Twinkling Christmas lights had been strung over the archway to the bar area, and Charity couldn’t help but think the yuletide festivities were a bit overdone. But then James Cahill made the bulk of his money at this time of year, didn’t he? He profited from all the goodwill and big bucks that were a part of the holiday spirit.
A real prince of a guy.
She headed into the bar, where she slid onto an open stool next to a fortyish man in a Mariners ball cap sporting a trimmed goatee that was just starting to show hints of gray. A half-drunk glass of beer sat in front of him, and he was watching some basketball game on the muted TV. He turned away from the television long enough to check her out, his gaze lingering a second longer than necessary; then he picked up his drink and turned his attention back to the game.
The barmaid was dropping a slice of lime into a glass and flicked a glance Charity’s way. “I’ll be with you in a sec,” the blonde said and placed the drink in front of a woman three stools down. Then it was Charity’s turn. “What can I get for you?” Blondie asked. She was pretty, Charity thought, with her blue eyes, cute little nose, and easy smile. Her name tag read SOPHIA. Charity felt she’d hit pay dirt. This woman—Sophia Russo—was the woman James Cahill had been rumored to be seeing while still involved with Megan Travers.
Perfect.
“I’ll have a whiskey. Straight up.”
“Any particular kind?”
She eyed bottles displayed on lighted shelves in front of a mirror mounted behind the bar. “Jack. Black Label.”
“You got it.”
Though he didn’t cast a glance her way, Goatee-man’s eyebrows inched upward a fraction. Good. She pulled off her hat and shook out her hair, then dropped the hat on the vacant stool next to her clutch.
And that got his attention. He actually gave her an appraising stare.
“What?” she asked him. “You expected I’d order a cosmo? Or a lemon drop? Or maybe a piña colada?”
“Maybe,” he admitted and took a long swallow from his glass, draining his beer.
That was the problem, she thought. Everyone, including this clod in the Mariners cap, underestimated her.
But not for long.
“Well,” she said as the bartender slid the drink in front of her. She picked it up, held it close to her lips, and said to him, “You were wrong.” She smiled, just enough to let him know that yeah, she was hot, and he wasn’t getting any of it.
* * *
James under his breath. Unless he wanted to hitchhike home, he’d have to wait until someone brought him his pickup; otherwise, he was stuck here.
Riggs Crossing, unfortunately, didn’t have much in the way of Uber, Lyft, or even a damned taxi service.
But it shouldn’t take long for his ride to get here.
Despite the doctor’s orders, he was leaving, and he’d called Bobby to bring him some clothes, then haul him back home. “You’ll still be without wheels,” Knowlton had confided. “The cops, they took your Explorer.”
“Then I’ll use the company pickup.”
“They got that too.”
He’d clipped out, “Fine. I’ll deal with them. Just come and fetch me.”
“You sure about this?”
“Do I sound unsure?”
“Fine. Fine. I’m on my way.”
So he just had to wait. A half hour or so. He’d already called for the paperwork to sign himself out, been transferred to a different department twice, then gotten the runaround from someone in “admin.” Something about waivers for going against medical advice or some such rot. He didn’t care. If the doctor didn’t sign him out, or if the paperwork didn’t arrive before Knowlton, he’d just leave and deal with the fallout later.
He swung his legs over the bed.
Felt a twinge in his side and ignored it.
He’d have to give up the pain pills, he supposed. Probably couldn’t get a prescription from the doctor when he was hell-bent on disobeying the man’s advice. Fine. He’d deal. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t before.
That much he remembered.
More than one bar fight.
But that had been a while back. High school? College? Some other time? He didn’t know. Couldn’t call it up. But it was there, buried and not that deep. Slowly, bit by bit, his injured brain was beginning to remember a bit. Maybe when he got home, settled back in, he would recall more about Megan, how involved they were, why they’d been fighting, what had happened. He raked a hand through his hair, touched the edge of his bandage, and felt a slice of pain. He glanced at the clock.
Twenty more minutes, possibly twenty-five.
Along with the rattling of a cart in the hallway, he heard footsteps, and suddenly Doctor Monroe was back. “I hear you want to get out of here.”
“You heard right,” James said.
Monroe frowned. “It wouldn’t hurt to stay another night.”
“I need to get home.”
If the doctor thought about arguing, he kept it to himself. “If that’s the way you want it.”
“I do.”
With a nod, Monroe said, “Then I’ll leave you with some prescriptions and talk to admin about your discharge papers. You’ll probably have to jump through a few hoops. Insurance and all that.”
“All right.”
“No driving for a few weeks, until I give you the green light,” he added, and James wanted to argue, but didn’t. It wasn’t as if he had a vehicle at his disposal anyway. “And I want to see you this coming week. Make an appointment. If anything doesn’t seem right, call immediately.”
“Fine.”
“All right, then,” he said reluctantly. “You should be out of here within a couple of hours.”
When James started to argue for a quicker release, the doctor was already stepping to the door. He held
