Relentless River: Men of Mercy, Book 10 Read online

  From the way Riser zeroed in on her like an incoming target, he was relishing having the hot redhead on his lap.

  And why do you care?

  He’d come here to stop the fight, close the bar, and lock her ass up for disturbing the peace. But how was he supposed to concentrate on jail when her more than generous breasts were practically spilling out of a black low-cut vest right into Riser’s mouth?

  Forget it. Not his. Not even close to his type. He went for librarians. School teachers. Professional grown women who had the experience and control to go after what they wanted and keep their mouth shut about their affairs. They dressed in khaki Capri’s, pastels, and wore their pale blonde hair back in smooth buns. The few women he’d had the time or inclination to go after, were always quiet. Reserved. Calm in all situations.

  And they fucking paled in contrast to Cheri Boudreaux.

  Before Bo knew what he was doing, he’d walked right past the rolling mass of men duking it out on the floor and stopped a foot away from her. Riser lifted a blond brow, crinkling his tanned forehead beneath a head full of sandy blond hair. His thick, trimmed beard did absolutely nothing to hide a deepening dimple in his left cheek. “Well Sheriff, late to the party as usual.”

  What the fuck did that mean? From the way Riser leaned closer to Cheri, he was talking about something entirely different than the ongoing bar fight. And no matter how much he tried to control his reaction, Bo’s gut tightened like a boiling pit of tar turned to ice.

  Bo felt the tick in his jaw, felt the tiny muscles down his back go rigid, and didn’t fucking like it one bit. Where was his specialized skill set of always retaining complete control of his emotions and reactions? He’d always relied so heavily on the inherent trait in MARSOC. Even in basic training, he’d been the nut his drill sergeant hadn’t been able to crack. His ability to remain calm under pressure had aided him well in combat and as sheriff. He’d had men threaten to kill him, rip his balls off and stuff them in his mouth, and it hadn’t bothered him the least, but the scene before him drove him bat-shit crazy.

  Deep down, Bo was man enough to admit to himself it had nothing to do with the man’s words and everything to do with the sexy redhead sitting in his lap. And he’d die before he let out any hint of his lame thought. “What happened?”

  He had a fleeting thought about flinging out his real excuse of a dead body recently excavated from the bayou, literally seconds before becoming gator bait; however, number one: He would never go public with an active investigation until he had to; and number two: He never gave excuses.

  Cheri finally leaned her pretty little head into the conversation and nibbled on her bottom lip, capturing Bo’s attention. Fuck, that lip did things to his imagination, made him tingle in places he had no business tingling. Cheri Boudreaux would be any man’s ruination.

  “I’ve got it under control, we won’t be needing your services.”

  Bo’s jaw clamped so hard he had a brief telepathic connection with the gator, but he made sure his face remained impassive, no need to give her any more ammunition when she already possessed too much.

  “Services?” He let his voice drip with just the right amount of sarcasm. He serviced no one.

  As a matter of fact, the few women he chose to tangle with, serviced him, and they liked it.

  “Yeah,” she left her mouth slightly open and dropped her chin, looking up at him through thick, sooty black lashes and darkly lined eyes in a way which mocked him right where he stood. “Like I said, just a little fight, nothing we haven’t dealt with before on our own.”

  Riser leaned in like he was going to say something. Bo cut him off with one steely hard look. “Little fight? Looks like your bouncer’s pinned under the tangle on the floor.”

  Her eyes flashed with worry for all of a second before she shut down and batted her lashes at him. If he hadn’t been watching her so closely, he’d have missed the tell, her sign of concern. So, little miss hot pants really was worried, and she was over here tending to this… this… whatever the hell Riser was instead of dealing with the problem. Or maybe she’d already tried to deal with it and failed.

  Bo stabbed a finger right in the direction of her nose. “Stay.”

  He clicked his heels together, and took the five steps necessary to get to the edge of the fight and grabbed the first shirt he could reach, flinging the protesting man over his right shoulder. Bo ignored the loud crash of a barstool as it toppled over the man and grabbed the next one, and the next one, flinging them left and right, spraying them out across the room. One heavyset, obviously drunk Woodard twin took a swing at him. Bo ducked left, met him with an upper cut, and the twin fell out cold. Bo stepped over him and moved on to the last two, so intent on their drunken wrestling moves they hadn’t even noticed the rest of the bodies were no longer pressing them down onto the roughhewn planks of the ground.

  “Woo hoo! You go, Sheriff!”

  Bo glanced over to see the scrawny, red-faced John Redman standing in the corner next to a giant stuffed bear with a cigarette in his mouth, cheering him on.

  Bill Jones, just as big around as John was skinny, was on the other side of the bear, its huge form tottering left and right, arms unsteady and Bill clapping right along with his drinking buddy. “You sure got here fast. This newfangled cell phone thingy my grandson gave me sure did come in handy.” Bill waved a smart phone in the air as proudly as Neil Armstrong had displayed the flag on the moon.

  Bo gave a grunt of amusement. Those two usually caused more trouble than they helped, and he wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if they hadn’t instigated this little fight. Then again, he’d be even less surprised if it was Cheri and her sashaying hips.

  Or her cousin Lamont, who was presently propped up against the stage with Ginger draped over him like super glue. Bo narrowed his gaze on the pair. Ginger petted Lamont’s chest and lower, uncaring of anyone who might be watching. Lamont caught Bo’s stare and grabbed her hand, diverting it to his side instead of his crotch as he glanced toward the kitchen and avoided any more eye-to-eye contact.

  Bo’s neck tingled. There was something suspicious about Cheri’s cousin pegging his guilt-o-meter trip full on.

  One of the men rolled against his shins. Bo’s hand shot down instinctively, and he fisted the man’s shirt between his shoulder blades and flung him with more force than necessary against the far wall. It was Joe Johnson last, Cheri’s bouncer, pushing himself up to his elbows on the floor, a bloody scowl setting his thick lips into a deep frown. “Damn drunks. Just don’t know when to stop.”

  Bo offered Joe a hand and helped him to his feet. Immediately, blood gushed from the man’s nose

  “Think you might need to get that looked at.”

  Joe covered his face with a beefy hand and tilted his head back. “Not the first time I’ve had a bloody nose.”

  From the way his eyes were swelling and black already, Bo figured it was more broken than bruised.

  He caught a flash of blonde hair and sidestepped in time for Beverly to fly past him, flinging her arms around Joe’s more than round waist. “Oh baby, I was so worried. I couldn’t see you.”

  The local three-time divorcee with bleached hair, wearing a black leather miniskirt she should’ve stopped wearing twenty years ago, pasted her body to Joe, who obviously appreciated the gesture. “It’s all good, girl.”

  Not moving an inch, Beverly said, “Let me take you home, I’ll take care of you, baby.”

  Despite the blood pouring down Joe’s face, he lifted Beverly in one arm a good foot off the ground, the low growl in the burly man’s chest loud enough to fill the entire bar. “What you waitin’ on, woman?”

  Beverly made a sound, something of a cross between a squeal and a moan, wriggled from his grip, and dragged him out the front door.

  “Joe better watch out. She’s chewed through more men than I’ve chewed tobacco.” C.W. Videl stepped from the back porch, his best buddy Squirrel tracking right at his heels. The two
could be twins with their shaggy gray beards and long gray hair. Hands down, they’d both have a good shot at trying out for the cast of ZZ Top.

  “I think she really likes him,” Cheri quipped from her corner.

  Bo glared at her, silently warning her to keep quiet. In response, she did the mature thing and stuck out her tongue before giving him her back and resuming her ministrations to Riser. Bo clenched his teeth so hard he was surprised they didn’t crack in his mouth.

  “C.W., want to tell me what happened here?” Bo crossed his arms over his chest and planted his feet, knowing the likelihood of getting an answer out of the old veteran would be harder than cracking computer code.

  C.W. scratched his chin to his wiry beard, took a swig out of whatever whiskey he was sipping from the green plastic cup constantly attached to his right hand and said, “Well, looks like there was a fight.”

  No shit. “I’ve gathered as much. How did it start?”

  One of the men, Matt Green, started crawling toward the front door. Bo instantly barked out a command, and Matt grumbled and slid back against the bar.

  “Sheriff, name’s Squirrel. Nice to meet you.” Squirrel, one of Riser’s SF-TFS teammate’s grandfather, extended a weathered, grease-stained hand.

  Bo would normally shake it, but he’d already met Squirrel on multiple occasions. “We’ve met. Out at your granddaughter’s house, remember?”

  Squirrel squinted his beady eyes, bloodshot, probably from an illegal substance. Suddenly, his bushy gray brows rose almost to his hairline, a feat in itself. “I’ll be, you’re sure right. Sorry there, Sheriff. This old mind of mine gets a tad foggy every now and then.” A state Squirrel helped along by consuming an inordinately large amount of homegrown brew and other things Bo didn’t have time to look into. As long as the old codger wasn’t bothering anybody, he didn’t really care what he did on his own property.

  “It’s all right, Squirrel. Now C.W., I’m still waiting on you to tell me what started the fight.”

  C.W. jammed his free thumb into his black and green camo pants and rocked back on his heels. “Now see there, Sheriff, don’t really know, seein’s how I wasn’t inside. Me an’ Squirrel was out back tending to the porch folks.”

  “And the people on the back porch, where are they?”

  “Don’t rightly know. People started shouting the police was here and everybody left.”

  “And why would they leave because I showed up?” Bo was trying to hold on to his patience, he really was.

  C.W. took his time with another measured gulp and then swiped his sleeve across his mouth. “Well now, can’t speak for nobody ‘cept myself.”

  Cheri coughed in the corner and attempted to cover up a smile. No wonder the damn girl was so crazy if she worked around a man like this every day.

  Apparently, C.W. was at the beginning stages of his pontification. “See, folks around here ’tend to their own. We was all out back not harmin’ nobody, sampling Squirrel’s new brew, and next thing we know, folks is yelling police. Well, you know how people are now since we had that crooked Sheriff Brown going round stealing from all the locals. They don’t rightly trust the law. ’Course you’re different.”

  Bo took a deep calming breath and counted to ten. The previous sheriff had been as crooked as a criminal in cahoots with the murderous mayor bent on grabbing power and money at any cost. They’d stolen money, dealt drugs and even dipped their toe into a little homegrown terrorism. It’d taken Bo a long time to build up what small amount of trust he was able to. Still, he doubted everyone had fled the back porch just because Bo showed up, and more likely, they were toking on something besides Squirrel’s homemade brew.

  “You two go sit. I might think of some more questions later.”

  Knowing his best avenue would be talking to anyone outside the people who ran this bar, Bo strode over to the nearest man leaning against the bar nursing a bloody lip and said, “Who started the fight?”

  The guy pointed a finger at the unconscious Arlow Woodard on the floor. A chorus of agreement sounded from the other men still sitting there. He had no doubt Arlow started the fight; wasn’t the first time, and Bo seriously doubted it would be the last. Either way, he was ready for this whole mess to be over and for the bar to empty out so he could get a private word with its manager. “Y’all move along. Everybody’s free to go.”

  The men on the floor scrambled to their feet and made their way out the front door, leaving Bill and John Redman, C.W., Squirrel, Lamont and Ginger, Cheri and Riser and Cord, and an unconscious Arlow and Wood.

  Bo stood alone, dead center in the room. He nodded in the direction of Bill and John. “Meant you, too.”

  Bill grumbled and made his way toward the door, John Redman right beside him. “These younguns don’t show appreciation for nobody no more.”

  John held the door open for his friend, his voice fading as he followed him outside. “See, told you not to call the sheriff…”

  Bo listened for their footsteps down the rickety wooden staircase and then turned to the other two men, both of them behind the bar fixing drinks for themselves. “I’d like a word alone with the bar manager.”

  Squirrel didn’t even look up, just elbowed C.W. and said, “Sure he’d like a word alone with her.”

  C.W. cackled, topped off his cup of straight liquor and replaced the bottle back on the shelf behind him with amazingly steady hands. “That girl can handle her own. Come on, we can take the boat back to your place, been dying to try some of your new sweet emerald.”

  Bo let out a sigh of frustration and covered his eyes with a weary hand, trying to massage some of the tension from his temples. “You know I can still hear you, right?”

  “We ain’t doing nothing wrong, Sheriff.”

  As if Bo didn’t know what sweet emerald stood for. “You do realize they have not legalized marijuana in the state of Mississippi?”

  “Marrow – what? Don’t know what you’re talking about. Maybe you should get some rest.”

  Bo scrubbed a hand down his face and watched as the two old men shuffled out the back door. They’d be taking Betsy. As Sheriff, he probably shouldn’t let them drive any vehicle anywhere, but they were only traveling a short way downriver, and those two men had driven under the influence since they were twelve years old. Besides, he’d rewired the old cruiser so it couldn’t get above the speed of ten miles an hour a couple of months ago.

  Lamont groaned and sat up, his left eye was swollen, bloody, and already turning black. And from the way he groaned, Bo imagined he’d gotten on the severely wrong end of a colossal fist.

  “Next time don’t run headlong into a fistfight.” Cheri propped her hands on her hips in a superb imitation of Superwoman, and Bo had to fight the small grin tugging at his lips. At least she was an equal opportunity hater.

  Lamont, with the help of Ginger, got to his feet and staggered his way over to the bar, groaning with each step.

  Bo kept his gaze locked on Cheri, who went back to Riser’s side and sat down in the chair next to him, scooting up too close for Bo’s liking.

  Lamont poured a shot of tequila, downed it and quickly shot another.

  “Alcohol’s not going to make your head feel any better,” Cheri said.

  “Right now, I’m aiming to pass out on the way home.” Lamont tossed back another.

  “You can’t sleep right now; you might have a concussion.” Cheri was already striding across the bar to snatch the bottle from Lamont’s hand. “Don’t you know anything?”

  “All I know is my heads pounding so hard I can’t see straight.”

  Ginger stepped between them, propping a hand on her bony hip. “Leave him alone. He’s hurt.”

  Cheri snatched the bottle and carried it back to her table. “At least I’m not letting him drink when he might have a concussion.” She slapped the bag of frozen peas on Riser’s face.

  “Ow.” Riser grimaced, and a little tingle of happiness worked its way through Bo.

&
nbsp; Cheri winced. “Crap, sorry.”

  Riser gave Bo a wink with his one good eye before sliding his hand over Cheri’s knee. Bo stiffened. Riser’s hand didn’t have any business anywhere near any part of her. It should be his hand there. Not Riser’s.

  The entry door banged open, and Bart tripped inside. “Got the murder scene secure Sheriff. Here to help.”

  Bart stumbled to a stop and gulped; his skinny Adam’s apple bobbed straight to the bottom of his scrawny throat.

  “Murder?” It was Riser’s gruff voice this time.

  Bo held up a hand, staring his deputy down. Dammit to hell. He had no intention of announcing the body to the world. And judging from the straight up pale cast to Bart’s face, Bo knew he didn’t have to worry about chewing him out for his blunder.

  Bart’s timing couldn’t have been more perfect opportunity for Bo to get Cheri alone. “This area is secured. I need you to get these three over to Desha Memorial and have them checked for a concussion.”

  Riser shot to his feet, his tall frame towering. “Does this involve my team?”

  “Right now, I don’t think so, but I’m not sure.” If Riser’s SF team hadn’t been attacked last year right here in Mercy, Bo would tell him to shut up and not worry. Regardless, Bo couldn’t sit by and let Cheri fuss and whine over Riser either. “I’ll contact Mack when we find something out. Till then, you need to let them check you out.”

  Riser shook his head. “Can’t do it. Need to get to headquarters and check in.”

  “And I can’t let you drive. Bart’s the only one around here leaving this place anytime soon. Get checked out, and call one of your buddies to pick you up at the hospital.”

  Before Riser could speak again, Bo turned to Lamont. “Help Bart carry Arlow down to the car. He’s gonna need it.”

  Lamont groaned and dropped his dark head into his hands, “I’m not going to the hospital.”

  Ginger soothed her long, purple-tipped nails down Lamont’s back. “That’s right. I’m taking my man home with me.”

  A whiplash of anger caught Bo by surprise. Today’s steady deluge of unfortunate events, the dead body, Bart blurting out about the crime scene and now everyone in the bar refusing to listen. He normally had a pretty high dealing-with-shit capacity, but it was about full. “It’s the hospital or jail. Your fucking choice.”