Page 13 of Resist

Ainsley answered that for him with her next comment. “Every Sunday, you drink that cheap-ass rotgut whiskey at Lefty’s until he stops serving you, then think you can come here and keep going. I’m not serving your drunk ass.”

The man—Tuffy—wavered, struggling to stand still, his gaze darting in such a way that Coulton suspected he was seeing at least three fingers pointed his direction instead of the one, and he couldn’t figure out which was the real deal.

“I ain’t that drunk, ’Sley” Tuffy slurred, missing the first half of Ainsley’s name completely. “Leffy’s jush an ash-hole.”

Ainsley narrowed her eyes. “You’re right, he is, but that’s not my problem. You got two choices. Go sit your ass down in that corner booth and start drinking coffee, or I’m calling your wife to come pick you up.”

Tuffy threw his hands up. “Jesush, ’Sley. You don’t gotta be a bitcsh. I’ll go sit down. Jush don’t call Ann.”

Coulton watched, somewhat amazed, as the big gruff man looked genuinely threatened by Ainsley, who was half the man’s height and weight. He shuffled to the booth without continuing the argument.

With Tuffy taken care of, Ainsley glanced in his direction, her eyes widening in surprise as he approached the bar and claimed the same stool as last week.

She stared for a second, looking at him a bit like Tuffy had been studying her, like she was trying to decide if he was real. “Back again?” Her tone held the same level of disbelief as Jerome’s, when he’d said he was going back to Mick’s for a second time.

“Yep,” Coulton said, smiling.

“Why?”

He chuckled. “You’re good company.”

Ainsley frowned at what he’d thought was a charming reply. Then she scoffed. “You must not know many people. You want a beer?”

Coulton nodded. “Natty Boh.”

She poured him a pint from the tap, then slid it in front of him.

He handed over his card. “I’m gonna hang out awhile, so I’ll start a tab.”

“Um…okay,” she said, as she rang up his card.

“You working alone?” he asked, when he didn’t see the same waitress who’d been here last week. The tavern wasn’t exactly busy, but there were more people than had been here during his initial foray into Mick’s, over half the tables claimed.

“Yeah. It’s Maren’s birthday. Her girlfriend, Nat, surprised her with a trip to D.C. for the weekend.”

“Nice. She the only other employee?” Coulton recalled Jerome mentioning he didn’t see Ainsley much, now that her dad was sick.

“My brother is supposed to work here too, but as you saw last week, he’s a total piece of shit.”

Coulton couldn’t fault that observation. He wasn’t a violent person, but when her brother had insulted her, he’d seen red. His teammates would have flipped out if they’d seen him shoving Ainsley’s brother against the wall, the action completely out of character. Somewhere along the line, he’d gotten the nickname Gentle Giant on the team, and it circulated enough that McKenna had used it in some of her posts about him.

The door to the tavern opened, casting a ray of light across the floor, despite the setting sun. Because of the dingy interior of the place, it was easy to tell when someone new was coming in, the brief burst of light from the open door almost blinding.

Ainsley glanced over his shoulder. “Hey, Petey. Where the hell have you been?”

Coulton recognized the man as the one who’d pulled him over to play darts last Sunday.

Petey stepped next to him, also surprised to see him again. “Hey, Colt,” the older man said, slapping him on the shoulder.

Somehow, Petey had misheard Coulton, thinking he’d said Colt when he introduced himself, and he hadn’t bothered to correct the man.

“Wife dragged me to my mother-in-law’s for a fucking Sunday dinner,” Petey said in response to Ainsley’s question. “Tells me I don’t spend enough time with her mother. Told her that’s because I hate the bitch, which started a big fucking fight and next thing I know, I’m sitting with Atilla the Hun, pretending to like her cooking. I swear to God, it took me too many bites to figure out what the hell I was even eating.” Petey glanced back at Coulton. “It was ham, by the way, but it tasted like fucking leather.”

Coulton chuckled, amused by the man’s story. He hadn’t lied to Ainsley when he’d said he enjoyed the company at Mick’s. While the old guys in the place were grizzled and grumpy, they were entertaining storytellers.

“Anyway.” Petey shuffled down the bar to a stool Coulton assumed was the guy’s usual. “Get me a beer.”

Ainsley had the pint in front of Petey before he settled onto the stool.

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