Page 37 of Bountiful
“Excuses.” Castro shook his head in mock disbelief. “And now you’ve gone and gotten yourself a girlfriend, too. Making the rest of us look bad. And Leo is married at twenty-four. That leaves me and Beringer to be the wild men. And he knocked up a local girl already, so there’s notoppingthat.”
“Castro, Jesus,” I muttered. He was only trying to be funny, but hockey players could be prettycrude.
“Thefuck?”
The bartender was staring at us with a strangely electric intensity. No—staringmedown. He had both hands planted on the bar, and he leaned in like he might jump over the thing and take a swingatme.
And now I knew why he’d seemed familiar. This guy was the older, macho male version of Zara—all dark eyesandfire.
The hair stood up on the back of my neck, and I heard Castro’s chuckle die in his throat. “Aw, shit,” my teammate whispered. He might be crude, but hewasn’tdumb.
“Something the matter?” O’Doul askedslowly.
“I need to know who it isyouthink you’re joking about.” The bartender pointed a finger right at Castro’s chest. Then he lifted his chin in achallenge.
O’Doul lifted his chin in a matching gesture. “We’re just teasing my teammate here. A little gallows humor.” Nobody knew how to square off for a fight like O’Doul. I felt myselfgrowingwary.
“Gallows humor,” the bartender spat. “About a local woman?That’slow.”
Nobody had said a single word against Zara. But this guy wasn’t in the mood to go over the finer points of our banter. “Sorry, man,” I said slowly. “We’ll take it down anotch.”
“You’ve been around here before?” the guy asked, turning his angry eyes backtome.
“Not to your bar, no,” O’Doul answeredforme.
The bartender’s eyes didn’t leave mine. “I’m talking to the redhead. You’re notlocal?”
I shookmyhead.
“Been to Vermont much? You know ZaraRossi?”
“Oh, shit,” Leo breathed,rejoiningus.
“Oh shit is right,” the bartender echoed. “You got a name?” he asked me. “How about a phonenumber.”
“Slow down, now,” O’Doul intervened on my behalf. “You want to be pen pals with my teammate or do you have any real businesswithhim?”
I reached a hand out and palmed O’Doul’s puffed out chest. “It’s okay, Doulie. Maybe our new friend wants to tell us who he is to Zara, and we can have an actual conversation and not a pissingmatch.”
The man scowled at me. Then he turned his head and barked out a command toward the other bartender at the far end. “Smithy! Cover for me a while.” Then he stalked to the end of the bar and hopped over it, dropping to his feet beside Leo. He stalked closer and stood in front of me, his arms crossed over a puffed-out chest. “You and me are going to haveatalk.”
“We should have gone to a different bar, maybe,” Leomumbled.
“You’re her brother,” I said, stating the obvious. “She has fourofthem.”
“Four?” Castro yelped. “You’re in deepshitnow.”
“Come with me,” Zara’s brother said, turning towardthedoor.
Doulie put his beer down on the bar and followed the guy, uninvited. I didn’t need my guys to trail me outside. In fact, it would have been easier if they stayed out of it. But there was no point in saying so, because that’s what teammates did. O’Doul wouldn’t let me take a punch alone whether we were wearing skatesornot.
“I don’t get to finish my beer?” Castro asked. “Whatarip.”
But he was just trying to lighten the mood. He set his bottle down and moved toward the door, too. I had to hurry to get there first. I pushed the door open into the Vermont summer night. It smelled so freaking good here. I’d never get usedtoit.
“What, do your friends follow you everywhere?” Zara’s brother snapped when O’Doul stepped outsideafterme.
“Depends,” I said. “You seem to want us out of your bar,anyway.”
