No Mercy by Lori Armstrong Page A

he-done-me-wrong-so-why-don’t-I-just-get-drunk-and-screw-someone country song as much as the next woman, but I wanted a more upbeat tune.
    You want to see if Mr. Tight Ass is still hanging around in the back room.
    Yeah, maybe that, too. I hopped off the bar stool and headed for the jukebox.
    The rainbow strobe lights flashed as I punched in the number for the Trick Pony song “Pour Me.” I snickered at Big & Rich’s “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy.” An image I didn’t need in my present hormonal state, but I played it anyway. Followed by “Unwound” by George Strait. When I spun away from the jukebox, there was my cowboy. Before I mentally begged him to turn my direction, he did.
    Holy shit. My Sexy Tight Ass Cowboy was Mr. Tight Ass himself, Sheriff Dawson, looking decidedly unsherifflike without the uniform, the shades, and the perpetual stick rammed up his butt.
    I groaned. It figured.
    He did a double take when he saw me.
    Too late to pretend I hadn’t seen him. Wasn’t life just a big bowl of rotten chokecherries?
    He ambled over. “Mercy Gunderson. I didn’t expect to see you in a place like this.”
    “Yeah? I could say the same, Sheriff.”
    “I’m off duty.”
    “If I remember correctly, my dad was never really ‘off duty.’”
    “Maybe, but as I’m in here enjoying myself, I’d rather you called me by name, not my job title.”
    I drew a mental blank. “What’s your first name again?”
    “Mason.”
    My eyes widened. “Like the jar?”
    Dawson scowled. “Nothing gets by you, does it?”
    Typical marine. What a jarhead. I’d had enough whiskey to want to slug him. Fuzzy logic, but if he wasn’t here in official capacity… maybe I could get away with it. As I contemplated the repercussions, a baritone voice yelled, “Hey, Mad Dog,” from the back room.
    The sheriff’s head whipped around. “What?”
    “You’re up.”
    “Okay. Be right there,” he yelled back.
    “Mad Dog?” I repeated.
    He shrugged. “An old nickname.”
    “From your football glory days?” I snickered.
    “Nah. From my bulldoggin’ and bull-riding days.”
    Ah hell. Maybe John-John’s violent vision was nothing more than my beating my head into the bar top from my questionable taste in men. “Well, Mad Dog , see you around.”
    Back at the bar, I drained my beer. Chatted with Muskrat until two guys caused a ruckus in front of the TV. I’d signaled to John-John to tally up my bill, when the hair on the back of my neck prickled and someone crowded in behind me. I didn’t grab the guy and toss him on his ass, which was a huge step toward civilian normalcy for me.
    Or it could’ve been a sign I’d had too much to drink.
    I rotated my bar stool.
    Dawson grinned at me—pure cowboy charm.
    Shit.
    “Can I buy you a drink?”
    “I was just leaving.”
    “Come on, Mercy. One drink.”
    “I thought you were playing pocket pool, Sheriff?”
    He didn’t bat an eye at my dig. “Game is over.”
    I sighed like I was doing him a favor. “One drink. But I refuse to call you Mason. Or Mad Dog.”
    “Fine. Call me whatever you like.” I opened my mouth, and he amended, “Within reason.”
    The jam-packed area around the bar pressed us together like saltine crackers. “You here alone?” I nodded. “Doesn’t seem like your kind of place. A little rough.”
    “Not as rough as the club I mistakenly stumbled into in Bosnia. Makes this joint look like a church.” My finger unconsciously sought the souvenir, a three-inch scar above my ear, now hidden by my hair.
    Dawson didn’t push. He didn’t look away either. “You ever want to talk, I did my stint in the marines during Desert Storm. I imagine we’ve seen some of the same things.”
    Maybe it was the booze. Maybe it was his condescending offer. But for once I let the horrors I’d witnessed and perpetrated flit through my eyes. “You can’t begin to imagine what I’ve seen.”
    Most people would’ve missed his tiny flare of alarm. Then again, I’m