Leonce ignored the other man, his glare fixed on Savannah as he rubbed his cheek. "What the hell you do dat for?"
Savannah stood up, kicking her chair back. "Go fuck yourself, Scarface. Save your money to buy yourself a brain, you asshole."
She snatched up her glass and threw it at him, bouncing it off his shoulder as he ducked away.
"Crazy bitch!" he yelled as sneers and chuckles rumbled behind him. "You goddamn crazy bitch!"
Savannah ignored him, snatched up her pocketbook, and went on the prowl. She didn't need to settle for Leonce Comeau; there were plenty of younger, good-looking bucks who would appreciate her company and her expertise. Her gaze caught on Taureau Hebert across the room, regaling his buddies with the tale of his latest run-in with the game warden.
She'd had her eye on him for a while now. He hadn't been nicknamed Bull for nothing. He was all of twenty-three and built for service from his mile-wide shoulders on down. It seemed like the perfect time to put him to the test.
But as she set off, hips swaying, tossing her wild mane back over her shoulder, concentrating all her considerable energy into the total package of allure, Annie Delahoussaye-Gerrard bounced into the picture, and the men at Taureau's table snapped their heads around to ogle her cleavage as she served their drinks and flirted with them.
Savannah fought off the wild urge to scream. This was her territory. Who the hell did this cheap little waitress think she was, anyway?
Young and pretty, that's who she was. And she had a sunny smile and a sweet laugh. Like her mother, T-Grace, Annie favored her clothes a size too small, pouring her ample curves into tight jeans and tank tops that left nothing to the imagination. A tangle of fake gold chains hung around her throat, and she wore a cheap ring on nearly every finger. No style at all, Savannah thought bitterly as she fingered the long strand of real pearls she wore and briefly contemplated wrapping them around Annie Gerrard's pretty young throat.
The little bitch had no business sniffing around the men here. She had a man of her own, a husband. Savannah very conveniently forgot the fact that Tony Gerrard-Annie's husband-had only just been released from a stay in the parish jail for knocking her around, and rumors of a divorce were in the air.
She strolled around behind the table, slipping in between Taureau and the waitress, sliding an arm around Taureau's thick, sunburned neck as if they were longtime lovers. She ignored his startled expression and fixed a hard-eyed look on Annie. "Why don't you run along and get me a fresh vodka tonic, sweetheart? That is your job here, isn't it?"
Annie narrowed her dark eyes and propped her empty tray on her well-rounded hip. "Mais yeah, that's my job," Annie sassed, looking her adversary up and down with undisguised contempt. "What's yours, grandmère? Molesting young men?"
Savannah didn't hear the obscenities that spewed from her own mouth. With a bloodred haze clouding her vision, she launched herself at the waitress, grabbing a handful of overpermed dark hair. She swung her other arm in a wild, roundhouse punch that connected solidly with Annie's ear.
Taureau and his buddies shot up out of their chairs, eyes round with astonishment. Someone yelled "Cat- fight!" above the blare of the jukebox. There was another call of "Grand rond!" and instantly a circle of spectators formed around the two women as they crashed into a table, sending bottles and glasses flying. Beer spilled in a foaming river across the wood floor, making the footing treacherous and giving an advantage to Annie, who was in sneakers.
Savannah didn't notice herself slipping. Her perceptions had become strangely distorted, her vision zooming close up on her adversary, hearing nothing but a loud, chaotic babble of sounds-screeches and screams and crashing. She felt nothing-not the other woman's hand yanking on her hair or fingernails biting into her flesh or toe connecting with her shin-nothing but the white-hot rage that roared within. She swung and clawed and shouted, holding on tight to whatever part of Annie Gerrard she could grab, and they spun, stumbling around the circle of spectators like wind-up dolls run amok.
T-Grace let out a sound that was something between fury and a war cry as she barreled out from behind the bar, elbows flying into the ribs of anyone who didn't get immediately out of her way. She plunged through the crowd, shouting at the top of her lungs, her eyes bulging wildly as she rushed to save not her daughter but her glassware and furniture. Annie could take care of herself.
Laurel jerked around on her bar stool to see what the commotion was all about, and her heart clutched in her chest as a red-on-white dress caught her eye. "Oh, my God, Savannah!"
Without a thought to her own safety, she launched herself off the stool and dove into the crowd. Jack swore under his breath as he grabbed her from behind and swung her out of his way. He made it to the melee about the same instant as T-Grace, and they danced around the combatants, angling to get a hold on one or the other of them to pull them apart.
An old hand at brawls, T-Grace was less than diplomatic. She didn't hesitate to land a few blows of her own or grab a handful of Savannah 's hair as she struggled to get her youngest child extricated from the fight that was smashing up the bar and putting a hold on drink orders.
Jack jumped in behind Savannah and wedged an arm between the two women, getting bitten for his efforts. An elbow caught him above the left eye as they lurched around the circle like rugby players in a scrum, reopening the cut he'd gotten crashing Savannah 's 'Vette. He gritted his teeth and cursed a blue streak through them, wondering what the hell had compelled him to get involved in this mess in the first place. He wasn't a fighter; he was an observer. If two women wanted to tear each other's hair out, he usually just stood back and took mental notes. He winced and swore in French as a spike heel dug into his instep. He wouldn't have to take mental notes this time; his body was going to be a pictorial essay on the intricacies of a barroom catfight. An elbow dug into his ribs, and he grunted and angled for a better hold while his feet slipped precariously in the spilled beer.
Laurel hovered on the edge of the action, her stomach twisting, her breath like two hard fists in her lungs, disjointed thoughts shooting through her mind like shrapnel. She hadn't even been aware of Savannah 's presence in the bar. Seeing her like this, locked in combat with another woman, was too surreal to be believed. She brought a hand up to her mouth and bit down hard on her thumbnail.
Suddenly an explosion rent the air, followed by a chorus of screams, and everyone went absolutely still for a split second. Laurel was sure her heart stopped, sure one of the women had fired and someone had been killed. But the fighters broke apart, Savannah with Jack dragging her backward, T-Grace with her daughter in a choke hold. Heads turned toward the bar.
Ovide held a smoking.38 in one meaty fist. The gun was pointed toward the ceiling, and a telltale plume of plaster dust was floating down. The bartender's face was as impassive as ever. He looked like a ridiculous cartoon character standing there, his walrus mustache drooping down, tufts of white hair sprouting out of his ears. He didn't say a word as his patrons stared at him, but set the gun down behind the counter, calmly picked up a glass, and went on drying it with the rag he had never bothered to put down.
T-Grace gave her daughter a rough shake. "Fightin' with the customers. Talk about!"
Annie wiped a drizzle of blood from her nose with the back of her hand, her gaze, still hot and angry, locked on Savannah Chandler. "She started it, Maman-"
T-Grace cut her daughter off with a wild-eyed look. "I don' wanna hear no more. Get on with you! Go fix yourself up." She gave her daughter a shove in the direction of the ladies' room and clapped her hands over her head as she turned back toward the rest of the crowd. "Allons danser!" she ordered as Roddie Romero and the Rockin' Cajuns wailed out of the jukebox.