Page 43 of Tough Justice

“Mick’s Foosball Bar?” She couldn’t contain the incredulity in her voice. “Seriously?”

He shut off the engine. “Don’t look so shocked. It’s the same as shooting pool or throwing darts. Only with foosball, you need precision hands and speed. Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it.”

Reluctance trickled through her head. Between cramming for tough bio and organic chemistry exams, followed by long residency hours, she’d never had time for the bar scene during college. Arcade games weren’t even on her radar now as an adult.

Skepticism must have shown on her face because Deck squeezed her hand then quickly removed it, as if he hadn’t intended to touch her. “C’mon. I need to blow off some steam.” Tiny lines fanned the corners of his eyes. Eyes dark with latent grief.

Between talking about his sister then the altercation with the belligerent teen, today had sucked the life out of him. She figured it was misplaced disappointment in himself that was the real culprit. “Is that the first time you talked about your sister at one of these sessions?”

He hesitated before answering. “Yeah.”

“You said you volunteer at the Center regularly. Why did you wait until today to talk about Marianne?”

“Dunno.” A small sliver of light returned to his eyes. “Let’s go in.”

She understood the message. Topic closed.

The moment they pushed through the door to Mick’s, Tori was hit with music, laughter, bells, and whistles—literally—because Mick’s was one big funhouse.

Abba’s “Dancing Queen” pumped from so many speakers on the walls and ceiling she practically cringed from the noise. A huge square bar packed with customers took center stage. Pinball machines lined one wall, while the other had a long shuffleboard table at which people slid round metal disks to each end. A sharp clack rent the air from one of two pool tables. Deck led her deeper into the bar, all the way to the back where every inch of space was crammed with foosball tables.

“Yo, Deck.” Brett Tanner waved them over. Deck’s other K-9 friend, Evan, stood opposite Brett at one of the foosball tables.

The standing crowd thickened, and Deck stepped aside so she could go first. Brett went wide-eyed, turning to look at Evan, whose brows rose.

“Good to see you, Doc.” Brett extended his hand.

“You, too, Brett.” His long fingers closed over hers, the muscles in his forearms flexing beneath a vicious raised red patch of skin. She tried not to stare, but being a doctor, it was impossible not to. That had to have been a third-degree burn. What the swirling black marks were, she couldn’t be sure. A dragon tattoo? The scars looked like flames shooting from the dragon’s mouth.

She dragged her gaze away from Brett’s arm and reached across the table. “Hi, Evan.”

“Glad you could join us, Doc,” Evan said as his equally large hand clasped hers.

“Guys, call me Tori. Remember?”

Brett nodded. “Doc Tori, then. Wasn’t that an old TV show?”

Deck waved over a red-haired waitress. “That was Daktari. It was about a vet in Africa. What’ll you have?” he asked her when the waitress wiggled her way through the masses of people.

“Chardonnay.”

“You got it, hon. Deck, the usual?”

“Yep. Thanks, Ginger.”

Ginger sent a definitively suggestive look. “Have fun now.” The waitress disappeared through the crowd, heading for the bar.

Clearly, Deck and his friends were no strangers to Mick’s. Then again, Tori was in a bar with three of the handsomest men she’d ever met. Brett’s sandy blond hair and blue eyes made him look like a classic California surfer hunk. Evan’s dark brown, nearly black hair made his gorgeous slate-gray eyes stand out like diamonds. All three men were built like warriors—tall, all muscle, and probably not an ounce of body fat amongst them.

Evan took a sip of the beer he’d had resting on the edge of the table. “Did the shooting review board clear you yet?”

Deck shook his head. “Too soon. I’m on the beach until they do.”

“Heard it was a good shoot.” Brett rubbed his forearm, telling Tori it either itched or hurt. Which also meant it had to be fairly recent.

“What does that that mean, ‘on the beach’ and ‘a good shoot’?”

“Here you go.” Ginger handed Tori her Chardonnay and Deck his beer. She rested her hand on Deck’s thick biceps. “Flag me over when you’re ready for a refill.” As she sashayed away, Ginger looked back over her shoulder. The woman’s gaze practically stroked Deck’s body. If Deck were a sailor, he could have a woman in every port. Make that a harem.