Chapter 9
“You’re crazy.”
“It’ll be fine.” Maddie looked over her shoulder at Adele and opened the door to Mort’s.
“Didn’t he say he was going to throw you out on your ass?”
“Technically, we were talk about Hennessy’s.”
They stepped inside and the door closed behind them. Adele leaned close to Maddie and asked above the noise and the music pouring from the jukebox, “Do you think he’s going to care about technicalities?”
Maddie figured that was pretty much a rhetorical question and her gaze scanned the crowd inside the dimly lit bar, looking for the owner. It was eight-thirty on a Friday night and Mort’s was once again packed. She’d had no intention of setting foot inside the cowboy bar again until Mick had told her not to. She had to let him know that he didn’t intimidate her. He had to know she wasn’t afraid of him. She wasn’t afraid of anything.
She recognized Darla from the last time she’d been in Mort’s and her neighbor Tanya from the Allegrezzas’ party. She didn’t see Mick and breathed a little easier. She wasn’t afraid. She just wanted to get more than three feet inside the bar before he laid eyes on her.
Earlier, she’d curled her hair on big rollers that gave it lots of volume and loose curls. She wore more makeup than usual and a white cotton jersey halter dress and sandals with two-inch heels. If she was going to get escorted out, she wanted to look good on the way. She carried her red angora cardigan because she knew that as soon as the clock struck nine she would freeze without it.
The juke pumped out a song about redneck women as Adele and Maddie wove their way through the crowd toward an empty table in the corner. Adele, with her long curls, tight jeans, and save a horse, ride a cowboy shirt, drew her share of attention.
“Do you see him?” Adele asked as they slid into chairs facing the bar with their backs to the wall.
They’d gone over the plan. It was simple. Nothing risky: just walk into Mort’s, have a few drinks, and walk out. Easy, cheesy, lemon squeezy, but now Adele was kind of acting spooked, casting her big-eyed gaze about as if she expected a SWAT team to swoop in, whip out their AK-47s, and force them spread-eagled on the floor.
“No. I don’t see him yet.” Maddie placed her purse on the table by her elbow and looked out at the bar. Light from the jukebox and bar poured over the crowd but hardly penetrated the corner. It was the perfect spot to see without being seen.
Adele leaned her head close to Maddie and asked, “What does he look like?”
She held up one hand and signaled the waitress. “Tall. Dark hair and very blue eyes,” she answered.
A waitress with an atrocious perm, butt-tight Wranglers, and a Mort’s T-shirt took their drink order.
“He’s that prime?” Adele asked as the waitress walked away.
Maddie nodded. Prime was a fairly accurate description. He was certainly drool- worthy, and there had been a time or two when she’d been tempted to bite into him. Like when she’d looked up from her salad at the Willow Creek Brewpub and Restaurant and he’d been sitting across from her. One moment she’d been minding her own business, reading her latest notes from Sheriff Potter, then, poof, there was Mick looking extremely hot and incredibly pissed off. Normally, she wouldn’t consider an angry man the least bit hot, but Mick wasn’t a normal man. As he’d sat across from her, working himself up, warning her to stay out of his bar, his eyes had turned a deep, fascinating blue. And she’d found herself wondering what he’d do if she climbed across the table and planted her mouth on his. If she kissed his neck and bit him just below his ear.
“I talked to Clare today,” Adele said and pulled Maddie’s attention away from the contemplation of Mick. The two friends talked about the upcoming wedding until the waitress returned with Adele’s Bitch on Wheels and Maddie’s extra-dry vodka martini. The waitress might have bad hair, but she was damn fine at her job.
“What is up with some of these women’s hair?” Adele asked as the waitress walked away.
Maddie’s gaze scanned the crowd and she figured the ratio of bad hair vs. good hair was about fifty-fifty. “I’ve been trying to figure that out myself.” Maddie raised her glass to her lips. “Half of them have good hair and the other half are an overprocessed mess.” Over the rim of her glass, she continued her surveillance. There was still no sign of Mick.
“Did I tell you about the guy I dated last weekend?” Adele asked.
“No.” Maddie put on her sweater and prepared for a dating disaster story.
“Well, he picked me up in a souped-up Pinto.”
“Pinto? Aren’t those the cars from the seventies that explode?”
“Yeah. It was bright orange, like a moving target, and he drove like he thought he was Jeff Gordon.” Adele pushed several springy curls behind her ears. “He even wore those fingerless racing gloves.”
“You have got to be shitting me. Where did you meet this guy?”
“At the raceway.”
Maddie didn’t ask what Adele had been doing at the raceway. She didn’t want to know. “Tell me you didn’t have sex with him.”
“No. I figure a guy who drove that fast had to do other things fast too.” Adele sighed. “I think I’ve been cursed with bad dates.”
Maddie didn’t believe in curses, but she couldn’t disagree. Adele had the worst luck with men of any woman she’d ever known. And Maddie had had a lot of bad luck herself.
An hour and three more bad date stories later, there was still no sign of Mick. Maddie and Adele ordered another drink and she began to wonder if he just might not show up at all.
“Hello, ladies.”
Maddie glanced up from her martini at the two guys standing in front of her. They were both tall and blond and very tan. The man who’d spoken had an Australian accent.
“Hello,” Adele said and took a sip of her Bitch on Wheels. Adele might have a lot of bad dates, but that was only because she attracted a lot of men. With her golden curls and big aquamarine eyes, Adele seemed to draw men in like bees to a barbeque. Obviously Adele’s mojo worked on all nationalities. Behind her glass, Maddie glanced at Adele and laughed.
“Would you like to sit down?” Adele asked.
They didn’t have to be asked twice and slid into the two empty chairs. “M’names Ryan,” the guy closest to Maddie introduced himself, flattening his vowels like he was Crocodile Dundee.
She set down her drink. “Maddie.”
“That’s Tom. He’s m’mate.” He pointed to his friend. “D’ya live in Truly?”
“Just moved here.” Good Lord, she half expected him to say “G’day” and “Crickey.” It was too dark to see the color of his eyes, but he was cute. “How about you?”
He scooted his chair closer so she could hear him better. “We’re just here for the summer fightin’ fires.”
