Rescue Me. Kira Sinclair
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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