Hell on Wheels (Black Knights Inc. #1)(27)

This place was surreal. Scratch that. Ever since Grigg’s death, her entire life was surreal.

And it didn’t lessen her foul mood in the slightest when the sky-high, red patent leather pumps that’d been foisted on her began killing her toes, even while sitting down.

How was that even possible?

Obviously the shoes were designed by some sadistic man who liked to cripple women…probably so they’d be unable to scamper away while he tried to give them free mustache rides.

“Stop fidgeting. You look great,” Becky assured her while absently scanning the bar. Patti had gone to use the ladies’ room, and the men of Black Knights Inc. were huddled around the jukebox in the corner, presumably to pick out more music.

Anything besides Metallica would work, Ali thought.

Or not.

Pantera started screaming from the speakers, and she supposed next time she needed to be more specific when asking for small miracles.

Funny how the Knights were supposed to be plugging in new tunes, but not one of them was digging in his jeans for change. Neither were any of them actually looking at the jukebox.

They must consider her to be a real moron if they thought they were fooling her for a second.

They weren’t over there for the music. Oh no. They were over there discussing what options they had concerning her “situation.”

Over dinner, Frank told her General Fuller was unable to contact the director of the FBI. The Director was supposedly in closed-door meetings all day and wouldn’t be able to return Frank’s inquiry into what Agent Delaney was investigating until tomorrow.

Frank tried to give Ali the impression he intended to leave it at that, at least for the night. But one look at his frustrated expression and she quickly surmised he wasn’t the kind of man to simply wait around for answers to fall in his lap.

“I feel like a fool,” she groused as she toed out of Becky’s ridiculous shoes.

Becky shot her a sharp look. “What? You look fantastic. Very mysterious. Smoldering. So stop fidgeting.”

Ali snorted.

“You do,” Becky insisted. “Didn’t you see the look on Ghost’s face when you stepped into the shop?”

Yes, she saw it. And again she thought perhaps something hot flashed behind his eyes. But then when they’d all fired up the engines on their Harleys—which was a sound and sensation Ali would never forget for the rest of her natural life—she moved to hop up behind Nate, but he waved her off with a muttered, “You’re ridin’ with Ozzie.”

Okay, she thought. I don’t even know Ozzie but…whatever.

She supposed she really shouldn’t have been so surprised. Nate always went out of his way to avoid touching her. Not everyone. Just her.

“Stop pulling at that shirt,” Becky demanded now, giving her the evil eye. Not hard to do with a quarter inch of jet black eyeliner smeared around her lids. Alice Cooper was somewhere applauding and biting the head off a chicken. “You’re going to stretch it out and then I’ll have to trim the hem again.”

Trim the hem? If Becky trimmed the hem any more, it’d be nothing but a cotton collar attached to a couple of arm holes.

“I should’ve just worn my own clothes,” Ali sighed in resignation as it became apparent no amount of maneuvering would lengthen the hem of the tank top.

“Yeah, ’cause a pink, sparkly bebe T-shirt would’ve fit in so well here,” Becky stated dryly.

Okay, the woman had a point.

Red Delilah’s sported more leather than a herd of Texas cattle. All black, all shot through with silver studded detailing. All very intimidating—and that was before one started to read the T-shirt slogans.

And then there was Delilah. The bar’s proprietress.

She made the patrons look shockingly under-leathered. Ali couldn’t begin to guess the woman’s age. She had a sort of timeless quality about her. Like an old film star. And like those old film stars, her figure would make an hourglass weep with envy. Of course, it helped when all those curves were on display beneath a black leather cat-suit whose top must’ve come from a Victoria’s Cleavage catalog.

Sometimes God giveth and then he just keeps on giveth-ing.

Ali glanced in the woman’s direction as she sashayed—there was really no other way to describe the dramatic sway of those dangerous, leather-clad hips—out from behind the bar and over to the group of men by the jukebox.

If the Knights were dogs, they’d be panting.

She decided right then she didn’t particularly like Delilah—if that was really the woman’s name. Not because she was gorgeous. No, no. Ali objected to her existence because she managed to do the impossible.

Looping long arms around Nate’s neck, Delilah kissed him full on the mouth and leaned in to whisper something in his ear.

That’s when it happened. The impossible, that is.

Because that’s when Nathan Weller, former sergeant of the Marine Corps, current government defense contractor, and all-time Ice Man—as in cold as ice, heart like ice—laughed.

And not your regular ol’ tehehe-that-was-funny laugh.

Oh, no.

A big booming roar rose above the pounding rock ’n’ roll. His whole body was overcome by it. His head thrown back, thick throat working, big shoulders shaking.

It was the most amazingly…bizarre thing Ali’d ever seen.