Bone Cold

And a show it was; a number of bar patrons had already gathered around to watch. Quentin and Terry joined them.

After a moment, Quentin glanced at his partner. “I don’t know, Terry, she looks—”

“She looks good. Damn good.”

What Quentin had been about to say was, this woman didn’t look the type to be messed with. She didn’t look like the type who would go around with cops, except on the sly. Not exactly a rich bitch, but a climber. One of those women who valued prestige, position and Armani suits.

She would choose to hang out with the guys who could give her those. A cop could not. Tonight, obviously, she’d gone slumming.

His brothers made it across the bar. Percy spoke first. “What’s happening, big bro? Hey, Terry.”

Quentin glanced at his brothers. The family resemblance between the two brothers was marked: both possessed the trademark Malone blue eyes and dark, curly hair. Percy, however, had yet to grow into his lanky six foot three frame and Spencer, the street-brawler, had the profile of a prize fighter who had taken one too many pops to the nose. “Currently I’m trying to stop my partner from making an ass of himself.”

The younger Malones followed Quentin’s gaze. Percy grinned. “She’s hot, no doubt about it. You feel like being burned, Terror?” he asked, using the nickname Terry had earned his first year on the force. “Spencer here went down in flames ten minutes ago.”

“No comment,” Spencer muttered, sending his brother an irritated glance.

Terry smoothed back his hair. “Watch a professional at work, fellas.”

The three Malone brothers hooted. “I don’t know,” Quentin called after him, “you’ve been out of circulation awhile.”

Terry glanced back at the other men, his grin cocky. “Once a lady-killer, always a lady-killer.”

Even three sheets to the wind, Terry was indeed, a lady-killer. Tall and lanky, with the dark hair, eyes and patois-on-demand of his Cajun ancestors, Terry cut a damn dashing figure. Quentin gave him a better than fifty-fifty chance.

His friend sauntered over to the woman and began swaying with her to the music, moving in close. She turned her back to him, not missing a beat of the music.

Terry glanced over. Quentin grinned and mimicked a plane going down with his right hand. Percy and Spencer chuckled.

Terry didn’t give up. He tried again. Again she made it clear she wasn’t interested, this time more pointedly.

The third time, she didn’t waste time on subtlety. She stopped dancing, looked him squarely in the eyes and told him to get lost. As she spun away, she shook her spandex-encased hips, as if taunting Terry with what he couldn’t have.

Far from deterred, Terry swaggered back to his friends. “She wants me. No doubt about it.”

The three men howled. Spencer leaned toward Terry. “First round—woman one, The Terror zip.”

Quentin shook his head. “Give it up, partner. The lady’s not interested.”

Terry laughed. “She’s playing hard to get. You just watch, she’ll come around.”

“Yeah, she’ll come around, all right. To slapping your face.” Percy looked at Quentin. “Why don’t you give her a try, bro. Turn that legendary smile of yours on her.”

“No thanks.” Quentin took a swallow of his beer. “I like my ego intact, thank you.”

“Yeah, right.” Spencer looked at Terry. “You ever hear the story about cute little Miss Davis? She was Quentin’s English teacher his senior year of high school.”

“Oh, please,” Quentin muttered. “Not this story again.”

Terry sank onto a bar stool, signaling Shannon for another drink. “I don’t believe I have. Fill me in.”

“Well,” Spencer continued, “seems big bro here didn’t spend enough time in class cracking the books and had earned himself a big fat F.”

“Things looked grim,” Percy embellished. “Not graduating with his class. Summer school. Dad kicking his ass. The whole bit.”

Terry yawned. “Is this story actually going somewhere? “

The two younger brothers grinned. “Rumor has it,” Spencer said, “that after a couple of private meetings with pretty Miss Davis, that F jumped to a C. Just like magic.”

“Some magic. He used that devil smile on her, the one that—”

“Devil smile? Give me a break.” Quentin rolled his eyes.

Ignoring Quentin, Spencer picked up where Percy had left off. “Even though he won’t talk, he used more than the smile, my men. Trust me.”

“That true, partner?” Terry lifted his eyebrows. “You sweet-talk yourself into a diploma?”

Quentin scowled at the three, annoyed at his brothers for bringing up that story and with himself for being such a screwup. It was damn embarrassing to be a grown man best known for his high school conquests with the opposite sex. “Grow up, boys. Get a life.”

The men hooted in amusement; the night progressed. And as it did, Terry’s determination to score with the redhead grew. As did her determination that he not.

To Quentin it seemed as if the woman was making a game out of teasing Terry. Out of taunting him. She danced with every guy who asked her, sometimes two at a time—everyone but his partner. It was as if she wanted to see how far she could push him.

Not much farther, Quentin realized as his friend’s mood shifted from cocky to angry and belligerent.

Quentin saw trouble ahead.

It came sooner than later.

“Excuse me?” the redhead said loudly, swinging to face Terry. “Do you have a problem?”

“Yeah, baby,” he slurred, “I have a problem. The guy you’re dancing with is a stiff. Come on over here and get a taste of a real man.”

Quentin tensed as the other man flushed and curled his hands into fists. The woman laid a hand on her dance partner’s arm and raked her gaze scathingly over Terry. “In your dreams, loser. Got that? Not now, not ever. Get lost.”

Terry’s mouth curled into a sneer and Quentin muttered an oath. He nudged his brother Spencer, who was in a conversation with Shannon. “We may have trouble. Get Percy.” He started for the dance floor.

“You heard the lady,” the woman’s dance partner said, stepping forward. “She’s not interested. Beat it.”

Terry ignored the man, his full attention—and fury—focused on the woman. “What did you call me?” he asked, loud enough to be heard across the bar. A ripple moved through the crowd.

“You heard me, cop.” She held up her right hand, shaping thumb and forefinger into an L. “Loser. With a capital L.”

Terry went berserk, lunging for the woman’s dance partner. Quentin saw it coming and sprang forward, throwing himself between the two men.

Blinded by rage, Terry threw a punch; it clipped Quentin’s shoulder. Percy and Spencer grabbed Terry. He fought them, cursing them for holding him back, taking a swing at Percy when he half freed himself.

In the end, it took all three Malones to drag Terry out to the alley behind the bar.

The frigid night air seemed to shock some sense into him and the fight drained out him. He slumped against the alley wall. Quentin motioned his brothers back inside.

Alone, Quentin faced his partner. “Get ahold of yourself, Terry. This is Shannon’s place, for God’s sake. You’re a cop. What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t.” Terry dragged a hand across his face. “It was that chick. She really got under my skin.”

“That’s no excuse, man. Forget her. She’s not worth it.”

Terry’s eyes became glassy and he quickly averted them. “In there, when she… I kept thinking about Penny. About her kicking me out. She called me…she called me a lose—”

He choked the word back, then muttered an oath.

“It’s tough, Terry. I know.” He laid a hand on his partner’s shoulder. “What do you say we get out of here? Who needs it?”

“So I can do what?” he asked. “Go home? I don’t have a home anymore. Remember? Penny took my home away from me. She took my kids.”

“Penny’s not the enemy, Terry. And you’re not going to get her back by treating her like she is. You do want her back, right?”

His partner looked at him. “What do you think? Of course I want her back. I love her.”

“Then show her. Try a little romance. Candy and flowers. Take her to dinner. Or some sappy chick flick. Pretend you like it. For her.”

“That’s right,” Terry muttered, lips screwing into a sneer, “the mighty Malone knows everything about women. And now, it seems he knows everything about my woman.”

Quentin ignored the sarcasm, chalking it up to Terry’s marital problems and his having had too much to drink. “Hardly. We’re not talking rocket science here. Raging like a bull and calling names doesn’t soften a woman’s heart. Remember the song? Try a little tenderness.”

Terry’s face twisted with bitterness. “What’s going on here, partner? All those times my wife asked you over for dinner, what was that all about?” He leaned toward Quentin, eyes alight with fury. “While I was choking down her leftover meat loaf, what were you enjoying? “

Quentin hung on to his temper. “You’re going to regret that comment in the morning,” he said softly, tone deadly. “And because you’re going through a hard time, I’ll let it pass. This once. Do it again and I won’t be so forgiving. You got that?”

Terry crumpled. “I’m a screwup, man. A total screwup. A loser, like that chick said. Like my old lady always told me I would be. A worthless nothing.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it. You’re drunk and feeling sorry for yourself. Just don’t turn it on me, partner. I’m on your side.”

He pulled himself together. “I’m going back in there. I don’t want that cocktease or anybody else to think she’s won.”

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. The crowd grew bigger and rowdier, the redhead apparently grew bored and decided to take her goodies elsewhere and everyone seemed to forget the altercation between her and Terry. At the height of the night’s revelry Quentin lost sight of Terry, not hooking up with him again until they closed the place at 2:00 a.m.

“Shannon,” Terry said, clapping the bartender on the back, “I’m sorry, man. I shouldn’t have—” He weaved on his feet; Quentin grabbed his arm to steady him. “—shouldn’t have started nothin’ in your place.”

“It’s okay, Ter.” The big man waved off his apologies. “You’re going through a lot of crap right now. You just needed to let off a little steam.”

“No ‘scuse, man. None.” He shrugged free of Quentin’s grasp, swaying dangerously. He dipped his hand into a trouser pocket and pulled out a bill. He pressed it into Shannon’s hand. “No ‘scuse. Take it, it’s my ‘pology.”

Quentin glanced at the bill in Shannon’s hand, then looked at Terry in shock. A fifty? Where the hell had Terry gotten that?

Shannon must have been wondering the same thing because his eyebrows shot up in question a moment before he stuffed the bill into his apron pocket.

Quentin turned to his brothers who had hung around to help him get Terry home. “What do you say we get soon-to-be Sleeping Beauty out of here?”

Terry could hardly walk. With his brothers’ help, Quentin got him outside and poured into his Bronco. He handed Percy Terry’s keys. “See you there.”

“Yeah. Quent?”

He met his youngest brother’s vivid blue eyes. “That was a fifty Terry gave Shannon.”

Quentin frowned. “I saw.”

“That’s a lot of money to be throwing around.”

“No joke.” Especially for a cop who was supporting a family—at two separate residences. Unless that cop was on the take.

Terry was not. Quentin would stake his life on it.

“Forget about it, Percy.” Quentin saw the question in his brother’s eyes and turned away. “I’m beat, let’s get this over with.”

The insistent scream of the phone dragged Quentin from a deep sleep. Muttering an oath, he answered it. “Malone here.”

“Rise and shine, sweetheart,” the desk officer drawled. “Time to go to work.”

Quentin muttered another oath. A call from the precinct this time of night meant only one thing. “Where?” he managed to say, voice thick with sleep.

“In the alley behind Shannon’s Tavern.”

The response jump started his brain. He sat up. “Did you say Shannon’s Tavern?”

“That I did. Female. Caucasian. Dead.”

Shit. “You don’t have to sound so damn cheerful about it. What are you, some sort of ghoul?”

“What can I say? I love my work.”

He glanced at his watch, calculating how long it would take him to get to the scene. “You call Landry yet?”

“He’s next.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Good luck.”

She had that right. Quentin hung up and dialed his partner.

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