Taft groaned and, having no idea who had taken him down, tried to break the hold. With effortless ease, Reyes stayed as solid as a boulder as Taft squirmed beneath him. I kneeled next to the off-duty officer. He’d probably lunged my direction more for my protection than anything since we were kind of, sort of, friends.

“It’s okay,” I said to Reyes. “He’s a cop.”

Reyes’s expression was so unimpressed, I had to glare at him to get him to loosen his hold. Of course, I knew he wouldn’t care that Taft was a cop, but I wanted Taft to believe that had Reyes known, he wouldn’t have dropped him like a sack of potatoes on Sunday morning.

“You okay, Taft?” I asked, nudging Reyes with my shoulder. Finally, and with deliberate slowness, he let Taft up.

Once he gained a little wiggle room, Taft pushed Reyes off him and scrambled to his feet. Reyes straightened as well, his full mouth straining to keep a grin in check when Taft stepped nose to nose with him.

I jumped to get between them, but a scuffle caught my attention. Cookie kept still as one cop held her bent over a table, hands behind her back, but Tidwell was fighting the officers and continued to do so even after they identified themselves. His face glistened red with anger. Still, the officers took him down without too much fuss. Clearly Tidwell had an intellect rivaled only by kitchen utensils. And he had a temper to boot. He knew Mrs. Tidwell put us up to this. What would he do to her? Would she be in danger?

The room began to calm and suddenly all eyes focused on me. Like this was my fault. I raised my hands to assure everyone all was quiet on the Southwestern front.

“Don’t worry,” I said, patting the air to console it. “Cookie is an excellent shot. None of you were ever in any danger.”

If there was a special place in hell for liars, I was so going there.

I looked back to make sure Reyes and Taft hadn’t started World War III only to find my uncle Bob strolling in, his shirt collar unbuttoned, his tie loosened, and his brows drawn in mild curiosity.

He started toward me, then spotted the cop who had Cookie pinned to the table, the same cop who’d called her sweet cheeks earlier. “Christ in a Crock-Pot, Smith, let her up.”

He did, brushing Cookie off apologetically, but said in his own defense, “She had a pistol. It discharged when that man lunged for her.”

“Only because he attacked me,” Cookie said, pointing at Tidwell, who was still struggling under the weight of one of the cops. “Jerk.”

Uncle Bob was more than alarmed. Anger rushed through him like wildfire, and I could only imagine what he would think when he found out I’d used Cookie on a job that almost got her shot. Maybe I’d leave that part out.

“Was anyone hurt?” Uncle Bob asked, and everyone glanced around. A couple patrons patted themselves down to double-check. Then everyone shook their heads in unison.

Taft spoke behind me. “I’m going to let this little incident slide for now,” he said to Reyes. Then he stepped even closer to him. “But if I ever —”

“Taft!”

Since we were a tad on edge as it was, every person in the bar jumped when Uncle Bob yelled at his colleague. Including Taft. Uncle Bob rounded a fallen chair and took Taft’s arm to pull him away from Reyes. He didn’t know what Reyes was exactly, but he knew enough to steer clear of him unless left with no other choice.

“Why don’t you start asking around, see if we have any solid witnesses to the events.”

Reluctantly, Taft nodded and backed off to question a group huddled in a corner booth. I was glad. They looked terrified.

Sirens sounded outside and more cops entered the scene one by one. I scrubbed my face with my fingertips. My dad was going to kill me. This was so bad for business.

“And you!” Uncle Bob – or Ubie as he was known on certain X-rated forums thanks to yours truly – pointed directly at me, and said, “Don’t even think about leaving.”

I pointed to myself. “Me? I didn’t do anything. Cookie started it.”

Cookie gasped.

Ubie shot me a stormy glare.

Taft glanced over his shoulder and shook his head.

And Reyes leaned back against the bar, crossed his arms over his chest, and studied me from beneath those same ridiculously long lashes. Men and their freaking lashes. It was so unfair. Like the exorbitant cost of designer shoes. Or world hunger.

I stepped over to him, sulking like a kid who’d been sent to stand in the corner, and leaned against the bar, too. I wasn’t about to try to get near Cookie. She was surrounded by veteran cops on an adrenaline rush. My face would eat floor before I could say, “Hey, Cook. So how’d it go?”

I pocketed the receiver I’d been wearing and noticed that Duff had disappeared, not that I could blame him. Still, it wasn’t as though a stray bullet could hurt him. As nonchalantly as I could, I took Reyes’s right hand and opened it. He let me, keeping a vigilant eye on my every move. An abrasion that was part incision and part blistering burn streaked across his palm and fingers. The bullet had kept going after time bounced back. It had to. That kind of energy didn’t diffuse just because I’d wanted it to, and though Reyes healed fast, he wasn’t bulletproof.

“Reyes, I’m so sorry,” I said, ducking to hide my face. I’d caused him so much pain recently, not the least of which was a .50-caliber bullet ripping through his chest. A .50-caliber bullet that had been meant for me.

“How sorry?” he asked, his voice suddenly permeated with a husky awareness.