Bone Cold

Quentin didn’t doubt that was true. Because of the job, no cop was easy to live with. Terry, with his hard-partying ways and hair-trigger temper would be more difficult than most.

But even with his faults, Terry was a good father and a devoted husband. He loved his family and as far as Quentin was concerned, that counted for a lot.

Terry had taken the breakup hard. He was angry and hurt; he missed his two kids. He was drinking too much and sleeping too little, his behavior had become erratic. Partnering with him had become a tightrope walk.

But the way Quentin figured it, Terry had been there for him lots of times, now it was his turn. Partners stuck together.

Quentin motioned in the direction of the back room. “Think I might go lend a little aid and expertise. Wouldn’t want Terry to lose his rent.”

Shannon chuckled, shook his head and moved down the bar to serve another customer.

Quentin made his way through the still sparsely filled room. An hour from now it’d be standing room only, music blaring from the jukebox, a fine haze of cigarette smoke hanging above the crowd, a dozen or more couples gyrating on the makeshift dance floor. But for now, bar to back room was a clear shot.

Until Louanne Price stepped directly in his path, stopping his forward progress. The woman had the face of an angel and the body of one of Hugh Hefner’s bunnies, and many a man had fallen adoringly at her feet. Problem was, any man in the vicinity of Louanne’s feet would likely be kicked square in the gut. Or even lower.

That was the kind of woman Louanne was. And life was too short for a kick in the balls. Even if preceded by a trip to paradise.

She moved nearer Quentin, not stopping until her body brushed his. She stood on tiptoe, laid her hands on his shoulders and leaned into him. “Malone, sweetie, what am I going to have to do to get you to share some of that fine Irish sugar with me?”

He flashed her a quick smile. “Aw, Louanne,” he drawled. “You know Dickey’d kick my butt if I so much as wagged my tail in your direction.” Dickey was her father and an NOPD sergeant. “I’ll just have to lust after you from afar.”

“That would be a crime, I think. And you’re a cop, sworn to uphold the law.” She threaded her fingers through his hair. “He wouldn’t have to know. It could be our little secret.”

Quentin set her away from him, feigning regret. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy aggressive women, he had certainly been friendly with a number of them. It was Louanne’s sly edge, her easy dishonesty that turned him off.

“Sorry, babe. You know there aren’t any secrets in the NOPD. At least ones that everybody doesn’t know. Catch you later.”

Quentin walked away without a backward glance. He found Terry just where Shannon had promised, a pool cue in his hand and a cigarette dangling from his lips. He looked up at Quentin, eyes glazed from drink.

Terry had been here awhile already.

“‘Bout time you got your ass down here. Night’s half over already.”

“Only if you’ve already drunk so much you’re going to be out cold an hour from now.” Quentin sauntered into the room. He pulled a chair from one of the tables, swung it around and straddled it. “Covered for you with the captain.”

Terry lined up his shot, drew back on the cue then followed through. The ball sailed into the pocket. “Where was I? The john?”

“You went to see Penny. To talk.”

“That bitch? No thank you.”

Quentin cringed. He’d known Penny Landry for ten years and she was many things, bitch not among them. Terry hurt, he was angry and bitter, but still Quentin couldn’t let it pass. Some things just weren’t right.

He took a swallow of his beer, working to keep his demeanor casual. “Seems to me she’s doing what she feels she has to. For herself and the kids.”

Terry missed his shot and swore. His opponent, a man Quentin had seen run a table many a time, smiled and stepped up to shoot.

Terry downed the last of his beer, then glared at Quentin. “Whose side you on, partner?”

“I didn’t know I had to take sides.”

“Damn right you do.”

“Penny’s a friend.” Quentin met the other man’s gaze evenly. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

Terry flushed. “This is just f’cking wonderful. Outstanding. My best friend’s telling me he—”

“Eight in the corner.”

They turned and watched as the other player nailed the shot.

“Rerack?” he asked.

“Screw it. The table’s yours.” Terry looked at Quentin. “I need a drink.”

The last thing his partner needed was another drink. But stating the obvious would serve no purpose but anger the other man. They left the pool room and headed out front.

In the twenty or so minutes he’d been in back, the crowd in the bar had doubled. Quentin saw a number of their fellow officers, his brothers Percy and Spencer among them. They caught sight of him and started over.

“What do you say we get out of here and go grab some grub? I’ll ask Percy and Spencer along.”

“Hell no.” Terry’s words slurred. “The night’s young. Ripe with possibil… Hey now, who do we have here?”

Quentin shifted his gaze in the direction Terry indicated. A woman in a spandex minidress was shaking it on the floor. She wore her bottle-enhanced red hair long, in a mass of tousled waves. As she danced, she moved her fingers through it, her gold bangle bracelets jangling as she did. It wasn’t clear if she was dancing with one man, several or just putting on a show for them all.

And a show it was; a number of bar patrons had already gathered around to watch. Quentin and Terry joined them.

After a moment, Quentin glanced at his partner. “I don’t know, Terry, she looks—”

“She looks good. Damn good.”

What Quentin had been about to say was, this woman didn’t look the type to be messed with. She didn’t look like the type who would go around with cops, except on the sly. Not exactly a rich bitch, but a climber. One of those women who valued prestige, position and Armani suits.

She would choose to hang out with the guys who could give her those. A cop could not. Tonight, obviously, she’d gone slumming.

His brothers made it across the bar. Percy spoke first. “What’s happening, big bro? Hey, Terry.”

Quentin glanced at his brothers. The family resemblance between the two brothers was marked: both possessed the trademark Malone blue eyes and dark, curly hair. Percy, however, had yet to grow into his lanky six foot three frame and Spencer, the street-brawler, had the profile of a prize fighter who had taken one too many pops to the nose. “Currently I’m trying to stop my partner from making an ass of himself.”

The younger Malones followed Quentin’s gaze. Percy grinned. “She’s hot, no doubt about it. You feel like being burned, Terror?” he asked, using the nickname Terry had earned his first year on the force. “Spencer here went down in flames ten minutes ago.”

“No comment,” Spencer muttered, sending his brother an irritated glance.

Terry smoothed back his hair. “Watch a professional at work, fellas.”

The three Malone brothers hooted. “I don’t know,” Quentin called after him, “you’ve been out of circulation awhile.”

Terry glanced back at the other men, his grin cocky. “Once a lady-killer, always a lady-killer.”