Hot on the Trail

by Vicki Tharp

  Quinn laid his hands on his hips. “What the hell for?”

  “The keys. Or I’m walking home.”

  “It’s over twenty miles.”

  Yeah. Wasn’t much of a threat. “I’ll call Mac to pick me up.” Even better.

  Quinn’s head dropped between his shoulders, and he took several deep breaths. His chest was rising and falling. If he’d been a cartoon, there would have been steam coming out of his nose and his ears, and a high-pitched whistle from a kettle as the pressure blew off. He glanced back up at her and tossed her the keys over the roof. “You fight dirty.”

  “Don’t you forget it.”

  They switched places, and Jenna plopped down in the driver’s seat and started the engine. The seat vibrated beneath her as the engine chugged and idled, and the raw power beneath the hood bubbled her blood like cheap champagne, making her drunk with anticipation.

  She shifted into Reverse and glanced over at Quinn. He fastened his seat belt with a solid slap of metal and clamped a hand against the dash.

  He looked a little green.

  She smiled. “Where to, Flyboy?”

  “That biker bar the girl at the pawnshop told us about.”

  “Since when do you drink?”

  “Since it’s the same bar as the one on the matchbook we found in Kurt’s footlocker.”

  Ten minutes later, they’d pulled into Cruisers’ parking lot. The potholes tested the limits of Kurt’s worn-out suspension. What was left of Kurt’s muffler scraped against the gravel.

  Pickup trucks and motorcycles littered the lot, scattered this way and that as if a giant toddler had been playing with cars and had been called away to dinner.

  “There.” Quinn pointed to an empty spot near a telephone pole next to a side street. “Don’t want to get blocked in.”

  “Expecting to have to make a clean getaway?” Jenna was only joking, but Quinn didn’t laugh; he didn’t even smile.

  “With a place like this, you never know.”

  With enough trips to an architectural salvage yard, a talented designer might have pulled off the exterior’s grungy look. A few add-ons to give the sense that the building leaned to one side, and faux painting and precise sanding to give the corrugated sheet metal that painted-multiple-times vibe.

  But if they had, the motorcycles in the lot would have been new Ducatis and Gold Wings, not old Harleys and Indians. The exact placement of the broken-down tractor would have been discussed ad nauseam, not simply abandoned where it had died. The guys walking in would be on their lunch break, in their Dockers and skinny jeans, not men in leathers and colorful tattoos, with no jobs and no better place to be in the middle of the day.

  Quinn pulled Kurt’s Sig out of the bag and slid the magazine home. “Shoulda picked up some ammo.”

  “This place isn’t that bad.”

  Quinn locked the gun in the glove box and glanced over at her. “The way the hair is standing up on the back of my neck and my gut is twisting, if I was in my helo, I’d be giving my gunners a heads-up. So, yeah, it’s that bad.”

  “So, we go home?”

  “All the more reason to stay.” Quinn glanced at the door of Cruisers. A biker, complete with a sleeveless, studded leather vest, boxer’s build, and a mastiff’s jowls, stumbled outside. Quinn glanced at Jenna. “You could stay in the car. Or better yet, pick me up later.”

  Jenna offered a soft, compassionate look. “Aw. You hit your head when you crashed?”

  He frowned, and a crease formed between his brows. “No, why?”

  “Thought you might have amnesia. Something to explain why you think I’m the kind of person who would let you go in there without backup.”

  He smiled, though it fell short of a dimple. “Just because you’ve been hanging out with Mac and Boomer, and just because you know your guns now, doesn’t mean you have their skills.”

  “Just their stubbornness.”

  That time when he smiled, she got both dimples. “No, Jenn, that’s all you.”

  She knew Quinn felt protective of her. No daughter of Hank Nash could go through life without knowing how that felt. She understood it, even if she didn’t need it, but that was the kind of man Quinn was. What was that saying about girls marrying guys like their father?

  “Then you know that arguing is only going to waste our time.”

  Quinn looked at her, the relief evident in his eyes. As much as he wanted her to stay in the car, to stay safe, he wanted her along, too.

  He reached up and cupped her jaw, his fingers warm on the back of her neck, his thumb brushing her bottom lip. She waited for his gaze to drop, for him to lean forward and press his lips to hers.

  But he kept his eyes locked on hers and said, “I’ve really missed you.” His words were quiet and clear and deceptively casual, but the stark intensity in his eyes almost made her believe him.

  She popped the door latch before he made her remember too much of how they had been together. Right now was not the time to be reminded of what she couldn’t have. “We should go.”

  What might have been disappointment flickered across his face before he dropped his hand. Anger, long banked, sparked and burned low in her gut. He didn’t have the right to be disappointed when he’d been the one to walk away. When he’d been the one to break contact.

  When he’d been the one to break her heart.

  She came around the car and met him on the other side. “Come here,” he said.

  Reluctantly, she stepped over to him. He plucked her hat off the top of her head.

  “Hey, wh—”

  “Hang on.” He tugged the tie from her ponytail, and her hair dropped free. He ran his hands through her hair until it settled across her shoulders, then plunked her hat back on her head. “Might as well use your wiles to our advantage.”

  “I don’t have wiles.”

  He chuckled.

  “What?”

  “You’re kind of cute when you’re clueless.”

  The fact that he’d called her clueless was lost on her heart. All the stupid thing heard was “cute,” and it had dropped several beats, like a novice drummer at a Battle of the Bands contest. Before she could walk off, he grabbed her hand and linked his fingers between hers.

  “What’s this about?” She shook their joined hands.

  “Now who’s the one with amnesia?” He pulled her along with him as he headed for the front door. The biker revved his engine and pulled out of the parking lot. Whatever Quinn said next was lost beneath the engine’s roar.

  She stopped him at the door. “What are we doing here?”

  “I don’t know.” He squeezed her hand. “All I know is, the guy who pawned Kurt’s gun likes to hang out here.”

  “What are you going to do if you spot him?”

  “I don’t know that, either.”

  If nothing else, she appreciated his honesty. She stepped toward the door, but he beat her to it.

  “Let me go first,” he said.

  For once, she didn’t argue. As they stepped over the threshold, she was glad she had his protection. On the way over to the bar, she settled in his wake. The stares from the men made her feel like the sacrificial virgin at a maximum-security prison. But if the natives got restless, she might need more than Quinn to keep her safe.

  Not even a world-class decorator could have matched the bar’s interior. No, scratch that, wouldn’t have matched it. More rough than rustic, dark not atmospheric, real dirt and grime, not the faux kind. The way her boots stuck to the floor with each step—she didn’t think there was a way to fake that. And the smell—stale beer and bleach and unwashed bodies?—She sniffed the air…urinal cakes? She rubbed her nose, but there was no getting the stink out.

  “What’ll it be?” the bartender said. He had a damp bar towel over one shoulder, and a black gouge in his left ear
so large she could read a whiskey label through it.

  She slid onto an empty bar stool, and Quinn’s arm landed across her shoulders, a firm nod to the guy drinking alone on her right. It didn’t matter what she ordered. She didn’t plan on drinking any of it. “Whatever you have on tap.”

  The bartender raised his brow at Quinn.

  “Whiskey.”

  Quinn paid, and they took their drinks away. Jenna leaned into him and whispered, “Now what?”

  He steered her toward the far corner near the back door and a pool table. “Now we wait and watch.”

  * * * *

  Quinn tipped the whiskey to his lips but didn’t take a sip. Drinking wasn’t an option when he needed to keep his reflexes honed and his wits sharp. He’d blended in better at the gastropubs in Japan than he did here. He knew it. Everyone else in the bar knew it, too.

  And by the looks on the men’s faces, the open mouths, the flagrant stares, the naked lust, not many women of Jenna’s caliber dared set foot in this joint.

  “Wanna try that phone number again? The guy who hung up on us?”

  Quinn pulled out his phone, found the number, and hit Redial. They both scanned the bar, waiting to see if someone’s phone rang. They waited. Waited. Nothing.

  Quinn hung up. “No luck.”

  “Guess it couldn’t be that easy.”

  “Guess not.”

  He brought the drink to his lips again, tapping his toes to the country beat pouring out of the jukebox, then set the glass down on the side of the pool table. The felt was worn from use, the wood dinged. He chose the best of the warped cues and handed one to Jenna.

  She racked the balls, and Quinn nodded for her to break.

  With cue in hand, Jenna leaned over the table and lined up her shot. The blood in Quinn’s brain drained south as if the floodgates had been lifted on the Grand Coulee Dam. Another fake sip of whiskey. The way her ass filled out her jeans, the curve of her hip, the—

  The whiskey slid down his throat as he sucked in a breath. He choked and sputtered.

  “You okay?” Jenna glanced at him over her shoulder, the cue shaking in her hand.

  Jesus. What the hell was he doing bringing her here? He coughed and cleared the burn from his throat. “Fine,” he wheezed. He nodded toward her trembling hand. “You?”

  She tightened it around the stick until her knuckles went white and her hand became steady. “Ready to kick your ass. Five bucks a game? Make it interesting?”

  “Low stakes. What’s the matter? Afraid you’re gonna lose?”

  She straightened and gave him a slow, sly smile. In the darkness of the bar, it lit up her face. If they were anywhere else, he would pin her against the wall, wrap her legs around his waist, and—

  He shook off the daydream. “That wasn’t a rhetorical question.”

  Still that smile.

  She muddled his brain as if he was already three whiskeys into a bender.

  “What did you have in mind?” she asked.

  “Something a little more personal.”

  She gave it some thought. “Okay. If I win, you agree to work with Vader every day that you’re here.”

  Wasn’t much of an incentive to win. He’d enjoyed the training session with Vader. Had decided to help the horse out as much as possible with the time he had. But Jenna didn’t need to know that yet. He grumbled, as if reluctant, then agreed. If he made it too easy on her, she’d know something was up.

  Quinn stepped toward her, and she backed up a step, and another, until she backed into the pool table. He eased between her legs and pressed up against her, his hand resting on her hip. “And if I win?”

  She didn’t push him back or try to run away. She leaned into him. “What do you want?” Her words came out breathy, and he read her lips more than heard her words.

  She smelled of hay and horses and innocence, and he whispered in her ear, “One night. With you.” One night would never be enough, but he would take whatever she would give.

  “Doing what?” She wasn’t that innocent. By the look in her eyes, she knew what he meant, and that not-so-innocent part of her wanted to hear him say it.

  He grinned and shifted enough for her to feel what she did to him. “Anything we damn well want.”

  She swallowed hard, and the pulse at the base of her neck thumped in response. Her hand gripped the front of his shirt, and she pulled him down until his lips touched hers. God, he’d missed those lips. Those hands.

  He nibbled on her bottom lip and took the sting away with his tongue. She opened her mouth for him, and he fell in. Setting the drink down, he cupped her ass in the palms of his hands and pulled her tighter against him. His tongue explored the sharp ridge of her teeth, the soft strength of her tongue—

  Behind them, catcalls pierced the air. People tapped their mugs on the table. Others clapped or stomped their feet. Quinn pulled back, and the flush burned on Jenna’s cheeks. So much for keeping a low profile.

  He bobbed his chin toward the table. “Your break.”

  Without thinking, he picked up the whiskey, tossed a mouthful into the back of his throat, and cursed the rotgut brand as the caustic liquid cauterized his esophagus. He turned so he could watch her and the room at the same time.

  Most of the men had gone back to whatever they’d been doing before he’d kissed her. A few couldn’t keep their eyes off her ass, which was understandable. They sized him up, calculated their chances of getting by him to get to her. He glowered at them one by one by one, until they each turned away.

  This biker bar was no place for him to be. It certainly was no place for a woman like her. He wanted her out of there, he wanted to keep her safe, and…he wanted her in his bed.

  He downed the rest of the whiskey.

  He hadn’t deserved her then.

  He sure as hell didn’t deserve her now.

  Quinn clocked the time by the number of games they played. Some he won, some he lost. Some he thought she threw.

  People came and went. Quinn kept one eye on her and one on the rest of the bar. Trouble wrapped in testosterone and muscle and drug deals. A lot of deals went down in the john. Either that, or the guy with the buzz cut and the beard down to his chest was in dire need of a urologist.

  And still no sign of the man with the black dragon tattooed on his arm.

  Quinn stretched across the pool table and lined up the shot. “Eight ball, corner pocket.”

  If he sank this one, he’d win the series. Win the night with her. A long shot. Literally. Across the table, banking against the opposite side to make the corner pocket. Not an easy shot. Not a particularly hard shot, either.

  This shot was nothing.

  Or everything.

  Quinn wiped his brow on the sleeve of his shirt and took the shot.

  The shot went wide, the eight ball hitting the side and smacking into one of Jenna’s balls. Then the eight ball skirted across the short end of the table, headed for the corner, but now the angle was off and the ball ping-ponged against the adjacent sides. Without sufficient backspin, the cue ball screamed across the felt, headed straight for the corner pocket.

  He was going to scratch.

  The eight ball lost momentum, and the cue ball glanced off of it. The eight ball danced and spun in the corner like a prima ballerina. Then it slowed. Teetered on the edge. The front door slammed open, shaking the bar’s foundation. The ball dropped in.

  Holy hell, he’d won. Quinn grinned at Jenna.

  Moose stormed through the open door. Quinn didn’t have to see the tattoo to know this was the guy they’d been waiting for. The guy was massive. He’d make the guys on the SEAL teams look like the kids chosen last for the kickball team.

  Moose had a long face, and thick brows and meaty fists that looked like they possessed the explosive power of a pipe bomb. The man scanned t
he near capacity bar. “Who’s driving the Mustang?”

  There was a collective exhale of relief. The men drank their beer and glanced over their shoulders trying to spot the poor schmuck about to get his ass kicked.

  Jenna went white, and adrenaline dumped into Quinn’s system. His veins heated, and sweat formed between his shoulder blades, his heart matching the frantic beat of “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” blasting through the bar’s speakers.

  “Get the balls,” Quinn told her as he went from one pocket to the other, rolling all the balls to one end, trying to formulate a game plan. He’d only wanted a look at this Moose guy. Size him up. He hadn’t expected a confrontation.

  Jenna arranged the balls in the rack, and Quinn added a couple more, keeping one eye on Moose as the man talked to a couple of people at the bar.

  “Everyone knows everyone here. He would have to be stupid not to figure out we drove the Mustang,” Jenna said under her breath.

  Quinn turned her back to the bar and placed a casual hand on her hip, slipping the car keys into her front pocket. The bartender pointed Moose their way, and Quinn leaned in and whispered in her ear, “If you have to leave without me, do it.”

  “Quinn—”

  “Don’t argue. And don’t do anything stupid.”

  He kissed her on the forehead and turned his attention to the charging Moose.

  “That your Mustang?”

  Quinn picked up one of the cues. Wasn’t much protection against a force of nature, but it was all he had. “Who’s asking?”

  Jenna picked up the other cue, and before he could stop her, she walked to the other end of the table and nudged Moose out of the way with a bump of her hip.

  “You mind?” she said. “We’re playing a game here.”

  Jesus, she had big, bad, beautiful, brass balls. Pressure built in Quinn’s chest that he could only describe as pride. Every day, Jenna dealt with animals that outweighed her ten times over. Moose was twice her size, but potentially as quick and certainly more lethal than the horses. She would be insane to underestimate him.