the streetlights had burned out or—and this was a reassuring thought— they'd been shot out.
Amazing. He'd almost made a believer of her. As he'd driven through the city like a man avoiding a death wish—or heading toward one—she'd just hung on, trying not to be aware of him as she sat beside him in the passenger seat of a vintage emerald green fastback Mustang. His hard eyes had been glued to the deserted streets, his movements economic and proficient as he downshifted through tight corners and ran more lights in ten minutes than she had in her entire life. She'd actually thought they were running from, not to, something.
Apparently, she'd thought wrong. She'd been doing that a lot tonight. She didn't like it. And she didn't like this.
The sign on the dingy gray building read: nirvana.
In her worst nightmare, maybe.
The one-story structure made a definitive architectural statement: early urban decay. The plate-glass windows, tinted almost black, were streaked with grime and ... and things she really didn't want to think about. The thick, shatterproof glass was crisscrossed with duct tape over spidery cracks that crept from a central circular hole. A woman a little less mired in denial might recognize it as a bullet hole. To keep from whimpering like a baby, she chose not to be that woman.
Through the cloudy and cracked glass, neon signs advertised several brands of beer on tap; below the windows unoriginal but graphic graffiti extolled the virtues of someone's mother in bold red letters. The front door—which looked like it had been kicked in... several times ... recently— was propped open by an empty beer crate. Shards of brown glass littered the sidewalk where scraggly weeds struggled to grow in the gap between the building's cracked and crumbling foundation and the pocked concrete. Why anything would even attempt to grow in this environment was beyond her. So was her ability to figure out what they were doing here.
Several huge motorcycles and a couple of dented pick-ups filled the spaces directly in front of the building. From inside, raucous laughter—low-down, dirty, and mean— rumbled beneath the head-banging rock blaring from a jukebox and seeped into the humid tropical night like toxic waste. Through the open car window Jillian could smell cigarette smoke and beer and the unmistakable undercurrent of danger.
""Put these on."
She jerked her head toward Garrett as he dragged a pair of sunglasses from the dash and handed them to her.
"Put 'em on," he repeated when she stared from the aviator glasses to him, her expression saying it all.
Are you crazy?
"I don't want anyone recognizing you."
She actually laughed, despite his stone-faced glower. "Well, that's not going to be a problem, because I'm not going in there "
He eased out of the car and walked around to the passenger side. Just as he reached for the handle, she punched the lock. Smirked.
He rolled his eyes at her ineffective and juvenile show of defiance, inserted the key, and opened her door.
When she held her ground and refused to move, he hunkered down to eye level and reached for her seat belt.
"No," she said, batting at his hands and grabbing for the buckle. "You know what? I've had it. I've been dancing to your tune all night, but I'm done now. I'm packing in my tap shoes. You want to be my bodyguard? Fine. Be my bodyguard ... not my social director, because if this is your idea of a fun night out, you suck at it."
When he hung his head, she got the distinct impression it was to hide a smile. "This is not a social call."
"So glad we can agree on something." She stubbornly tugged the seat belt across her lap again and fumbled with the catch on the buckle. "We'll just have to reschedule this little attempt to bury the hatchet and get chummy over a bottle of Ripple and a fifty-cent draw for some other night. Now take me home."
Nolan dragged a hand over his lower face. Gezus, she was a piece of work. He'd known her silence had been
Amazing. He'd almost made a believer of her. As he'd driven through the city like a man avoiding a death wish—or heading toward one—she'd just hung on, trying not to be aware of him as she sat beside him in the passenger seat of a vintage emerald green fastback Mustang. His hard eyes had been glued to the deserted streets, his movements economic and proficient as he downshifted through tight corners and ran more lights in ten minutes than she had in her entire life. She'd actually thought they were running from, not to, something.
Apparently, she'd thought wrong. She'd been doing that a lot tonight. She didn't like it. And she didn't like this.
The sign on the dingy gray building read: nirvana.
In her worst nightmare, maybe.
The one-story structure made a definitive architectural statement: early urban decay. The plate-glass windows, tinted almost black, were streaked with grime and ... and things she really didn't want to think about. The thick, shatterproof glass was crisscrossed with duct tape over spidery cracks that crept from a central circular hole. A woman a little less mired in denial might recognize it as a bullet hole. To keep from whimpering like a baby, she chose not to be that woman.
Through the cloudy and cracked glass, neon signs advertised several brands of beer on tap; below the windows unoriginal but graphic graffiti extolled the virtues of someone's mother in bold red letters. The front door—which looked like it had been kicked in... several times ... recently— was propped open by an empty beer crate. Shards of brown glass littered the sidewalk where scraggly weeds struggled to grow in the gap between the building's cracked and crumbling foundation and the pocked concrete. Why anything would even attempt to grow in this environment was beyond her. So was her ability to figure out what they were doing here.
Several huge motorcycles and a couple of dented pick-ups filled the spaces directly in front of the building. From inside, raucous laughter—low-down, dirty, and mean— rumbled beneath the head-banging rock blaring from a jukebox and seeped into the humid tropical night like toxic waste. Through the open car window Jillian could smell cigarette smoke and beer and the unmistakable undercurrent of danger.
""Put these on."
She jerked her head toward Garrett as he dragged a pair of sunglasses from the dash and handed them to her.
"Put 'em on," he repeated when she stared from the aviator glasses to him, her expression saying it all.
Are you crazy?
"I don't want anyone recognizing you."
She actually laughed, despite his stone-faced glower. "Well, that's not going to be a problem, because I'm not going in there "
He eased out of the car and walked around to the passenger side. Just as he reached for the handle, she punched the lock. Smirked.
He rolled his eyes at her ineffective and juvenile show of defiance, inserted the key, and opened her door.
When she held her ground and refused to move, he hunkered down to eye level and reached for her seat belt.
"No," she said, batting at his hands and grabbing for the buckle. "You know what? I've had it. I've been dancing to your tune all night, but I'm done now. I'm packing in my tap shoes. You want to be my bodyguard? Fine. Be my bodyguard ... not my social director, because if this is your idea of a fun night out, you suck at it."
When he hung his head, she got the distinct impression it was to hide a smile. "This is not a social call."
"So glad we can agree on something." She stubbornly tugged the seat belt across her lap again and fumbled with the catch on the buckle. "We'll just have to reschedule this little attempt to bury the hatchet and get chummy over a bottle of Ripple and a fifty-cent draw for some other night. Now take me home."
Nolan dragged a hand over his lower face. Gezus, she was a piece of work. He'd known her silence had been
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