely, but doesn’t comment. When we pull into the parking lot, he says, “Why don’t you go in and check if he’s in there. If he sees me, it’ll just be a fight.”

“You’re assuming it won’t be a fight when he sees me.”

“Not the same kind.” He parks and turns to look at me. “If he’s not in there, I’ll take you home.

You don’t need to spend the rest of your Sunday chasin’ after Mason.”

“No, we’ll go together. I won’t be able to relax until I know he’s okay.” He says nothing, only shrugging at my response, but his smile is full of secrets.

I swear, these two men are downright strange.

When I push through the door of the bar, I have to stand there blinking for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the dim.

The place is so dark it might as well be underground, and it’s unrelentingly shabby. Everything is faded, peeling, or cracked. An old jukebox plays ‘Love Me Tender.’ A guy with a bushy black beard in a Led Zeppelin T-shirt polishes glasses behind the bar.

It smells like cigarettes, stale beer, and lost dreams, and is quite possibly the most depressing place on earth.

And there, in the end booth in the corner, sits Mason, staring down at the empty glass in his hand.

My heart does a funny little flip under my ribcage. He looks so forlorn, like his dog just died and his car broke down and he’s never had a friend in the world.

Then he glances up and catches sight of me, and his melancholy look changes to one of irritation.

I foresee more growling in my future.

Squaring my shoulders, I cross the sticky floor to his booth. I slide onto the seat opposite him, wishing I had a bottle of antibacterial gel in my purse.

“If your immune system is compromised, don’t touch anything.”

His voice is even. His expression has gone from irritated to guarded. But he’s not yelling, so it’s a start.

“I like it more than The Four Seasons.”

When Mason lifts his brows in disbelief, I smile. “It doesn’t smell like brimstone in here.” He chuckles. It feels like a victory.

“Is Bettina with you?”

I crinkle my nose. “Lord, no. She stormed out of the restaurant right after you did. Probably had to go polish her pitchfork. d**k’s outside, though.”

“He sent you in to get me?”

“He seemed to think our fight would somehow be better than yours.”

Mason considers that, then says, “Huh.”

An open bottle of Jack Daniels sits on the table next his elbow. Seeing me notice it, he picks it up and pours himself another glass, right up to the brim. With defiance in his eyes, he sets the bottle down and picks up the glass.

I say calmly, “You’re not going to offer me one?” Surprised, he sets the glass back down.

“If you want to get blind drunk on a Sunday morning, that’s your prerogative. However, if a lady is present, it’s only good manners that you offer her a drink as well.”

He says sourly, “You’re lecturing me.”

“Incorrect. I’m coaching you. Unless you fired me between here and The Four Seasons and haven’t gotten around to telling me yet.”

“I’m surprised you wanna keep coaching me, seeing what a lost cause I am.”

“You’re not lost. You’re just taking a detour.”