Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(47)
Rider squinted at the setting sun, loving how it turned burnt orange and fired his bike with a supernatural glow. There was just something about sunset going down on a man's chrome. It was almost a religious experience, if there was such a thing.
Kicking the stand and stopping the motor's purr in one deft motion, he stretched as soon as he dismounted. All of them did, just as they all glimpsed the smoking bus that stuck out like a sore thumb in the dirt lot a hundred yards away. Its front sign read, "Las Vegas." Rider just shook his head. Tourists.
"Check it out," his buddy Snake said, nodding toward the bus. "Think they've got balls enough to come in?"
"Nah," Jack said, laughing, and slung an arm over Snake's thick shoulders without breaking stride. But his laughter slowly trailed off as he glanced back and appraised the passengers through his dark aviator shades. A pair of eyes held him for a moment and his stomach clenched. Her large liquid-brown irises were mesmerizing; had the startled quality of a deer. He shook it off. "But leave the old ladies alone."
"You going soft on us, Rider?" Razor asked, punching his arm. "Or you just miss your momma?"
"Or did something real different on the bus catch your eye?" Bull's Eye asked with a knowing smirk.
"Neither," Rider said, his smile wide as he glanced at Crazy Pete. "I just don't want him to get tangled up in girdles and garter belts. I'm just trying to help the man."
It had happened so fast that she almost couldn't catch her breath, and then time stood still. A long, lanky biker had paused, tilted his head to the side, and she saw it. The thin blue-white light around him that the old ones said all seers could see. His back was straight, and behind his dark sunglasses she was almost sure she'd seen a pair of kind eyes. It was in the crinkles around them that made her know. It was also in the regal way he lifted his strong chin and squared his shoulders, standing with the pack but apart from them in a way she couldn't define. Then he turned away slowly, still glancing over his shoulder at the bus. His laughter boomed rich, deep, and honest. There was just something in his carriage, but it wasn't false pride. Somehow it seemed so natural, dirty blond ponytail and all. Then he was gone.
Her fingers pressed to the window in reflex. The hair stood up on her arms. Danger was near, but where?
Rider laughed as the guys continued to tease him, elbowing and play-boxing with each of them as the rest of the squad straggled into the roadside tavern. Crazy Pete purposely bumped the bus driver, who was anxiously speaking into a black rotary telephone provided by the bartender as they went up to the bar to get a drink. The burly driver looked up, saw Pete's wiry, muscular build, then immediately glanced at the others, nodded an apology, and moved out of the way.
"Leave the man alone, dude," Rider said, shaking his head. "The poor SOB is about to drop a brick in his pants, as it is."
"Just marking our territory as off limits," Crazy Pete argued, accepting his shot of tequila. He downed it hard and set his glass in front of the bartender for another. "Can't have them desecrate sacred lands. Next thing you know this'll be a damned mall."
"Everything's changing around here," Bull's Eye said with a weary sigh, then removed the sweaty black bandana from his bald head to mop his sunburned brow.
"Yeah, well, with change comes progress," Rider said sarcastically, then ordered a Jack Daniel's, as the others around him laughed and slapped Pete's back.
"Progress?" Pete was beyond indignant, but still had to laugh. The tequila helped.
Rider took a deep swig of his drink as soon as the bartender put it in front of him, made a face and shuddered. "No. I stand corrected," he said, holding up his near-empty glass. "This is progress."
His cronies laughed and raised their glasses, each mimicking him, and slamming their glasses down hard enough to nearly shatter them.
"But how did we end up in this godforsaken place?" Razor asked. "No women, nuthin' but an old man bartender and old tunes on the juke."
The bikers cast a disparaging glance around the tavern. Rider nodded in agreement. This was piss-poor and pitiful. The establishment seemed like it had had a day, once, a looong time ago. It wasn't the mix-match chairs, or the wooden tables that were scored and engraved with names and every profanity known to man that gave it a dead look. Truthfully, that was pretty cool, gave the joint character.
He couldn't put his finger on it. It wasn't the old sawdust on the floor, or the old Elvis tunes skipping and popping vinyl in the ancient jukebox, nor was it the dingy paneled walls and dusty moose head hanging above the bar. He and the fellas weren't picky. It wasn't even the old pool table that couldn't give a good game anymore because it wasn't level and leaned like a dead battleship. To his mind, it was pure evidence that a good brawl had broken out here at some point. Now that was life.
What he was feeling had absolutely nothing to do with the fans that only swirled dead, dry air. The long, yellow strips of flypaper that were polka-dotted with insects didn't bother him, no more than the ever-present dank smell around them did. Hell, the guys he was riding with gave BO funk a new definition. Maybe it was the eerie fact that they had the place all to themselves. The guitar on his back suddenly felt too heavy.
Rider pulled out a Marlboro and slowly lit it. He watched the ember fire red on a hard inhale, and tapped the back of his pack, offering the group's leader one. He glanced at the bartender when Snake accepted it and just put it behind his ear, then he glanced over to the bus driver and noted his dejected expression. He could tell by the look on the man's face that the bus was fried and nobody was coming for a tow tonight. It was the way the bus driver slowly hung up the receiver and passed the telephone back to the bartender.