Rescue Me
Author
Kira Sinclair
Reads
19,3K
Chapters
16
Chapter 1
THE KENTUCKY ROSE looked like a good time.
Or what he was supposed to think was a good time. But that wasn’t what had brought Finn McAllister out to the popular honky-tonk on a Friday night.
He could still see the drawn face of Sergeant Freeman lying in that hospital bed. The pallor of his skin as he’d explained where he’d bought the drugs that had landed him in the ER. From a woman at this bar.
The man had a long road ahead of him. Not just dealing with the physical aftermath of ODing and the legal consequences that would come with it, but the emotional issues that had the airman turning to illegal drugs for relief in the first place. It was a story Finn had seen all too often over the years.
In this instance, Freeman had been lucky. Three other airmen and a handful of civilians had lost their lives.
You’d think, after years of seeing the toll drugs could take on a person, Finn would have gotten used to it. That would never happen. Each time felt personal.
Maybe because each time reminded him too much of his sister, Bethany.
So tonight he was at the Kentucky Rose, hoping to find something that would help him shut down the pipeline of meth being funneled straight to the soldiers it was his job to protect.
The bar was fairly new, only open a little over a year. But according to the guys he’d talked to on base, it had generated a lot of buzz.
Gravel crunched beneath the heels of his boots. Not the hand-tooled leather boots he’d likely find inside, but the well-worn combat boots that had served him well most of his career. Broken in and comfortable.
Someone opened the door, and loud music spilled out into the night. Beside him, quiet as a shadow, Duchess, the military working dog he’d been handling for almost eight years, pricked her ears and scanned her surroundings.
Finn didn’t go anywhere without Duchess, but tonight she was more than just along for the ride. Trained to scent drugs, she had a job to do. Just like he did.
“Let’s get this over with,” Finn murmured, giving her the signal to heel.
The mingled scents of beer, women and something earthy hit him as he walked through the heavy front door. The bar was huge, a big old wooden structure on the outskirts of San Antonio that, from the outside, looked like a run-down barn. But the inside...
The place was packed, even early on a Friday night. And not just with the wild boys from Lackland Air Force Base down the road. Men and women of all ages were mixing together. Laughing, dancing, sharing drinks.
“Hey, sugar. Can I get you anything?”
The redhead stared up at him with vibrant green eyes. If she was a day over twenty-one then he’d eat Duchess’s harness for breakfast tomorrow. Dewy, Southern-girl innocence clung to her like the scent of roses that swirled around him when she moved close.
Finn took the barest step away.
“A table and the darkest beer you have on draft.”
The redhead twittered, countering his move by inching closer and settling a hand on his arm. Dammit. He really wasn’t in the mood to get hit on by his waitress tonight. What he wanted was a dark, out-of-the-way corner, so he could sit and watch.
“The beer I can handle, but the table might be a problem. You should have gotten here a half hour ago if you wanted someplace to sit.”
Shifting, Finn moved so that the waitress’s hand fell away. “I’ll remember that for next time.”
“You do that,” she said, flashing a megawatt smile that probably won her a lot of tips. He didn’t have the heart to tell her it wouldn’t get her anywhere with him.
Heading toward the back wall, Finn found an empty spot in the shadows. It would work. A good place to observe.
Off to the side, a rowdy group crowded around a mechanical bull. They let out a raucous cheer as a huge dude got bucked off, hitting the mats with a resounding thud.
On the other side of the bar, the dance floor was packed. Couples were bumping and grinding to the country music blaring from speakers strategically placed all around. And was that...? Yes, it was. The mirrored ball revolving lazily over the floor was shaped like an armadillo.
That pretty much summed up the place. Quintessentially Southern honky-tonk tacky.
Reaching behind him, Finn found Duchess’s head and gave her a good scratch behind the ears. A German shepherd, Duchess was one of the best dogs he’d ever had the pleasure of handling.
Her demeanor was so calm, especially when working. Even as a puppy, she hadn’t been rambunctious like the others in her litter. She could scent the smallest amount of marijuana, the tiniest packet of cocaine lodged in some of the most insane cavities on the human body. She was a machine, and a very well-behaved one.
Several feet away, a group of rowdy thirtysomethings began to gather their things from a table. Finn took several steps in that direction, intending to claim the space while he had the chance. He’d been on his feet since before dawn this morning, called by his commanding officer when word of Freeman’s OD came in. His entire body ached, something he was hoping a beer would fix.
From the other direction, Finn noticed a group of college kids eyeing the same table. Not on your life.
Picking up the pace, Finn was intent on reaching it first, but a warm, golden voice had him halting in his tracks.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
It didn’t help that the words were accompanied by the most compact little dynamo slipping right in front of him and blocking his path.
Her hands were balled on lush hips, blond hair cascading in curls down her back. The deepest blue eyes he’d ever seen flashed at him, full of outright anger.
Over her shoulder, Finn watched the competition grab the chairs around the table, pull them out and plop their infantile butts down.
This was the most irritating end to a day full of shitty experiences.
“Hey, I’m talking to you. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
The tiny blonde, who tried to compensate for her five-foot-nothing height by wearing the most insanely impractical heels he’d ever seen in his life—even though she was still over half a foot shorter than he was—crowded into his personal space. Her finger landed in the center of his chest and she poked.
Her gaze darted behind him, landing on Duchess. Fear flashed across her expression before she tamped it down.
Great. It didn’t happen often, but occasionally Finn encountered people who were afraid of dogs. And while Duchess was one of the sweetest, gentlest animals he’d ever met, there was no getting around the fact that she was big and could be intimidating. That impression wasn’t helped when people learned she was a trained military dog.
Yes, she could take down bad guys, but only on command. Not that this woman wanted to hear that right now.
“You can’t bring a dog into a bar. Get him out of here.”
Finn cocked his head and for several seconds seriously considered picking her up and moving her out of his way. He bench-pressed more than she had to weigh. “Her.”
“What?”
“My dog is a her. Just because she’s big doesn’t mean she’s male.”
Shaking her head, the sprite of a woman said, “She can be male, female or in the process of gender reassignment for all I care. She doesn’t belong in my bar. Get her out of here.”
Her bar?
Finn let his gaze travel down her body again, a little more intrigued this time.
It fit. The impractical shoes were a perfect complement to the armadillo spinning lazily overhead. Her jeans were well worn and molded to her body. She might be small, but it was obvious she had curves in all the right places. And the black T-shirt she wore, emblazoned with the logo of a local craft beer, emphasized that fact.
As she leaned closer, the pressure from her finger increased. That was really beginning to irritate him.
“You have to leave,” she reiterated.
He could argue with her—actually, Duchess was legally allowed to be on the premises. But considering his purpose for being at the Kentucky Rose in the first place, it probably wasn’t a smart idea to piss off the owner. Yet.
So he’d try to cajole.
“I just ordered a beer.”
“Too bad. Your dog isn’t welcome.”
Or maybe not.
Crossing his arms over his chest, Finn stared down at her. “My dog is a highly trained military working dog. She’s a decorated war hero. She’s a hell of a lot better behaved than half the people in this tacky excuse for a bar.”
The minute the words were out of his mouth, Finn realized he’d made a tactical error. She might have been angry before, but now she was downright pissed.
Her skin flushed a deep pink. Her eyes turned glacier, but somehow still had the ability to burn straight through his skin.
“Tucker.” Someone yelled the name out across the crowd. He didn’t realize the voice was addressing the woman in front of him until the brute attached to it appeared behind her. You could’ve fit her inside the man’s clothes twice and had room to spare. But the guy was all frickin’ muscle.
Not that it particularly mattered to Finn. He’d fought guys bigger and badder than this one and come out on top.
“You need help with this guy, Tucker?” he asked, keeping his gaze trained on Finn.
Tucker. That was interesting. He’d never have pegged her for a Tucker, although something about the name fit. Unusual and dynamic, just like the woman.
“Nope. He and his dog were just leaving.” Her eyes flashed a warning. For some strange reason, he really wanted to ignore it, just to see what she’d do.
But out of the corner of his eye he saw several more men who were obviously the brute’s backup slide into place on either side of him. Finn’s mother hadn’t raised a complete idiot.
“All right.” Finn held up his hands. “Duchess and I will go.” For now.
But they’d both be back. Because the Kentucky Rose was the first real lead in finding and stopping the meth that had cost them several soldiers in the last two months.
He wasn’t about to walk away from that.
* * *
BLOWING A BREATH that fluttered her bangs over her eyes, Tucker watched the door slam shut behind the soldier and his dog.
It was a shame he’d been such an arrogant asshole—bringing a dog into a bar—because he was a gorgeous one.
She didn’t mean to study the way his jeans clung to his tight ass as he’d walked away. Or the bulge of his strong biceps beneath the tight edge of his T-shirt. Or the sexy stubble that covered his cheeks and did nothing to hide the dimple in the center of his chin.
There was no question, the man was rough around the edges. She hadn’t needed him to tell her he was military, she’d known it before he opened his mouth by the way he held himself. That alert, prepared-for-anything way his gaze had moved around the room.
She’d grown up with an airman, her dad the only real family she’d ever had. And while she loved him, she also knew damn well she wanted nothing to do with any more soldiers. She’d had her fill of the uncertainty and fear that came with living that life.
Which possibly made opening a bar right outside an Air Force base a little like selling water on the edge of the desert. A smart business decision, but terrible for her personal life, considering the majority of the men she met were ones she refused to consider dating.
Maybe she should’ve opened the Rose somewhere else, but San Antonio was familiar...comfortable. It was the first place in her entire life that had felt like home. She loved the Texas twang in everyone’s voices. The Southern charm of the people who inhabited the city. The green landscape against the wide open skies. Hell, she even liked the humidity in the summer.
She’d spent enough of her life moving from one base to another, never really feeling like anywhere was home. Or being left behind while her only living parent was in the middle of a war zone. Growing up with that stress and uncertainty...nope, not interested in courting more.
The Kentucky Rose was her chance to finally grow some roots, have a place all her own that no one could ever take away from her.
Turning on her heel, Tucker took a second to let her gaze travel across her bar. Taking in the happy patrons and hardworking staff, a sense of pride and satisfaction filled her. This was what was important.
She’d done this. Built this all by herself with hard work and sheer grit.
There was one rowdy group of guys, apparently in town celebrating a bachelor party. They’d been slamming back shots since they walked in the door. She’d have to tell Matt to stay close in case they got stupid drunk and made trouble. She also made a mental note to send Kayla over with some nachos on the house. Hopefully, the food would soak up the alcohol and slow them down a bit.
The first strains of The Devil Went Down to Georgia pumped into the room. From every corner, waitresses started whooping. The patrons, especially the regulars who knew what was coming, joined in. As one, the girls moved toward the bar, jumping up onto the wooden surface Tucker had spent hours sanding herself. In perfect unison, her team began to kick and stomp to the music, following the choreography they’d spent hours learning.
Tucker’s eagle eye watched each of them, looking for any small imperfection they could work on the next time they practiced. Her team often left those sessions dripping with sweat and groaning about how much of a taskmaster she could be. But they looked forward to them anyway. She made sure they still had fun, with lots of laughter and camaraderie.
This might be work, but she regarded every woman on her staff as a friend. Over the last year, she’d made a point to foster the idea that they were family, not just coworkers. And she really believed that. On the floor, it was important to look out for each other, especially during busy nights like tonight.
“Tucker.” Wyatt walked up, his large shoulder brushing against hers. He’d been with her from the very beginning as her head of security. But they’d known each other longer than that. Wyatt had worked at the bar she’d managed while putting herself through grad school.
At one point he’d tried to get into her pants, but she’d shut him down damn fast. Almost as bad as messing with a military man would be sleeping with one of her coworkers or employees. She didn’t mix business and pleasure.
Now they were just good friends. Wyatt often stayed late to walk her out. He’d become the overly protective little brother she’d never had. And since he and Michelle, one of her best waitresses, had been together for almost six months now, everything had worked out for the best anyway.
“Thanks for helping me handle that guy and his dog before.”
“Didn’t look like you needed much help, boss. As usual. You had things well in hand.”
“Yeah, but it’s always better to have backup. At least he was smart enough to realize he was outnumbered and should leave quietly. I would’ve hated to make a scene.”
“But you would’ve done it anyway.”
She shrugged. “Sure. If I needed to.”
Wyatt nodded. They’d worked together long enough to know how the other operated.
“I see you sent Kayla over to defuse the bachelor nightmare that was brewing.” Wyatt tipped his chin in the direction of the bar. The song had flipped over to something about a girl and a tractor. Her team had melted into the crowd, back at it, serving the customers.
Everyone except Kayla. She was sitting on the bar, her tiny shorts riding up and flashing the curve of her ass. She tossed her long mane of red curls and laughed, the throaty sound carrying across the bar.
One of the guys tried to run his hand up the outside of her thigh. Before he could get far, Kayla smacked his hand and let out another peal of laughter like it was a joke.
“Stay close to her,” Tucker said, shaking her head.
A self-defense instructor and rape victim advocate by day, Kayla could take care of herself. But that didn’t mean Tucker was willing to leave her without backup if she needed it.
“You got it, boss.”
“And keep your eyes on your job, not on my dancer.” She smacked his arm, offering a glare they both knew was fake because she couldn’t quite keep her lips from twitching into a smile. Besides she didn’t really mean it. He and Michelle were good for each other.
Wyatt tossed her a grin of his own and wandered closer to Kayla. She glanced up, gave him a little nod and half smile of appreciation before returning her attention to the guys crowding around her.
On a bright note, Kayla should get an amazing tip. The money would definitely come in handy when she had to pay her tuition next semester. It wouldn’t be long before she had her master’s in psychology.
Tucker didn’t suffer any fools. She only hired people who had intelligence and drive. Ambition was a prerequisite. She wanted her business to be a stepping stone to more for everyone who walked through the doors—just like it was quickly becoming the kernel of her own dream come to life.
Growing up, she didn’t anticipate her calling in life would be to own a bar. But her entire outlook changed when she took a bartending gig at a little dive outside her college campus. At first, she was just looking for something that didn’t require a lot of effort and brought home enough to pay her tuition.
But in no time, she’d fallen in love with the life, her coworkers and customers. There was something about the camaraderie that fed her soul just as much as the classes she crammed for each day. And when her aunt left her a decent inheritance, Tucker had decided to combine it with her newly minted MBA and open her own business.
Months of pouring over plans, market research, studying the industry to determine what she could offer that other bars couldn’t...it hadn’t been easy, but it was absolutely worth it. Almost a year later, she was well on her way to success.
Shoving away from the column she’d been leaning against, Tucker headed for the women’s restroom to do a quick check. Pushing open the custom door made from reclaimed wood, she scooted past the line of waiting women with a smile and a murmured, “Excuse me.”
Everyone seemed happy, which is what she always liked to see. A couple of women were crowded around the long mirror, gossiping about a guy and reapplying gloss.
Grabbing a stack of heavy paper towels stamped with the Kentucky Rose logo, she refilled the first dispenser on the far side of the trough sink.
“Those napkin thingies are adorable,” one of the women said. “That’s what I love about this place. It’s the little touches.”
“Like the armadillo!” someone else exclaimed from behind the stall door.
“Thanks,” Tucker said, flashing an appreciative smile. “This is my home and I want it to feel that way for everyone.”
“Nicest bar I’ve ever been to,” someone else said, before slipping out the door.
“Not pretentious or seedy. Welcoming.”
That was exactly what she’d been going for with each and every detail she’d layered into her bar. Tucker turned to fill the dispenser at the opposite end of the counter, but stopped when something caught her eye. Someone had dropped trash along the back of the sinks.
It shouldn’t bother her, but it did. She realized she ran a bar and that most people didn’t treat it like their own place, but what kind of prick just left garbage on the counter when there was a can not three steps away?
Fishing between the wall and the towel tray, Tucker snagged a corner of whatever it was and tugged—but got a hell of a lot more than she’d expected.
It wasn’t just some cellophane from a new tube of lip gloss or even a condom wrapper. There, in her hand, sat a small bag of white crystals.
Maybe she shouldn’t have been surprised—again, it was a bar, after all—but she was. Tucker had a strict rule and everyone who worked for her knew it. No drugs—using or selling—by staff or customers. Anyone suspected of being high was shown the door.
Tucker stared at the baggie in her hand. Small enough that none of the women around her even appeared to have noticed. What the hell was she supposed to do with it?
“Tucker? You in there?” Wyatt yelled through the partially opened door. “We’ve got a problem.”
Crap. Tucker stuffed the bag into her pocket. One problem at a time.
