He wanted the blond bitch. Instead of heading back to the house, he cruised down the two-lane rural highway toward town. What was open late at night? The lights glowed on a building on the roadside. Mick slowed. A sign above the door read “The Scarlet Lounge” in neon blue script. He pulled into the lot. Pickups and tractor trailers dominated the parking area.

A small sign warned of surveillance cameras. Mick circled the building once, contemplating spots and finding two cameras attached to light poles. The bar’s attempt at security was pathetic. Half the lot had no coverage. He parked in a blank spot between a couple of pickup trucks and an eighteen-wheeler. He was just going in for a drink, but there was no reason for his car to appear on anyone’s recording.

Dark and seedy and smelling of stale beer, The Scarlet Lounge was exactly the sort of crappy little bar he and Sam had been searching for the other night. People shouted over classic rock blasting through the dim space. Mick went up to the bar and ordered a double shot of decent vodka. He tossed it back, hoping the fiery liquid would eat away at his frustration. But it didn’t. He eased away from the bar into a dark corner to sip at a second round, letting the noise of the crowd wash over him. But the nighttime activity did little to subdue the itch in his blood.

A young woman stumbled away from a man in his twenties, saying, “Asshole. Find your own ride home.”

The man tossed his hands in the air. “Whatever, bitch.”

The woman turned and ran for the door. Mick slid out into the cool night air behind her. She dug in her purse. Keys jingled as she tottered across the asphalt.

She dropped her keys. “Damn it.”

Sobbing, she bent down to pick them up. Tight jeans and high heels showcased a bitching body. Long blond hair swung in a shiny curtain around her pretty face.

“Can I help you?” Mick smiled, the expression feeling alien to his facial muscles. But it wasn’t as if he hadn’t done this before.

She sniffed. “I’m OK. Just going home.”

“You look like you’ve had a lot to drink.”

Straightening, she sniffed and wiped at the mascara running down her cheeks. But she was young enough to still be pretty with puffy eyes. “I’m fine. He cheated on me. I just want to go home.”

“Do you live far from here?” Mick asked.

She shook her head. “No.”

“Why don’t I take you home,” he offered.

“No.” Suspicion dawned in her eyes, as if she’d just realized she was in a dark parking lot alone with a total stranger. Her gaze darted toward the bar, but Mick blocked her return path.