The Hot Ladies Murder Club. Ann Major

silence grew tense. His bottom lip bloated sullenly, and he flushed purple. Hannah half expected Charger to grab Taz and tear her apart, or to at least kiss her to thrill their gaping audience, but he merely growled good-naturedly, “You heard her. The lady, she said no.”

      Hannah couldn’t believe it when he jumped off the table with a resounding thud and swaggered heavily to the dartboard and ripped Campbell’s picture off the wall. Then he yelled, “No more dancing. No cussin’, either. We got ladies present.” Then his eyes locked on Taz’s face with respect and shy affection.

      Taz beamed at him.

      There were grumbles as the men sat and resumed their drinking, but the Charger hovered nearby their table, a silent hulk making sure the other beasts left his lady friends alone.

      Heck, maybe the Charger did do root canals for a living. During the table dance, Hannah had drained her mug, and when another was placed in front of her, she sipped from it, too. Maybe it was the beer that eased the tension in her. Instead of pleading to go, she relaxed and began to chat with her friends in their dark corner.

      “So, you’re Veronica Holiday,” Tasmania said. “Hannah was telling me you were here. I’ve read your books.”

      “If I’d known I was going to meet a fan, I would have worn my glasses and tried to look intelligent.”

      Taz laughed. “I’m not disappointed.”

      Veronica didn’t look like the sophisticated woman in her publicity stills. In those photographs, she wore power suits and demure shades of makeup.

      “Zoë said you were being sued, too,” Tasmania said.

      Hannah frowned as she sipped more beer. “So, who’s suing you, Veronica?”

      The music was so loud they had to yell to be heard.

      “This thief, this idiot from my hometown, who’s been jealous of me since I sold my first book. Her name’s Camille. She married my old boyfriend right out from under me when we were kids. Then she ran me out of town. Now she has the gall to say I stole her body and wrote the story of her life. Her life! In her dreams.”

      Tasmania’s black eyes gleamed. “Stole her body?”

      “I had a boob job. We’re the same bra size now.”

      Tasmania snorted. “Give me a break. Did Zoë tell you I’m being sued because of damage to a man’s eenie weenie done by a pickle I nuked?”

      “This could be your next novel,” Zoë said.

      “If I wrote about it, Camille would really sue.”

      Hannah looked up. “So how can we stop these frivolous lawsuits? In this city, all the judges are bought off.”

      “It’s called—campaign contributions,” Zoë screamed over the music. “It costs a lot to run for office. Politicians and judges don’t make much.”

      “Under the table they do,” Taz said.

      “You don’t know that for sure,” Zoë countered.

      “What planet do you live on?” Holding her mug up, Taz eyed the waitress and tapped her mug and held up four fingers. “They make huge contributions to political action committees, PACs they call them. Wouldn’t it be fun to turn the tables on these jerks?”

      “But how?” Hannah asked.

      When more beers arrived, the four women were about to raise their mugs and clink them when the fight started.

      “But I want to dance with a hot lady!” a biker yelled. “You danced with her! Why the hell can’t—”

      “This is why the hell why, you son of a—”

      The Charger let a beefy fist fly, and it landed smack, square in the loudmouth’s jaw. As if a bomb had gone off, the bar erupted. Cigarettes were squashed out on the floor. Everybody started shouting and ramming one another with their heads. Tables and chairs crashed to the floor. Beer bottles smashed as they rolled off tables.

      “Let’s go!” Hannah screamed, ducking.

      “We could do room service in my suite,” Veronica yelled.

      “Sounds like a winner,” Taz agreed, keeping low, running after them.

      “Why can’t we just go home?” Hannah pleaded.

      Not that Taz or anybody else paid the least bit of attention to her.