Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(49)

Outraged, Pete snatched himself from Rider's hold and spun on him. "Back off, man! What's wrong with you? Nobody touches me. Especially not for some black Indian tail. Are you crazy?"

Razor had already approached the young woman, had reached out and touched her cheek, and laughed as Rider and Pete pushed each other back and squared off. The young woman jerked her head away from the offending touch, fury and fear glittering in her eyes. The pending fist-fight was temporarily defused as Rider and Pete looked at Razor.

The bartender had moved back. He'd apparently seen how quick lightning could strike his establishment. Snake gave him a hard glare that was a warning not to be so foolish as to pull a shotgun from behind the bar. Bull's Eye flanked Snake and shook his head, conveying that to make a sudden move would not be advisable. But that obviously wasn't the man's intention. The bartender kept cleaning the glass that was in his hand, unfazed, simply moving out of harm's way.

However, the bus driver was determined to die a hero. He'd pushed the girl behind him. The others formed an immediate horseshoe circle behind Rider, Pete, Razor, Bull's Eye, and Snake. The bus driver and the girl were huddled against a wall. Nerves were pulled wire-tight, hair trigger. The bus driver had hidden the girl behind his back. One false move and the joint was gonna blow.

"I wasn't tryin' ta hurt her," Razor said, attempting to peek behind the bus driver. "I just wanted to touch her hair to see if it was as soft as it looked, being she's an angel and all. Y'all ever had exotic fare?" he asked the group, glancing at them and laughing.

"We don't want no trouble," the bus driver said, new beads of sweat forming and rolling down his temples. "Our bus just got stuck, and I've got elderly folks who just need to get to Vegas. That's all."

Rider stepped forward and put a hand on Razor's shoulder. "The man needs a mechanic. My rate is twenty-five dollars an hour," he said, making himself smile, which made the men around him relax and chuckle.

"Always got an angle, don't you, Rider? But I like how you think," Razor said, and then grudgingly conceded with a sly smile. "Bet if these folks are on the way to Vegas…"

New worry wrapped tension around Rider's spinal column and constricted it. "Yeah," he said, peering at the frightened young woman. "I might be able to get that tin can started, if these folks would be good enough to pass the hat?" He gave the bus driver a look filled with meaning. It was a strong suggestion to keep the wolves at bay using money as bait. Then he sighed theatrically when the bus driver nodded fast. "The man said there were a bunch of old folks on there—you know, the old dolls will travel across the country with one roll of quarters, man. They're nuts, like my mother. I ain't gonna do time for chump change. We've got a race to do, where the real money is."

Snake nodded and glanced at his squad. Bull's Eye sat on a stool. It made the others stand down, and then he looked at the bus driver. "Give Rider here enough to gas up the choppers, and we'll call it even. Your bus will get fixed, and we'll be on our way."

Rider could feel his shoulders drop two inches in relief. He eyed the girl and tried to send her a message to just stand still. No sudden moves.

"Uh… sure," the bus driver said fast, and began pulling the girl out of the bar behind him.

But she stopped, looked a little too long at Rider, and then dropped her gaze. "Mrs. Parker still needs—"

"Get the girl some water and something to eat for the old lady, for chrissake," Rider said, his nerves about to snap. He banged his fist on the bar, and pulled out a five-dollar bill. "I'm an artist under the hood and can't concentrate with all this crap." He looked at the girl, signaling her with his eyes that now would be a good time to leave. "I wish she'd just get on that bus and shut up. Geeze Louise. Can a man get a drink while he works?"

She nodded and scooted out the door with the bus driver. Her eyes said it all: Thank you.

Rider downed another drink as soon as the bartender had poured it, and he waited impatiently for him to return from the back room with some bread, an apple, and a beer pitcher filled with ice water. The men around him just grumbled and sat down hard on stools and waited. Nothing else was said as more drinks were poured and consumed.

"Money is money," Rider said, falsely complaining as they eyed him. "I'll come back with two hundred, then we're history."

Snake only nodded and slowly sipped his drink.



She accepted the outstretched tray with deep appreciation, and couldn't help again noticing the hazel eyes that glanced at hers, then looked away. They were more than kind eyes set in a ruggedly handsome face; they were gentle—albeit in a dirty face with a scruffy beard. She smiled and looked up at the dark blond hair caught in a long ponytail, as the one who had shown some mercy turned and walked away without a word, like he was angry.

He was tall, maybe six two, if her judgment was correct. The sun had burned his bare shoulders but had graciously turned his arms and face to a dark golden hue. He was indeed a part of the light, looked like he lived in it. She watched him pull his guitar off his back and set it down with care, leaning it against the front wheel of the bus. She glimpsed him from the corner of her eye, and let her gaze travel past the black leather vest he wore, studied the multicolored embroidered snake on it briefly, and then assessed the way his jeans hugged his narrow hips, hugged his behind as though it were cut stone beneath them, and then considered his hard, muscled thighs beneath the fabric and the pair of dusty black cowboy boots that were on his feet. All he needed was a hat, and he'd look like a rogue sheriff. What in the world was this man with a good heart doing riding with that mangy gang?