to get the lay of the land amid the pall of shifting smoke and the thump of pool balls bouncing off stained and torn felt bumpers. It took another to locate Plowboy. He was slumped over a table in a dark corner—alive apparently, if the heave of his shoulders told the tale. Four tattooed, pierced, and scarred biker types held somber court, flanking him with various levels of grim, combative defiance and bloodlust.
"About damn time," Char grumbled from behind the bar, where she nervously wiped a damp, dingy rag across the scarred surface. Through the smoke drifting from the cigarette dangling at the corner of her mouth, the blowsy blonde gave Jillian a squinty-eyed look. "And what have we here?"
"Your temporary charge." Nolan dug into his hip pocket, pulled out his wallet, and slipped out a Ben Franklin.
When Char reached for it, he held it out of her grasp. He ripped the hundred in two pieces and gave one half to her. She promptly tucked it into her very there cleavage while Nolan stuck the other in the waistband of Jillian's shorts.
"When this is over," he told Char, "it's yours ... but only if she doesn't have a scratch on her."
Then, ignoring her squeal of surprise, he swung Jillian into his arms, lifted her up and over the bar, and deposited her on the other side by Char.
"Stay," he ordered, and dug into his waistband for the little popper he'd filched from Jillian's nightstand.
He checked the chamber of the .22, then held it out to her. "Tell me you know how to use this."
She was still catching her breath, but her mind and her mouth were in full working order. "Stand still for two seconds and I'll give you a demonstration."
She just didn't quit. He couldn't help it. He laughed. "Hold the thought while I take care of a little business. In the meantime, anyone tries to scale the bar, you aim it right at their heart and give 'em the same look you're giving me now. Yeah, that's the one. They'll run like hell."
"You aren't running."
Those green eyes flared with fire and he just couldn't ignore the challenge. "Yeah, well. I know something they don't."
"You think I won't pull this trigger?"
"Oh, you'll pull it. You just won't pull it on me."
"And you think this because?"
He leveled her a look. "Because you want to get in my pants."
That shut her up.
"Char," he said, keeping his eyes on the bloodthirsty redhead he may have just provoked into filling him full of lead, "grab your bat and stick to her like glue. I'll try to make this quick."
"As long as your mouth's hanging open, you just as well drink something."
Jillian looked from Nolan, who was walking into a sea of sweaty long-haired, earring-wearing, beer-swilling thugs, to theshot the bartender had plunked down in front of her. She didn't even consider refusing it. She picked up the glass and downed it, no questions asked.
Then she prayed for sudden death for the second time in as many hours. Firewater took on a whole new connotation as the liquor burned like hot razor blades all the way down to her toes.
When she could breathe again and her eyes had quit watering to the point where she could focus, she looked for Nolan. So she could shoot him for making that asinine remark, if nothing else.
Because you want to get in my pants.
Arrogant bastard.
The smoke was thick; the sunshades were dark. The first man she saw when she pulled things into fuzzy focus was not Nolan. And one look had her tightening her grip on her gun, thankful she'd saved her bullets for the real threat.
The man looked like a scripted character from every bad biker movie ever made. He was also staring at her like she was a piece of fresh meat and he hadn't gnawed on anything but motorcycle parts in days.
Black hair streaked with gray and slick with what could have been motor oil was pulled sharply back from a face that had clearly enjoyed watching and doing things she couldn't begin to imagine. That he'd lived hard, lived long, and could give a rat if he lived longer was etched deep
"About damn time," Char grumbled from behind the bar, where she nervously wiped a damp, dingy rag across the scarred surface. Through the smoke drifting from the cigarette dangling at the corner of her mouth, the blowsy blonde gave Jillian a squinty-eyed look. "And what have we here?"
"Your temporary charge." Nolan dug into his hip pocket, pulled out his wallet, and slipped out a Ben Franklin.
When Char reached for it, he held it out of her grasp. He ripped the hundred in two pieces and gave one half to her. She promptly tucked it into her very there cleavage while Nolan stuck the other in the waistband of Jillian's shorts.
"When this is over," he told Char, "it's yours ... but only if she doesn't have a scratch on her."
Then, ignoring her squeal of surprise, he swung Jillian into his arms, lifted her up and over the bar, and deposited her on the other side by Char.
"Stay," he ordered, and dug into his waistband for the little popper he'd filched from Jillian's nightstand.
He checked the chamber of the .22, then held it out to her. "Tell me you know how to use this."
She was still catching her breath, but her mind and her mouth were in full working order. "Stand still for two seconds and I'll give you a demonstration."
She just didn't quit. He couldn't help it. He laughed. "Hold the thought while I take care of a little business. In the meantime, anyone tries to scale the bar, you aim it right at their heart and give 'em the same look you're giving me now. Yeah, that's the one. They'll run like hell."
"You aren't running."
Those green eyes flared with fire and he just couldn't ignore the challenge. "Yeah, well. I know something they don't."
"You think I won't pull this trigger?"
"Oh, you'll pull it. You just won't pull it on me."
"And you think this because?"
He leveled her a look. "Because you want to get in my pants."
That shut her up.
"Char," he said, keeping his eyes on the bloodthirsty redhead he may have just provoked into filling him full of lead, "grab your bat and stick to her like glue. I'll try to make this quick."
"As long as your mouth's hanging open, you just as well drink something."
Jillian looked from Nolan, who was walking into a sea of sweaty long-haired, earring-wearing, beer-swilling thugs, to theshot the bartender had plunked down in front of her. She didn't even consider refusing it. She picked up the glass and downed it, no questions asked.
Then she prayed for sudden death for the second time in as many hours. Firewater took on a whole new connotation as the liquor burned like hot razor blades all the way down to her toes.
When she could breathe again and her eyes had quit watering to the point where she could focus, she looked for Nolan. So she could shoot him for making that asinine remark, if nothing else.
Because you want to get in my pants.
Arrogant bastard.
The smoke was thick; the sunshades were dark. The first man she saw when she pulled things into fuzzy focus was not Nolan. And one look had her tightening her grip on her gun, thankful she'd saved her bullets for the real threat.
The man looked like a scripted character from every bad biker movie ever made. He was also staring at her like she was a piece of fresh meat and he hadn't gnawed on anything but motorcycle parts in days.
Black hair streaked with gray and slick with what could have been motor oil was pulled sharply back from a face that had clearly enjoyed watching and doing things she couldn't begin to imagine. That he'd lived hard, lived long, and could give a rat if he lived longer was etched deep
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