Mercy F*uck (3 page)

There was a reason I forced myself not to think about her. Because the more I did the more questions I had. Did she regret being with me? Did I hurt her? What had she been gearing up to say? Had she found someone else? Was she married? Fuck, did she have kids? Why didn’t I tell her that I loved her? Was she happy? Most of all, did she ever think about me?

The woman in this photo was still beautiful, no doubt.

But she didn’t look happy. Plus, there was an edge to her she didn’t have before and that was saying something.

Drew Zelinski was as edgy as they came.

She marched to the beat of her own drum and gave zero fucks about popular opinion.

Oh, she didn’t mind if you had one she just didn’t want to hear about it.

I was convinced I’d never see her again.

Yet, I was staring at her picture.

Then I searched for her home address and to see where she worked.

When I saw The Hole, I frowned wondering why in the hell she’d work at such a rough joint, then I found myself smiling when I realized I looked forward to finding out when I got there. Detroit may be a big city, but right now it had never felt smaller and she’d never felt closer.

According to her file, she’d been busy breaking the law and Foxy’s been busy bailing her out while keeping me in the dark. This wasn’t even her first offense, it just happened to be one that stuck because the vic was a cop’s kid. Odds are, she was in the right because she didn’t hit people for the sake of hitting people, but that wasn’t the point. The point was this was an opportunity for me to find her and get answers. Drew left me on the floor holding my nuts after the best night of my life, just as she was about to tell me something important and I wanted to know why she ran.

If that meant slapping cuffs on her to make that happen, so be it.

Fuck, the idea of her in cuffs had my cock jumping in my jeans.

Because she would fight me and I wanted her to.

Drew ran from me once.

But she couldn’t run again if I cornered her.

Hell, I’d sit on her little ass if I had to.

Because Drew and I? We had unfinished business.

Side note: I should probably stop and pick up a cup…

“He’s a big motherfucker,” Fudge, my head of security aka dicksmasher said shaking his head in disgust over my latest hire. If I was a tough nut to crack, he was a jawbreaker. The man was perpetually pissed off and I was sure if he gave happiness a shot, he’d probably end up shooting himself in the face to end his pain. Fudge didn’t like people. Most days I was certain he barely tolerated me. However, he was family and I loved him, flaws and all.

“He’s a giant,” I agreed on a hard exhale.

“Then why the fuck does he look ready to shit his pants?”

“How did I get this wrong?” I asked myself, more than him.

“Heart’s bigger than your common sense, boss,” he said frowning down at me.

“Hired you didn’t I?”

“Yeah and he’s three of me but I could take four of him.”

“Get back to work,” I grunted shaking my head. “I’ve got shit to do.”

When the first bottle was hurled, I scaled the counter to shut it down before someone got cut. When a fight broke out in front of me, I looked around needing my new guy to step up and show me his man-sac. Unfortunately, he wasn’t doing that.  He looked ready to run; or like Fudge said, shit his pants. Oh, and where was my head of security during all this? Flipping me off from the door.

“Impress me,” I advise him for the last damn time.  After breaking up the previous fight and getting beer in my cleave, I was in a
mood
. “Because if you can’t break up a bar fight, you can’t bounce in a
bar
.”

His name was Tiny, which he wasn’t. But his name should have been
Pussy
because he was. I hired him on size alone because, well, who wouldn’t? He wanted to bounce, I needed a bouncer. The math wasn’t complicated. Unfortunately, Tiny was the big man with a gentle soul and my bar wasn’t Chuck-E-Fucking-Cheese.

“I’m twice their size, Drew,” he says and I swear he was close to hiding behind me like an elephant behind a penguin.

“Duh,” I say waving my arms to encompass his massive stature. When all he could do was blink at me, I grunted, “Screw it, I’ll handle it myself.” During his interview, I should have known it was a bad fit when he flinched every time I made blow job hand gestures. We were currently pushing max capacity and I needed him to have my back not hide behind it. Though I was amazing, I couldn’t be in two places at once. My bar wasn’t big but it wasn’t small either. However, with the crowd shoulder to shoulder it took me time and energy to get to the other side. Time I did not have. Time that should have been spent behind the bar serving drinks. Shit was going down near the back corridor and Fudge was nowhere to be seen. This wouldn’t be the first time I wondered if I should close up the hallway access. However, hiring more staff was supposed to alleviate that problem, not fucking add to it.

The
Hole in the Wall
was just that, a hole in the wall. A stunning piece of Detroit history all on its own. In 1967, the Detroit riot, also known as the
12th Street Riot
started out as a public disorder that turned into a major civil disturbance.

An after-hours bar known as
Blind Pig,
was raided with cops confronting patrons and civilians. What began as a raid morphed into five days of violence and destruction.

Shit, the National Guard, and 82nd Airborne Division were even called in.

Prior to whatever explosive rocked the front of this place, it had been a Polish restaurant.

The owners bounced and when the dust settled, the building now known as
The Hole
was brought to life.

It has stood proud, packed a crowd, and kept to its original bones since the riot.

It’s a gorgeous place inside and out. Walking through an actual hole to reach the main doors has never gotten old.

Because for me, history never dies.

True history lives forever.

I’ve been here for nine years and no two nights had ever been the same. We served booze, not food, and catered to a wild crowd. My bar had no stools, tables, or shit on the walls. What it did have were old school Pioneer speakers and glorious attitude. It was a place to party and cut loose in, nothing more. There was no dress code or expectation. It was a fucking
bar
. Complicating it was what other bars did, I didn’t see the point.

Perhaps it was a full moon or maybe I was just too optimistic for a change, but tonight was rowdier than most and I reveled in it.

The schtick about
The Hole
was that the people who came here liked rowdy, expected it, needed it. The release from daily life happened here and staff members were encouraged to join in. I was the supreme shit starter and my regulars straight up adored my mean streak. Most started shit for no other reason than to have me hit them and I never let them down. I learned long ago novelties won’t last. But
The Hole
had staying power because it was real and it was raw.  We didn’t give a fuckity fuck what people thought. Anyone could serve a drink but it took a special kind of person
to keep a bar like this on lock. Turns out I’m super special because people came from all over to see me in action. So when the fight started to spill over to the folks that might if given a reason, start shooting, I changed direction, grabbed my bat from behind the bar, scaled it in one leap calling Tiny a
punk bitch
on my way over.

Swinging it around with one hand easily, I whistle with the other which causes the guy who started the fight to stop. I didn’t know him and since I made it a point to know everyone, he’d be leaving if he gave me grief. “You done?” I ask him casually when I was feeling anything but. “You good?”

“Yeah,” he says wiping his mouth but grinning in victory. “I’m good.”

“What about you, slugger?” I ask the other guy, the one who got his ass whooped. “You done?”

“Motherfucker hit me for no reason!” he shouts then spits on my floor which was followed up with silence. Most of the crowd are regulars, they
know
. But even the ones here for a thrill knew to step back.

So looking from the floor to the other guy I ask him, “Why’d you spit on my hardwood?”

“Fuck you,” he says spitting
again
. “I don’t answer to you, bitch.”

“True,” I say in agreement then twirl my backup. “But you will answer to Woody.”

“Oh yeah?” he laughs and I’ll note he was the only one. “Who’s Woody?”

Shrugging easily, I twirl him once, twice, and then I line up. “Oh, just my bat.”

And then I swung for the fence. No, I didn’t kill him. Relax, I just knocked the wind out of him, and by that I mean I sent his ass to the concrete.

“Tiny!” I shout over the cheers. “Get your big ass over here and clean this mess up!”

Kneeling next to the moaning idiot, I recited the rules he’d want to remember for any future visits. “You can fight in my bar, you can break bottles in it, and you can even piss all over the toilet too. But when I call a fight, you do not disrespect me by spitting on my floor. Floors
I
clean. I catch you doing some shit like that again, I’ll swing for your mouth. Do we have an understanding?”

I am given a reluctant nod and when Tiny gently pushed his way through, I am seriously close to firing him but the words die in my throat. Because when I looked up I saw the one man I never wanted to see again. “Handle this,” I order standing up. Credit to Tiny for picking the idiot up with one hand and hauling him out the front door. And God dammit, he was even nice about the manhandling.
Note to self: In the future, hire convicted felons
.

Offering fake smiles to the customers, giving fist bumps and swats with Woody, I stow him behind the bar and head for the tap. An awareness I hadn’t felt in nine years slithered down my spine and threatened to drop me where I stood. Only one person had the ability to rattle me and I’ll be God damned if after all this time I’d let him know it still worked. Seeing as that person was making his way over to me and was not gentle when pushing through the crowd, I knew I needed a fucking drink before I dealt with him. Slamming a shot back, I set my customers up with their refills making sure to ignore the asshole currently staring at me. Unfortunately, it wasn’t working so I did another shot, then another, but it was no use. He wasn’t leaving. Neither were these feelings of inadequacy and heartache that I worked hard to suppress either. Clearly no amount of mainlined alcohol was going to work, which meant I was well and truly cornered when the motherfucker blocked my exit too.