Page 9

“Well, don’t you look like hell, Sheriff,” a teasing voice calls out as I step into Bangers.

“Where is she at?” I grumble, running my hand down my haggard face. It has been a damn day. From fighting banana hammocks this morning to chasing livestock down mainstreet. I am exhausted.

Crow clears his throat drawing me to the present, gives me a once over before nodding to the end of the bar. I have known Crew and Crow Crosby for as long as I can remember, and for as long as I can remember, their eerie, ice-cold eyes—arctic blue like something from another world—have sent a shiver through my very soul.

Mercy swears it’s the damn Romani blood they have.

I turn my eyes to the end of the bar—and there she is.

Absolutely lit. Hair thrown on top of her head like it lost the will to live, and she’s wearing—Lord help me—those damn chicken-print pajamas with Pluck Me stretched proudly across her thighs. She’s belting out what might’ve once been Mama Said Knock You Out, but honestly? Mama should’ve stayed home. Her pitch is so off it’s got dogs howling outside and probably a few ghosts rolling over in their graves.

She’s swaying like a leaf in a breeze, completely soused, and to anyone else, she’d look like a walking, talking disaster.

And okay—maybe she does. Hair a mess, outfit questionable at best, not a single note on key.

But damn if I’m not still staring.

That sharp tongue and fiery sass she’d thrown at me this morning? Gone. Completely gone. It has taken a backseat somewhere between her third drink and that karaoke mic. And seeing her like this—unguarded, ridiculous, a little broken, and not trying to hide a single damn bit of it—only makes me love her more.

Every slurred lyric, every off-key note, every time she yells “MAMA SAID” like she is throwing punches at the air—it all just makes her more her.

Still, this mess of a woman is still the most beautiful damn thing I’d ever seen.

I give Crow a quick nod before slowly making my way to the end of the bar. She’s still mid-warble—if you could call it that—and for a second, she doesn’t see me.

I always live for that fleeting moment. Before the scowl. Before the steel curtain drops.

Then, like clockwork, the scowl hits. Right on cue. Every damn time. And every damn time, it slices through me like a blade.

“Alright, Lou, let’s get you home,” I say gently.

She hiccups a loud no and immediately starts calling for Crow, dragging his name out like it’s some magical incantation that’ll save her from my very reasonable request.

While she hollers, I quietly gather her purse, her car keys, and her phone. She’s still pawing at the air and calling his name like he’s her damn fairy god-brother when Crow finally appears behind the bar.

He gives her a soft smile. That smile. The one that makes me want to smash his face into the sticky wood countertop. I don't, obviously, but I think about it.

I know both Crosby brothers see Lou like a little sister. But still—does he really need to look that damn charming while doing it?

“You called for me, beauty?” Crow leans forward on his elbows, voice dipped in that smooth-as-sin Crosby drawl.

Lou points a wobbly finger in my direction. “Why’d you call him?”

“Because you’ve had enough for one night, and he lives right next door to you.” His tone is half-chastising, like she’s a toddler who drank from their bath water.

She squints at me suspiciously, then sways a little as she dramatically whispers, “You know what he wants to do”—hiccup—“behind closed doors?”

Crow tries, God bless him, to hold a straight face. I just close my eyes and sigh.

“Lou…” I murmur, as the blush starts climbing my neck.

She points at me again like she’s about to drop the scandal of the century. “He wants to rearrange my guts,” she stage-whispers. “With his nightstick.”

Crow loses it.

I just shake my head and scoop her gently off the barstool like the absolute handful she is.

Thankfully, she's pretty intoxicated, so when she starts to resist, her movements are sluggish and weak. If she were sober, she’d definitely give me a harder time, and I’d have to brace myself for a few solid blows.