Riding the Thunder (9 page)

“You telling me that
I
put the salt in the water?” he snarled. He started to rise from his seat, hesitating as his eyes flicked to Liam standing behind her, and then to Jago, who materialized at her elbow. Sam stuck his head out the swinging door, a heavy metal spatula in his hand. Asha
sighed. Men and their time-honored code of protecting their women.

“I didn't put salt in my own damn water,” Monty insisted. Asha spread her hands in the air. “I didn't accuse you of that, but since you broke the glass I cannot check it now. I'll bring you another.”

“There better not be salt in it,” he threatened.

Asha calmly got a glass of ice water and set it before him.

In a flashback to that bloody crocodile, the disturbing man moved before she could blink. Deceptively fast for a man whose debauchery had taken its toll upon his body, his hand caught her wrist in a vise grip. “You won't always have those young bucks standing behind you, missy. Remember that.”

Asha met his eyes lacking any spark of humanity, only that air of a predator that killed because that was how he was created. “You don't scare me, Mr. Faulkner. I carry a Colt Python. You ever come near me, I'll start with your knees and shoot my way up without hesitation.” For emphasis she smiled, formed her right finger and thumb into a gun and shot him.

“Let go of the lady—
now
,” Jago growled from behind her.

A surly look crossed Faulkner's eyes, but Asha saw he was backing down. Bullies always did when they couldn't shove people around. They were only strong when they had someone weaker at their mercy. The man swallowed hard.

Faulkner bluffed it by rising in the booth. “Or you'll what,
Fancy Pants
?”

Suddenly, the jukebox turned on and Ray Peterson's voice sang out, “
Laura and Tommy were lovers . . . He wanted to give her everything
. . .”

Faulkner turned a ghastly shade of gray and released Asha's wrist. He looked at her strangely, and then his head jerked to Jago, the alarm growing to one of terror. “No. It can't be.”

“
Tell Laura not to cry . . . My love for her will never die
. . .”

“This is some sick joke.” Faulkner pushed himself from the booth, shoving Asha aside. Jago caught her, then moved to stand before her.

Faulkner shoved past them and rushed to the door. He yanked on it, but found it oddly stuck. As he rattled the knob, he kept staring as if the jukebox were a metal monster from outer space come to munch humans. In desperation, he kicked at the door as the song built to a crescendo and ended. Immediately, the player launched into a new song, “Last Kiss” by J. Frank Wilson and the Cavaliers.

A swirl of wind ruffled the tickets by the register, causing Faulkner to jump. Like a cornered rat, he glanced around, searching for another exit. There was one through the formal dining room, but he'd have to get past Asha and Jago in the aisle between the booths. Another was through the office, but Liam and Netta were at the end of the counter blocking him. He started toward the kitchen, only to have Sam's face pop up on the other side of the circular pane of glass, again brandishing a spatula. Faulkner spun and backtracked to the front door. As he reached it, the straw dispenser started shooting a flurry of paper-covered straws at him. The jukebox played on.

“
Never forget the sound that night . . . The cryin' tires, the bustin' glass. The painful scream that I heard last
. . .”

Faulkner wailed, yanked the door open and ran into the night.

Jago looked at Asha and lifted his brows. “Impressive. Would someone like to tell me what the bloody hell just happened?”

“What the
bloody hell
was that?” Jago repeated for anyone willing to answer. No one did. Ruddy cowards. The instant the words were out of his mouth, Asha and Netta scurried off, muttering they had closing chores to start. Jago had a hard time believing what he'd seen. Something really strange—look for-Rod-Serling-time strange—had just occurred, yet no one wanted to speak about it. Obviously, they were going to pretend it hadn't happened, and hoped he'd do the same.

“You're going to ignore my question, too?” Jago's eyes targeted Liam.

Asha's brother strolled around the counter and fetched two bottles of beer from the cooler. Perching on a stool, he handed one to Jago. “What's to tell? The man's a vulgar creep. An aging town bully. I wouldn't put it past the jerk to sneak up behind you and stick a knife in your back. While old man Faulkner was still alive, Monty got away with a lot—and I mean a
lot
. In the manner of all serial killers, he started small by shooting animals, pets, and then later, car windows of passing vehicles. No matter what he did, daddy
dearest bought him out of trouble, right down to Montague committing rape when he was barely fifteen, with no charges ever being lodged—so it's told. He's been gone for a long time; most people assumed he'd moved away. Then he showed up again about three years ago, just after Dr. Faulkner died. Residents of Leesburg cross to the other side of the street when they see him coming.”

Jago wasn't diverted. “That's
not
what I asked and you know it.”

Pretending not to hear, Liam kept his eyes on Netta and Asha preparing to close up for the night. “I get the impression, Fitzgerald, you want to court my sister.”

“
Court?
A quaint way to put it.” His turn to play cagey, Jago tilted his beer and looked at the label. “If this is a dry county, how is it The Windmill can serve beer?”

“Oooo, nice duck. I'm impressed.” Liam grinned, lifting his ale in salute. “The old icehouse on the edge of The Windmill's property originally straddled two counties. Some mapmaker goofed. When boundaries were drawn, there was this very narrow strip, a No Man's Land that each county claimed. They battled over it in the courts for decades. Outside of any incorporated lines, there were no laws to rule what happened here. With the two counties fighting over which one The Windmill actually sat in, and each wanting the taxes, our mother Mae put her foot down, said the only way she'd support either side was if they grandfathered The Windmill and let it continue to serve beer.”

“Thank goodness for grandfather clauses.” Jago rotated on his stool to observe Asha and Netta filling salt-and-pepper shakers on the tables. “And thank heaven for little girls.”

Sam came from the kitchen, wiped steam from the dishwasher off his face with his apron, and then helped himself to a Budweiser. “Amen to that,” he said. With an exhausted exhale, he joined Liam and Jago on the stools. The three sat and watched the ladies. “Two mighty fine women.”

“Represents the breed.” Liam sighed his admiration.

Jago glanced at Montgomerie, unused to men ‘prettier' than he was. Asha's brother was as handsome as Asha was beautiful, though not in a plastic way like many models tend to be. Both Montgomeries were earthy, vital, sensual creatures.

Over the years, Julian Starkadder—Desmond's right hand man—had compiled extensive files on all the Montgomeries in preparation for his brother's plans. Jago knew that Liam was only a few months older than he. Had they attended the same school, Liam and he would've been in the same classroom—maybe even good friends, judging by his instant liking of the man.

“Represents the breed? Hmm . . . never heard the expression before. I'd say it applies though.” Jago fixated on Asha's mobile rear, as she stretched across the tables to gather sugar, salt-and-pepper containers. The curves in those tight, white jeans made his hands itch. He took a draw on his beer; the icy cold Coors did little to stem the rising heat in his body.

“It's a horse breeders' term. You hear it a lot on the farms around here. That one special horse above all others, when their confirmation is so perfect, that the contours just make you want to run your hands over their sleek body, ache to get them between your thighs.” Liam sighed, his eyes seeking Netta.

“A horse, hmm?” Jago consider the metaphor. “When I watched Asha last night, I thought of my Harley. I own a '67 Electra Glide. The bike's design, the sound when you start it—nothing can compare to it. It's riding thunder.”

“A horse? A motorcycle? You young-uns.” Sam scoffed. “When I look at a good woman I think of boats. I was in Florida for my vacation last year. Some guy had one of them high-priced, cigarette boats they race, tied up at a dock. This baby was neon blue and black—a Tiger XP, the owner said it was. He was nice enough to take me for a ride. Opened those engines wide. Wow. Talk about riding thunder.”

Derek Whitaker, busboy at The Windmill, pushed through
the swinging door from the kitchen and went behind the counter, untying the folded apron around his hips. “Don't tell Asha, but I'm stealing a beer.”

“We're mum. We men have to stick together,” Liam replied unconcerned.

“You think of a good horse, Liam,” Derek said, clearly having overheard. “Our new Brit here thinks of a Harley. Sam—a cigarette boat. You're all wrong. A good woman is like a Shelby—quality throughout and damn few of them about. You slide into that tight driver seat, shove the key in the ignition . . . now
there
is riding the thunder.”

Liam rotated halfway on his stool. “What's that, Derek, wishful wet dreams talking? I hear Winnie MacPhee has been shooting you down for the last month.”

“Forget Winnie, she's crazy.” The tall, strawberry blond man offered his hand to Jago. “I'm Derek Whittaker, assistant cook and busboy. You're Jago Fitzgerald, mystery man. Not much happens in this wide spot in the road that isn't common knowledge in an hour.” He sat and took a swig of his beer. “Now my Shelby—that'll make a grown man get down on his knees and cry. It's
clean
, man. Runs like a scared deer. Sad sorry shame I have to sell it.”

Jago stared at Derek, incredulous. “Sell a Shelby? That might be considered grounds for an insanity claim.”

The young man shrugged. “I want to be a vet. Asha pulled some strings and got me into Auburn University. Not an easy trick, even with good grades. It's the only veterinarian school in about a five state area. I'll have to travel back and forth between Kentucky and Alabama frequently, to make sure mom is doing okay on the farm and such. It's a ten-hour drive each way—the Shelby deserves better treatment. I figured it'd bring enough money to get a dependable car for me and have some cash left over to help out my mom. The problem is no one around here can afford it. I have it up on eBay with a buyer's reserve of $35,000. So far, no bid has come close. This car is mint, cherry. Black interior, black exterior, a little red pin-stripe on the fenders . . .”

Liam chuckled. “Yeah, you so much as put a hand on the door and he has to wash and wax it.”

Jago took out his box of Swisher Sweets. “Okay if I smoke?” All the men nodded, so he lit up and passed the package around, each of them taking one. “What year?”

“Same as your bike—'67.”

“I haven't seen it in the lot.” Jago glanced through the plate-glass windows. “I'd have noticed a Shelby.”

“Leave it in the lot to get dinged or for Monty to gouge its length with a key? Bite your tongue. I drive mom's truck to work.” Derek shook his head.

“Have breakfast with me in the morn. Bring the car and let me take it for a test run,” Jago suggested, exhaling the smoke. “If it's as cherry as you say—”

Liam butted in, “It is. A sweetheart. I'd buy it in a New York minute, only I'm saving up to purchase a horse farm—before
someone
else can.” His scowl at Jago was done in play.

Eyes bright with hope, Derek asked, “You're interested—seriously?”

“Your car lives up to what you say, you have a deal.” Jago leaned back against the bar and folded his arms over his chest. “Though I prefer round numbers. $40,000 okay?”

Derek nearly choked on his beer. “You're kidding.”

“No, I rarely kid about bikes, cars or women.” Jago knew what it was like to have a working mother, struggling to get by. Though the two looked nothing alike, Derek suddenly made Jago think of his brother, Desmond. He recalled how his older sibling had worked long and hard to make a better life for Trev and him, to see they wanted for nothing.

He and Derek would both be getting a good deal. He figured the young man could use a helping hand—and he
wanted
that Shelby.

Just as he wanted Asha.

Derek laughed. “In that case I won't rat to Asha and Netta you guys were comparing them to horses, bikes, and boats.”

A rainy Friday night, and not yet eleven o'clock, saw Asha restless, edgy. She didn't want to go home and watch the telly, but there was damn little else to do around this neck of the woods. Everyone had eaten, or she'd suggest they could all go to her bungalow, put on some DVDs and she'd fix them a late meal. Ordinarily the staff went up the hill to the drive-in on Friday and Saturday nights after work, kicked back, relaxed and enjoyed a few laughs. With the rain pouring down that was a no-go.

“'Night, Asha, Netta,” Derek called, going out the door after Sam.

“'Night, Derek.” Asha cut the overhead lights on the booths, still running options through her mind.

As Netta pushed the condiments cart toward the kitchen, Liam jumped to his feet to open the door for her. Asha watched as their eyes locked for an instant, desire crackling in the air. For some time, she'd suspected that Netta had a serious crush on her brother. Tonight, Asha had noticed how Liam's hazel eyes tracked Netta with a banked fire. Searching her memory, she failed to recall ever seeing
that expression on his face when he'd looked at other women. Being a Meddling Montgomerie, Asha itched to play matchmaker.