Phoenix Burning Read Free

waiting for the upcoming nuptials.
    It was ironic really. She spent most of her time on elaborate wedding arrangements. Emory specialized in bouquets to complement blushing brides, neutralize horrific bridesmaid dresses, and accessorize a church or reception hall. On the other end of the spectrum, her twin negotiated their divorces. Factor in her parents’ lopsided marriage and an abusive, holy-rolling father, and it was no wonder Emory Banks was confused about the nature of love, sex, and relationships.
     

Chapter Two
     
     
    Emory had to take a step back and double-check the dim red sign illuminating the main entrance of the crumbling two-story brick structure. It was no wonder she’d walked past the place half a dozen times without ever noticing that it was a bar. It looked like a derelict building.
    A few cracks of light seeped around the edges of the dark blinds on the second story. The first-floor windows were all painted black. The massive front doors were a double helping of ancient wood that looked as if they had survived flood, fire, and an invading army in their time. Taking a deep breath, Emory put her shoulder into a door and pushed her way inside.
    She found herself in what amounted to an empty box. The soles of her chunky combat boots squeaked on the scuffed tile floor. Less than a dozen paces away the empty box gave way to what appeared to be a large, dimly lit room. A chain-link barrier stretched floor to ceiling between the box and the bar, blocking access. Standing between Emory and the barrier was a man playing the part of a troll guarding the bridge.
    Emory supposed that most women would find him attractive, if they were drawn to the muscular type. The guy had a classic bouncer build: over six foot tall, somewhere under three hundred pounds of solid muscle mass, tousled short black hair, and blue eyes. He was good-looking enough, just not Emory’s type.
    “You got ID?” His voice held the hint of an accent, but she couldn’t place it in three murmured words.
    Emory slid the narrow wallet that held her ID and her cash for the evening from the hip pocket of her baggy black cargos. The waistband sat several inches below her navel, and the effect of her hand shoved into her pocket sent the pants skidding an inch or so lower. She flashed her driver’s license and tried not to look as young and inexperienced as she felt.
    “Enjoy.”
    The bridge troll swung open a door, and Emory stepped down into Phoenix Rising for the first time.
    Her first impression was that of a real bar. This was not some upscale martini bar or one of MacIntyre’s generic sports bars. This was a place people came to drink, socialize, and get away from the everyday grind.
    It was still early for a Friday evening, but the main room was well over half full. Men and women lounged at tables and chairs scattered haphazardly throughout the room. An old-fashioned, mahogany bar dominated the center of the back wall. Its mirrored back reflected shelves holding hundreds of bottles of liquor of every variety imaginable. The area between Emory and the bar was open. Fans twirled in lazy circles, stirring the smoky air hovering near the ceiling. On either side of the main room, the wings sat like the sides of an H. Intimately arranged tables occupied by bar patrons were wreathed in shadow. Emory strained her eyes to try and see what hid beyond the light, to see if what she’d heard was true.
    So intent on finding out if Donovan MacIntyre had been telling the truth about Phoenix Rising, Emory paid not one whit of attention to where she was going. Seconds later she collided with someone.
    The impact knocked both off their feet. Emory landed square on her backside, her arms catching against a couple of nearby chairs and keeping her from smacking her head against the stone floor. In fact, she thought she’d gotten off pretty good until two overturned pints drenched her midsection in pale ale.
    She gasped, the ice-cold beer on her front making