Reggie scowled. “Thanks a lot,Ken.”
Brad ignored him. “But gentlemanly nice. And that won’t cut it with Officer Aggressive.”
“I’m nice, but I’m sneaky,” Mack said, defending himself. “I’ll charm my way past her defenses. Then we’ll see who’s tackling who.”
“I think you meanwhom.”
“Naw,” Tex said. “It’swho.”
Reggie broke out a book on grammar—what a geek—and while the crew argued, Mack thought about what they’d said. Just how devious would he have to be to worm his way into Office Carmichael’s good graces?
Oddly, just thinking about her put him in a great mood. He cleaned the guys out before they all left in huffs filled with threats and blind date suggestions.
“I’m not dating anything with hooves or antlers, Tex,” Mack yelled before gunning down the street in his prized Chevelle.
Now with renewed purpose, he committed to trying to find a way to get Cassandra of the mighty soccer legs to go out on a date. And without asking her anywhere near his brother, Xavier, who worked in her precinct. That would be the real trick…
***
Thursday night, Mack and Reggie rolled up to a bar fight in Aid 45, which was essentially an ambulance that belonged to Station 44, not a hospital. As an EMT, Mack could do basic life support, handling minor injuries. He couldn’t push drugs, but he could patch up scrapes, splint sprains or breaks, and assess for further medical assistance, where he’d take the patient to a hospital.
Tonight, they’d been turn and burn since after dinner. He could tell they had a full moon because the crazies were out in full force. Like at this bar, where a fight had broken out between five drunken idiots over who had the best drink.
Mack turned to the bartender as they waited for the bouncers to get the fighters separated. “So who won?”
“I did, but the winning group gave the title to her.” The guy nodded to the woman still serving a crowd away from the mess. Broken tables, chairs, bottles, and glasses littered one side of the bar, near the back entrance, fortunately. “Personally, I make a killer Long Island iced tea. But the winner was a boilermaker.” In a lower voice, he confided, “That whiskey is for shit, you ask me. Especially combined with a Budweiser. I mean, seriously?”
“Good to know.” Reggie shook his head. “Me? I’d have gone with a classic. Whiskey sour or a mojito.”
Mack sneered. “More like low class. I’d have gone Moscow mule.”
“That’s what I said!” one of the assailants slurred, overhearing Mack.
The woman next to her said, “Bitch. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The fight heated up again, but it quickly settled when the police arrived.
And low and behold, Mack watched sexy Officer Carmichael and her giant partner scowl their way into the bar from the back door. When Carmichael saw him, she blinked in surprise before pretending she hadn’t recognized him.
Reggie leaned in to ask, “Isn’t that—”
“Yep.” Mack’s grin went up in wattage; he could feel it.
While Carmichael and her partner took statements from the bartender and witnesses, Mack and Reggie started helping the injured. Mostly bruises, a few lacerations—one that might need stitches—and a sprained ankle the inebriated patient continued to blame on his friend, the boilermaker winner.
As Mack continued to apply bandages to the open cut on the drunk guy’s head, Carmichael came over to talk to the miscreant.
“Your name is Buddy Echols?”
“Oh, a pretty cop. Nice.” He gave her a thumbs-up.
Mack bit back a grin at Carmichael’s sigh.
“Buddy. Echols. Yes?”
“Yep.”
“License please?”
