Honor Bound(11)

He was gazing down at her breasts, which she immediately remembered were indecently displayed. Her hands trembled as she pulled the cloth of her blouse over them. "What do you mean?"

"I mean the damn roadblocks. I hadn't counted on them. We need to find a television set."

"A television set?" she parroted in a thin voice.

His eyes scanned the stretch of highway behind and ahead of them. "Yes. I'm sure there will be a news story about the dragnet. Hopefully it will give us a thoroughly detailed account of how the authorities plan to apprehend me. Let's get going."

He hitched his chin forward. Wearily she steered the car back onto the highway. "What about the car radio? We can hear the news on that."

"Not as detailed," he said, shaking his head. "And haven't you ever heard that a picture is worth a thousand words?"

"I suppose you'll tell me where to go and when to stop."

"That's right. You just drive."

For almost an hour they rode in silence, though he passed her cheese and crackers he took from the sack. He peeled an orange and divided the sections between them. She didn't like eating from his hand, but opened her lips obediently each time he pressed a section of the orange against them.

As they approached the outskirts of a dreary-looking town, Greywolf instructed her to slow down. They were driving past the beer taverns that lined the highway like sad old whores in desperate need of customers.

"There," he said shortly, pointing with his finger. "Pull into the Tumbleweed."

Disgust registered on Aislinn's face. The Tumbleweed was the sleaziest-looking of all the honky-tonks. "I hope we're in time for happy hour," she remarked sarcastically.

"They have a television," Greywolf said, having spotted the antenna sticking out of the tin roof. "Get out."

"Yes, sir," she mumbled, tiredly shoving open her door. It felt good to stand. She placed her hands at the small of her back and stretched, then stamped circulation back into her feet.

There were only a few other vehicles parked in the dusty gravel parking lot in front of the tavern. Greywolf took her arm and dragged her along with him to the door. A good portion of the rusty screen had been ripped from its frame. The jagged edge, which curled outward, looked as intimidating as the rest of the place. Aislinn's plan was to appear resigned, but the moment they cleared the doorway, to scream for help.

"Forget what you're thinking."

"What am I thinking?"

"That you're going to escape me and run into the safe arms of a rescuer. Believe me, I'm the safest companion you could have in a joint like this." That wasn't saying much, considering that she had seen him slide the knife down into his boot before he left the car. "No," he said, slinging his arm across her shoulders, "look like you're having a good, sexy time."

"What!"

"That's right. We're having an illicit afternoon affair."

"You're insane if you think— And stop that!" she exclaimed when he slipped his arm around her waist and his hand came up her side alarmingly close to her breast. His hard fingers pressed into the tender flesh, securing her in a hold there would be no escaping from.

"Why, honey, is that any way to talk to your lover?" he whined.

Assuming an ambling, none-too-steady swagger, he pulled open the screen door, pushed open the rickety door and stumbled into the murky, smoky interior. To maintain her balance, Aislinn gripped the front of his shirt, pressing her hand against his stomach. He glanced down at her and winked, as though she had won his approval. She wanted to shout at him that she wouldn't have touched him had it not been a choice between that or falling down.

However, she said nothing. She was disheartened into speechlessness by her seedy surroundings. Such places as the Tumbleweed were portrayed in moves, but she had certainly never been inside one. The low ceiling was all but obscured by a pall of tobacco smoke. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness, but seeing the place clearly only distressed her more.

In front of the bar was a row of stationary stools with red vinyl seat pads. At least they had been red once. Now they were all aged to a greasy, dirty maroon. Only three of them were occupied. As the door slapped shut behind Greywolf and her, three pairs of mean eyes turned toward them and gave them a suspicious once-over.

One pair, laden with crusty make-up, belonged to a blowsy blonde who had her bare foot propped up on the stool next to her. She was painting her toenails. "Hey, Ray, we got customers," she hollered.

Ray, Aislinn assumed, was the obese man behind the bar. He was leaning forward with his massive forearms braced on a refrigerator, his eyes glued to the television set that was mounted high in the corner. He was engrossed in a soap opera. "So wait on 'em," he bellowed back. He hadn't taken his eyes off the screen.

"My nails ain't dry."

Ray let go a string of obscenities that Aislinn thought were reserved only for public rest room walls in seaports. He pushed his fat bulk off the refrigerator and shot Greywolf and her a sour look. She was the only one who saw it. Her escort had his face buried in her hair and his tongue in her ear.

But apparently he hadn't missed anything. "Two cold beers," he said loud enough for Ray to hear. Then he gave Aislinn a slight push and maneuvered her toward one of the ratty-looking booths along the wall. It would provide them with a clear view of both the TV set and the door. "Sit down and scoot over," he whispered for her benefit.