Wrong Question, Right Answer (The Bourbon Street Boys #3) - Elle Casey Page 0,2

the ground, his beer bottle smashing into the floorboards. Beer sprays everywhere, dousing the legs of the person sitting at the nearest table.

The recipient of the spray, an old, bearded guy wearing motorcycle leathers, stands up in a hurry, sending his chair backward. He glares down at the one responsible for covering his pants in beer. “Hey, man! What’s your fucking problem?”

“It wasn’t me!” Skip yells, pointing in my direction. His voice is up a full octave. “It was her!”

The old guy looks at me, and I smile, giving him the girliest shrug I know how to make. “He just fell over. Tripped on his fancy shoes, maybe. I think he’s had too much to drink.” I frown real pretty.

Skip struggles to his feet as the bartender moves down toward us. Danny places my new drink next to my old one. “What’s going on over here?” He looks at me. “Toni? Are we going to have a problem tonight?”

I shake my head. “No problem here, Danny. That guy just took a dive.” I point at Skip, my eyes open wide to help me look more innocent.

Skip is standing now, so angry he’s shaking. “She kicked me! She knocked me over! All I was doing was talking!”

I stand away from the bar a pace, showing off my diminutive stature, my current 5'3" height made possible only by my substantial heels. “Yeah, right. I knocked you over.” The guy has at least a foot and ninety pounds on me.

After hearing me, people sitting nearby look at both of us and do the math, shaking their heads at Skip. Shame on him, blaming a tiny girl for his own stupidity. Only Danny glares at me. He knows me better.

“What were you drinking?” Danny asks Skip, sounding tired. “The next one’s on me. Just take it down to the other end of the bar.” He gestures to a spot as far away from me as the man can get and not be out the door. Mister Matching-Belt-and-Shoes glares at me and looks like he wants to say something, but he just hisses out a breath and walks away, shaking his head. I was kind of hoping he was going to use that b-word again, but no such luck. I guess he’s not as stupid as he looks.

I smile to myself as I get back on my stool and pick up my drink to finish it off. In my experience this little drama will either ensure me an evening of uninterrupted drinking pleasure because I’ve scared off all the other guys in the bar, or it’ll guarantee a line of ’em will be trying to pick me up after, convinced that I’m just looking for a more attractive catch, which of course means them. I wait the few seconds it takes for things to settle down and start in on my second drink with gusto.

The door to the bar opens, and this time the man walking over the threshold is my boss, Ozzie. And he’s brought his girlfriend, my teammate May, with him.

I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m fine with violence and sticking up for myself when necessary, but I’d much rather just have a drink and talk to the people closest to me about a job well done. And it’s not that I need someone to have my back, but I prefer it. Sometimes when I go it alone, I get a little too hot-headed and then crazy comes for a visit. I’m trying to avoid inviting crazy in for the rest of my life if I can help it. I already narrowly escaped, nearly killing myself with it once. I push away the ache in my chest when it tries to intrude. I’m not going there right now; tonight is supposed to be about celebrating, not regretting.

I wait for them to see me and jut out my chin in recognition as May waves. She’s always way too enthusiastic. Her constant cheer is something I’ve almost gotten used to after six months of working with her, but it hasn’t been easy. Sometimes I just want to put her into a headlock and squeeze that absurdly overdone happiness out onto the floor. I smile when I imagine her as a giant tube of glittery toothpaste that needs emptying.

Ozzie is more low-key, letting me know with a vague nod that he sees me sitting at the bar. Just behind the couple come my brother Thibault and my teammate Lucky. I’ve known Lucky practically my whole