Read Online Double Black Diamond (Mercy Watts Mysteries) by A.W. Hartoin - Free Book Online
Authors: A.W. Hartoin
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way through the swinging doors into the kitchen. I picked up the chubby pug and came face-to-face with the manager.
“We don’t allow dogs,” he said, not as angry as he had a right to be.
“I’m sorry. I forgot I had her.”
“You forgot you had a dog.”
“She was asleep in my purse,” I said.
The bartender came over. “Oh, she is so cute. Can’t she put her back in the purse, Ray?”
“Sorry, no,” said Ray.
“Come on,” said the bartender. “Everybody,” she yelled, “do you care if she has her tiny pug in here?”
The whole bar yelled, “No!”
Ray smiled and whispered, “Just keep her in the bag, okay?”
I agreed and went back to the table. Pete finished his remaining coffee and said, “Why do you have Wallace?”
“I really don’t know.” My head was getting a little funny. My eyes met Rory’s and he grinned at me. The grin dropped off his face as the old-guy table erupted. One of them, a man with thick dark hair tied back in a ponytail, banged on the table and yelled, “Son of a bitch.”
“We need to talk this through calmly,” said another, bald, dressed completely in black.
Ponytail banged on the table again and the girl’s small purse fell off. “This is calm!” he yelled.
The bald one got up, threw a wad of bills, and left. “You’re both shitheads.”
The girl leaned over to retrieve her purse. Her tank slid up and exposed a over-sized tattoo in black and red with initials in the center. JDS. Classy.
The guy across from Ponytail, a shaggy blond that might’ve been wearing makeup, began cussing about the purse, which seemed a bit of an overreaction. By this time, the entire bar was watching their table. Pete leaned over. “I knew those guys looked familiar. I think that’s DBD.”
The Jager was hitting me and I mumbled, “Huh?”
“Double Black Diamond. You know that band.”
I perked up and looked again. They did look familiar, especially when the one with the ponytail raised his sunglasses. He had distinctive dark eyes with thick luxurious lashes. He crouched over the table and snarled something low.
“Mickey Stix,” I said. “My dad loves him.”
Actually Dad loved the whole band, much to my detriment. When I was a kid, Dad liked to take me camping and he always chose campgrounds a minimum of four hours away and the only CDs Dad owned were of DBD. By the time we got to the campground I was ready to fling myself into oncoming traffic. There were only so many hot girl/rockin’ party songs I could take. It didn’t help that at the end of these DBD marathons was a campground that Dad picked. He favored campgrounds with minimal trees, angry yellow jackets so thick you couldn’t move, rivers wiggling with water moccasins, and plenty of loose silty dirt. Add to that our Korean War era army tent that smelled like feet, Dad always picking the hottest weekend of the year, and marauding raccoons stealing our stuff all night. It was typically three days of hell that ended with another DBD marathon. It made me mad just thinking about it. The best thing about being an adult was I didn’t have to camp with Dad anymore.
“What’s with the face?” asked Pete.
“I hate DBD,” I said.
“I like them. “Sexy Curve”reminds me of you.”
“That’s the worst one. Dad sings it to Mom, and he cannot sing.”
Pete laughed and hailed a waitress. “Do you think I could get their autographs?”
“They look ready to murder each other. I wouldn’t,” I said.
“They’re always like that. You’d think they’d get over it. They have to be close to sixty.”
Mickey Stix stood up and yelled, “There are two sides, you fuck! Choose one.” Then he stood up, knocking over his chair into Rory and stalked off, being trailed by a heavily muscled guy in a shiny tracksuit, presumably a bodyguard.
“Maybe later,” said Pete. “I bet you could get as many autographs as you want. Bring any tight
“We don’t allow dogs,” he said, not as angry as he had a right to be.
“I’m sorry. I forgot I had her.”
“You forgot you had a dog.”
“She was asleep in my purse,” I said.
The bartender came over. “Oh, she is so cute. Can’t she put her back in the purse, Ray?”
“Sorry, no,” said Ray.
“Come on,” said the bartender. “Everybody,” she yelled, “do you care if she has her tiny pug in here?”
The whole bar yelled, “No!”
Ray smiled and whispered, “Just keep her in the bag, okay?”
I agreed and went back to the table. Pete finished his remaining coffee and said, “Why do you have Wallace?”
“I really don’t know.” My head was getting a little funny. My eyes met Rory’s and he grinned at me. The grin dropped off his face as the old-guy table erupted. One of them, a man with thick dark hair tied back in a ponytail, banged on the table and yelled, “Son of a bitch.”
“We need to talk this through calmly,” said another, bald, dressed completely in black.
Ponytail banged on the table again and the girl’s small purse fell off. “This is calm!” he yelled.
The bald one got up, threw a wad of bills, and left. “You’re both shitheads.”
The girl leaned over to retrieve her purse. Her tank slid up and exposed a over-sized tattoo in black and red with initials in the center. JDS. Classy.
The guy across from Ponytail, a shaggy blond that might’ve been wearing makeup, began cussing about the purse, which seemed a bit of an overreaction. By this time, the entire bar was watching their table. Pete leaned over. “I knew those guys looked familiar. I think that’s DBD.”
The Jager was hitting me and I mumbled, “Huh?”
“Double Black Diamond. You know that band.”
I perked up and looked again. They did look familiar, especially when the one with the ponytail raised his sunglasses. He had distinctive dark eyes with thick luxurious lashes. He crouched over the table and snarled something low.
“Mickey Stix,” I said. “My dad loves him.”
Actually Dad loved the whole band, much to my detriment. When I was a kid, Dad liked to take me camping and he always chose campgrounds a minimum of four hours away and the only CDs Dad owned were of DBD. By the time we got to the campground I was ready to fling myself into oncoming traffic. There were only so many hot girl/rockin’ party songs I could take. It didn’t help that at the end of these DBD marathons was a campground that Dad picked. He favored campgrounds with minimal trees, angry yellow jackets so thick you couldn’t move, rivers wiggling with water moccasins, and plenty of loose silty dirt. Add to that our Korean War era army tent that smelled like feet, Dad always picking the hottest weekend of the year, and marauding raccoons stealing our stuff all night. It was typically three days of hell that ended with another DBD marathon. It made me mad just thinking about it. The best thing about being an adult was I didn’t have to camp with Dad anymore.
“What’s with the face?” asked Pete.
“I hate DBD,” I said.
“I like them. “Sexy Curve”reminds me of you.”
“That’s the worst one. Dad sings it to Mom, and he cannot sing.”
Pete laughed and hailed a waitress. “Do you think I could get their autographs?”
“They look ready to murder each other. I wouldn’t,” I said.
“They’re always like that. You’d think they’d get over it. They have to be close to sixty.”
Mickey Stix stood up and yelled, “There are two sides, you fuck! Choose one.” Then he stood up, knocking over his chair into Rory and stalked off, being trailed by a heavily muscled guy in a shiny tracksuit, presumably a bodyguard.
“Maybe later,” said Pete. “I bet you could get as many autographs as you want. Bring any tight
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