Page 12 of Kings of Sherwood

“That’s it,” I say, and get to my feet. “I’m taking a piss.”

The bathroom’s about as clean as you’d expect. Sour air and Sharpie scrawls everywhere, names and numbers of guys who’ll hook you up with whatever you want, apparently. Girls. Guns. Blow. H. The works.

My neck prickles, reading it. Wonder if Rob knows. Wonder ifhisname’s in here, somewhere. Still.

I emerge at the dark end of the bar, where I can just make out a breathless Maren laughing and smacking Scarlet on the arm, undoubtedly for some wiseass remark, as Rob and the kid close in on her other side.

I guess we do that without thinking—protect her.

“That your girl?” says a voice from next to me.

I glance to my left.

“What’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” he says, palms in the air. “Just got the look of a man who wants to kick those guys’ asses.”

He’s not wrong. But I shake my head. “They’re friends. All good.”

The guy narrows his eyes at me, like he’s trying to figure out the situation, so I cut that train of thought off short.

“Whiskey,” I say, as the bartender arrives, “and one for my friend here.”

The bartender nods, and my “friend” nods too. “Appreciate it.” He leans back on his stool, sucking in a breath. “Gotta stay on a strict budget these days, given everything.” He grimaces.

I know an opening when I see one. “Oh?” I take the stool next to him.

By way of answering, he sets his wallet on the bar and flips it open.

A badge. SHERWOOD CO. SHERIFF’S DEPT. glinting in the Christmas lights.

I don’t react.

“Furlough,” he explains. “Haven’t worked in weeks.”

I relax a fraction of an inch. “That’s a shame.”

“It’s some goddamn bullshit is what it is—thank you, sir,” he says, his thick neck flaring red even in the shitty bar lighting ashe accepts his drink, which he slurps half of without blinking. “You law enforcement?”

I shake my head, sipping my own glass with just a glance at Maren. She’s found friends—girl friends, around her age, clearly all dolled up for the night even though they look plain as white rice next to her—and they’ve dragged her back on the dance floor.

“Nope.”

“Military?” he guesses.

“Nope,” I say again.

“Huh,” he says, considering. “I figured maybe, ‘cuz of the...” He gestures at his own eye while looking at mine.

Or what’s left of it.

I swallow hard.

“No,” I say. “Just unlucky.”

My cop friend gives a wet-sounding chuckle. “Well, regardless, I’m sure you can appreciate. It’s all so political now. Sheriff’s been getting hell from Richmond since there was that prison break—”

“Hadn’t heard about that,” I mutter.

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