Fifteen minutes later, Cash slowed the car in front of the Tavern. There was no meter parking outside the bar, so he had to drive to the next block to find a spot. He and Dylan strode down the sidewalk a few minutes later, scanning both sides of the road for Seth’s Jeep.
“There they are.” Dylan shoved his fingers in his mouth and whistled to get Seth and Jackson’s attention.
The duo jogged across the street and met them at the front door of the Tavern. The after-work happy hour was in full swing when the four men entered the bar. Cash took the lead, pausing at the edge of the main room to search the crowd for lone male patrons. All he saw were groups of three or four, clad in business attire and chatting over beers and cocktails.
His gaze shifted toward the counter, the haven for single males. Out of the dozen people occupying the tall stools, most were older men who wore weathered, tired looks as they silently nursed their drinks. One man seemed around the right age, but his gleaming shaved head and plethora of tattoos, including one circling his thick neck, told Cash the guy was no investment banker.
He continued his inspection. Bingo. A man in his late twenties or early thirties sat at the far end of the counter. He had a slick look to him—perfectly styled brown hair, clean-shaven face, expensive Rolex on his wrist. He wore a black suit, no tie, with an open-collar white shirt. Cash couldn’t deny the guy was handsome, but something about those sharp clothes and perpetual smirk rubbed him the wrong way.
“Nine o’clock,” he murmured.
The others followed his gaze. “That him?” Seth murmured back.
“Let’s go and find out.”
They started walking, drawing uneasy glances from several of the other patrons. The female bartender lifted her head at their approach, her eyes lighting with unconcealed approval, but something about their expressions must have triggered her internal alarm, because as they got closer, the appreciation in her eyes faded into wariness.
Her concern didn’t surprise Cash. The four of them made a formidable sight. Six-feet-plus, two hundred pounds of muscle, and in military-issued shitkickers, to boot.
They moved toward Mr. Slick the way they moved on an op—with single-minded focus and a helluva lot of aggression.
The man looked startled when he noticed them. He set down the wine glass he’d been sipping. “Can I help you?” he asked coolly.
Cash instantly recognized that gravelly voice. “You Brendan?” he said, equally cool.
“Who’s asking?”
“My friends and I were hoping to have a little chat with you.”
Brendan’s shoulders stiffened. “Screw off. I’m waiting for someone.”
Cash bared his teeth in a not-so-pleasant smile. “Yeah, about that…I’m afraid Jen won’t be coming.”
Surprise flared in Brendan’s brown eyes. “What are you talking about? Who are you?”
Behind the counter, the bartender inched toward the telephone hanging on the wall. When she reached out for it, neither Cash nor the others missed the movement of that manicured hand.
“I’ve got this,” Jackson said.
He moved toward the pretty brunette, resting his elbows on the counter and flashing that aw-shucks smile of his. “Don’t worry, sugar, there won’t be any trouble,” Jackson drawled. “Just a few friends shootin’ the breeze.”
“Who are you?” Brendan repeated, beginning to look irritated.
Cash’s smile widened. “Oh, I didn’t introduce myself? I’m Jen’s boyfriend.”
The other man’s jaw went slack. Then he scowled. “Bullshit.”
“Sorry, man, but it’s the truth. And see, as her boyfriend, I’ve gotta admit I’m getting really f**king annoyed with your harassment.”
Brendan slid off the stool in a huff. “I don’t believe you. Jen would never go out with someone like you.”
He raised his brows. “Someone like me?”
“Yeah, the dumb muscleman type.” Contempt dripped from the man’s voice. “Military too, from the looks of you. Jen doesn’t date military muscle heads.”
Cash exchanged a grin with Dylan and Seth. Jackson, who’d lured the bartender away from the phone, glanced over and flashed a grin of his own before resuming his flirting.
“Military muscle heads, huh?” Cash slanted his head. “Well, these military muscle heads want to talk to you outside.”
“Fuck off.”
Brendan tried to take a step, but he hit a wall of—surprise—muscle. Dylan and Seth flanked Cash, and all three men crossed their arms over their chests.
“Get out of my way,” Brendan said through visibly clenched teeth.
“That’s not gonna happen,” Cash replied. “Not until we get some things straight. You’ve got two options here. Either you calmly follow us outside so we can continue this discussion, or I drag you out by the collar of your shirt.”
“I’d choose option one,” Dylan suggested.
“Yeah,” Seth agreed. “That shirt looks expensive. Wouldn’t want it getting ripped when Cash hauls you outta here.”
Brendan took another step forward. Hit another wall of muscle.
Bitterness crept into his tone as he capitulated. “Fine. Let’s go.”
Hiding a smile, Cash clapped his hand on the man’s shoulder and led him to the hallway at the rear of the bar. They received a few odd looks from the wait staff as they crossed the employees-only area.