In Rides Trouble (Black Knights Inc. #2)(69)

“Where are you going?” he demanded, not liking the idea of her and Eve traipsing all over the city by themselves, especially with that damn pirate still on the loose. Of course, he comforted himself with the knowledge that the Somali making it onto U.S. soil when the entire international community was hunting him was slim to nil.

“I’m meeting Eve for drinks at Delilah’s,” she called over her shoulder, repeatedly pushing the button for the elevator. The doors opened with a ding, and she jumped inside like the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels.

He shook his head, glancing around at the perplexed faces of the Knights. “What’s gotten into her?” he asked and was met by a series of shrugs.

***

“Delilah! Uno más!” Becky crowed, smiling crookedly and holding one wobbly finger up for the lush, redheaded woman working behind the bar. The last word came out sounding more like mosh, and Eve stifled a giggle.

After a small hesitation, the bartender refilled their shot glasses, the brown liquor sparkling like agate under the bar’s low lights.

Becky lifted the glass and Eve wondered what they’d drink to this time. They’d already run through health, happiness, prosperity, world peace, and all the other usual toasts. “To your suber—suter—” Becky made a face causing Eve to snort a laugh, “super cute leggings.”

“Cheers.” Eve clinked her glass against Becky’s, threw the liquor to the back of her throat and swallowed, hissing as the hard burn hit her belly.

Slamming the shot glass down on the bar, she woozily turned to her friend. “My knees are still a mess. I can’t stand the way they look, so skirts are out. And jeans hurt too much which means…” She made a rolling motion with her hand. “…it’s leggings or nudity. I’ve been choosing leggings.”

Becky gave her a sympathetic look before leaning one elbow on the bar, cupping her cheek in her hand. “Can you believe we were held hostage by pirates? It all seems kinda like a dream.”

“A nightmare, you mean. And speaking of…”

“Say no more.” Becky lifted a hand. “I had a doozie the other night. Ran out into the hall with my pistol loaded.”

“I wish I had a pistol,” Eve declared hotly. Maybe then she wouldn’t feel so scared all the time. Maybe then she’d be able to scrub out the images of those six terrible days from her sleep-deprived brain. “I also want to start taking self-defense classes.”

“I’ll drink to that. Delilah!” Becky grinned sloppily, holding up that finger again, “Uno mosh!”

“No way.” Eve shook her head, actually feeling the last four shots of rot-gut whiskey sloshing around in her belly as she hopped from the barstool. “I can’t take another shot, or I’m going to barf.”

“Hehehe. The über ch…chic,” Becky hiccupped, “and oh-so-classy Eve Edens just said barf.”

“It’s a word, isn’t it?” She looked around blearily, surprised to see so much leather and so many tattoos and so much facial hair…

Where in the world am I?

Oh yes. A biker bar on the east side of the city.

She, Eve Edens, queen of Bergdorf’s, was getting hammered on cheap whiskey in the diviest of dive bars, filled with the scariest of scary types, and listening to the crappiest of crappy Def Leppard songs. Every time she heard this one, all she could think about was hot, sticky sweet feet.

Ew!

Something had to be done. Immediately.

Stumbling over to the jukebox, she fished in her pocket for a couple of bills and, after smoothing them out on the edge of the machine, slid them into the cash slot. And even though Red Delilah’s was the dive-iest of dive bars, she was pleased to find it sported one of those fancy jukeboxes that connected to the internet so she could pick any song her little ol’ heart desired.

And what did her little ol’ heart desire?

Why, Chaka Khan, of course.

Just stand aside, Bridgett Jones!

She paid the extra fee to have her song jump the others lined up in the music queue, and spun away from the jukebox, swinging her hips and waving her arms in the air as the driving beat blasted from the huge speakers that hung from the every corner of the bar.

“I’m every woman,” she belted at the top of her lungs and motioned for Becky to join her out on the dance floor, er…she glanced down at her feet and the crushed peanut shells beneath them. So maybe this wasn’t a dance floor, but it was a mostly clear space, and that’s all she needed to get her groove on.

Becky vigorously shook her head, and Eve quickly decided she was having none of it. Chaka absolutely demanded dancing.

She ran over and tried dragging Becky off the barstool, which turned out to be far more difficult than she ever dreamed. The woman was small, but she was strong.

“You might as well go dance,” the redheaded bartender told Becky, “because I’m not serving you another drink for at least an hour.”

Becky gave her a scowl which blatantly said, ya big party pooper, and opened her mouth to reply, but Eve interjected, “Come on. Can’t you hear that? Chaka’s on the jukebox!”

“Listen to your friend,” the bartender advised. “She’s wise beyond her years.”

Uh-huh. Except a wise woman would have laid off the shots three pours ago.