In Christian’s experience, places like the Bloody Bucket, places serving free music, cheap beer, and marginally edible baskets of fish and chips were the world’s leading purveyors of hangovers.
Unfortunately for him, he had limited himself to one pint of the local brew. A brew that Ace had decreed was the sudsy nectar of the gods, and Christian couldn’t agree more. Beer was just better in Britain. None of that flat piss served ice-cold and guzzled by the twelve-pack.
Yet, despite the sad state of his near-empty pint glass, Christian was grinning as he swirled his last chip through a pile of mayonnaise.
That was another thing. He could not fathom the fuss about ketchup. If one didn’t shake a ketchup bottle or ketchup packet properly, one was left with an unappetizing slick of ketchup water. Disgusting.
There were loads of things he did not miss about England. A good, noisy, wood-paneled pub wasn’t one of them.
Popping the mayonnaise-dipped chip in his mouth, he hummed his contentment. Things could fall to shite faster than he could snap his fingers—that was just the way of the world in their line of work—but for now he was happy. As a spec-ops soldier, he had learned to appreciate life’s little moments.
Across from him, Emily halted with a forkful of fish halfway to her mouth. She cocked her pretty head. “Nowthat’sa new smile.” She pointed her fork in his direction. “I’m not sure how to read it.”
Usually he tried to avoid going quip for quip with her. Especially since her quick mind always surprised and delighted him, which in turn made him incredibly horny. The latter was a problem since she had given him no indication that her constant taunting and teasing would lead to anything other thanmoretaunting and teasing.
But the devil got the better of him—or else it was simply a case of masochism—and he feigned an amazed expression. “Oh, you read? The surprises today…they just keep coming, don’t they?”
Ace snorted, but didn’t look up from his basket of food.
“Don’t let my occasional lapse into poor grammar fool you, mister,” Emily declared. “I’m a card-carrying member of Oprah’s Book Club. And speaking of reading…” She held up one of the Bloody Bucket’s laminated menus. The history of the establishment was printed on the back. “So what if two hundred years ago on this very site a local went to the town well and pulled up a bucket full of blood because someone had disposed of a murdered body in there? Does that make it okay to name a place that serves food and drink the Bloody Bucket? What iswithyou Englishmen?”
“Skewed senses of humor?” Christian suggested.
“I vote for lack of imagination,” Ace said, dragging a chip through a mound of ketchup.Bleck!
“You’re one to talk,” Christian scoffed. “If memory serves, your favorite place to eat in Chicago is Downtown Dogs, which serves hot dogs…say it with me…downtown.”
Emily opened her mouth to add something that Christian was sure to find wonderfully scathing or snarky. But before she uttered a word, her eyes focused over his shoulder and her lips sealed shut. He was instantly on edge.
They had chosen a four-top table near the southern wall. The location allowed him a view of the front window while Ace kept an eye on the back door. Watching the exits was one more thing they did naturally,instinctively. But the arrangement proved disadvantageous because it meant Christian’s back was to the bar. He had to crane his head over his shoulder to see what had snagged Emily’s attention. The moment he did, he wished he hadn’t.
Oh brilliant, he thought, watching the woman headed their way.
When they arrived, the pub had been mostly empty. But the clock on the wall now read half past five, and the place had filled up. Locals packed the bar area, and the tables around them had not one seat to spare. Which brought him back to the woman…
She had been sitting alone at the bar when they entered. One look at her outdated, frizzy blond hairstyle, her two-sizes too-tight clothes, and her blatant leer had told him everything he needed to know. She was the town drunk and the town score.
Every little borough had one. A woman who dolled herself up and hit the local pub in the afternoon, drinking her government support check away by evening, which was when she would start chatting up others to buy her another round. Sometimes she would blow a stranger or a local just to get her next glassful. And all the while she lived with the hope that one of the men would see past her smudged eye makeup and whiskey-sour breath to the good-hearted woman beneath.
Christian knew all about her kind of woman. His mother had been one.
“Oh snap,” Emily muttered. “My craydar is going nutso.”
“Craydar?” Ace asked, unaware they had company coming.
“The ability to spot crazy,” Emily explained from the side of her mouth just as the blond-haired woman sat in the extra chair at their table.
“Well, you three look flush and full of fun,” she said, fiddling with the cheap silver cross attached to the chain around her neck. Christian had thought she was pushing forty, but up close he could see she was probably a good decade younger.
Hard living had a way of aging the body.
A memory of his mother stumbling home and stinking of well gin tried to invade his head, but he quickly shoved it away.
“How ’bout lettin’ me join the fun, eh?” The woman’s words slurred together. “What say you all to another round?”
“Care to give us your name first, luv?” Ace asked, eyeing her curiously.
“Oh.” The frizzy blond blinked. “I’m Jenny.” She extended her hand. “And you’re the most delicious thing what’s come ’round here in a fortnight.”
