Or was her naivety causing her to feel sick?
Doubts rushed in. How much did she know about Drake March? If he was DEA, why hadn’t he shown her a badge? Wouldn’t the real DEA knock down her apartment door with a battering ram instead of arranging a fake meeting via a decoy email account?
Even Geo and Bobby’s presence could be easily explained. Hired men. Private security companies had access to the same gadgets as the government. Odd, that they called him “boss”, not Agent March.
What if none of them were DEA? What if they were members of a Miami drug cartel trying to find out how much Jerry Travis had told her about Diablo?
God. What if they’d cut her off from everyone because they intended to kill her when she no longer proved useful? What if his deliberate attempts at seduction had been the easiest way to ensure her compliance?
Despite the midday heat rising from the asphalt, her blood ran cold.
Kenna inhaled a couple of calming breaths. Deep enough to dig her shoulder blades into the cement blocks of the building that held her up.
Okay. All she had to do was get to a pay phone and call Shawnee. Shit. Shawnee wasn’t around.
She’d call Marissa. With her real estate contacts, she’d have access to a place to hide her until this blew over. Or she could help her contact the local authorities and see if Drake March or Drake Mayhaven, or whatever the hell he was calling himself, really worked for the DEA.
She cut through the mob, ignoring the vendors shouting enticements. Grilled rattlesnake? Eww. Twenty percent off “intimate” body part piercing? Double eww.
It was harder to ignore the stunning young women wearing flesh-colored pasties and thongs, posing with any man who’d pony up a cool ten bucks. How could they sell themselves…she skidded to a stop.
Omigod. She’d taken money from a strange man for the pleasure of her company. How was that different?
It wasn’t.
Before Kenna submerged herself into more self-recrimination, she caught a glimpse of a curtain of long hair, thick and shiny as a slab of black onyx. Only one person in the world had hair like that.
Shawnee.
When the woman flipped her mane back and tossed a rainbow-beaded purse over her shoulder—a purse identical to the one Kenna carried—she knew it was her roommate hustling through the biker crowd. But why?
Kenna’s pulse quickened. What the hell was Shawnee doing in Sturgis? Kenna knew she occasionally helped out a friend in one of the bars, but Shawnee was pretty mum on which one. Besides, Shawnee was supposed to be on a dig in Harding County.
It didn’t matter. Kenna was relieved to see her. She yelled, “Hey, Shawnee! Wait up!”
Shawnee stopped and turned. She looked around frantically, her gaze zooming from one unfamiliar face to another. Suspicion had drawn her mouth tight. Not once did that skittish gaze land on Kenna. A look of absolute fear distorted Shawnee’s beautiful features before she slipped on a pair of sunglasses, whirled back around and vanished into the swarm of people.
Kenna froze in the middle of the sidewalk.
Shawnee had blown her off. Some best friend.
Then it hit her. Shawnee wouldn’t have recognized her, all dolled up as biker bitch Kenna. No wonder Shawnee had panicked. Shawnee purposely kept a low profile, given her checkered past—and she was justifiably paranoid around strangers, especially avoiding the types of people with sketchy pasts much like hers.
Shawnee was probably halfway to Whitewood by now, that girl could run like the wind. So…what did Kenna do now?
Plan B. Call Marissa.
A blue pay phone shone in the sun like a beacon. Kenna hustled toward it, digging in the bottom of her purse for change. Shaking fingers punched the number to Marissa’s cell. Please, please pick up.
“Marissa Cruz,” she said brusquely.
“Marissa! Thank God. I-I—”
“Kaye? I mean Kenna? What’s going on? Where are you?”
Motorcycle engines revved and she raised her voice. “Downtown Sturgis, at a pay phone across from the Circle S. Please. I need to talk to you in person. Is there any way—”
“Hang on.” Marissa’s words were garbled as she spoke to her companions. “Okay. I’m back. I just finished showing a building at the end of Lazelle Street, about four blocks from you.”
Relief made Kenna slump against the phone box. “Can you meet me here?”
“I’m on my way.” She chuckled. “What color is your hair today, chica? So I know who to look for?”
“I’m wearing the red wig. Oh and I dressed in black.”
“That ought to be easy to spot,” she said dryly. “Hang tight.” She broke the connection.
Distracted, Kenna paced. Wondering how the hell she’d ended up in this crazy situation. Stuff like this didn’t happen to her. She’d nearly made the fourth pass past a garbage can crammed with beer bottles and crumpled up food wrappers, when a sharp jerk separated her purse from her shoulder.
For half a second she froze, watching the black knit cap and leather jacket bobbing and weaving through the crowds with her purse held high above like a trophy.
In the next instant, Kenna was running after him.
Anger, fear, adrenaline, whatever it was, she seemed to be gaining on the punk. Pounding the concrete in her stiletto boots sent shock waves up from her heels through her shins, but didn’t slow her down. Keeping her gaze firmly fixed on his head, she bulled her way through the throngs of people.
Almost. Not quite. Finally close enough. Releasing a primal scream, she tackled him. An all out flying leap that knocked both of them to the hot, sticky pavement. They landed in a tangle of arms and legs.
Her knees hit first, then her forearms, then her elbows. Her face smacked into a hard thigh, but not before she saw her purse fly from the assailant’s hands and skid a few feet to her left. Despite having the wind knocked out of her, she scrambled sideways and lunged for it.
Yes! When the straps were firmly in her grasp, she looked over her shoulder.
The dirty rotten thief had disappeared.
At least the bastard hadn’t gotten away with her favorite purse. And her wallet. He’d put a serious dent in her dignity however. She slowly settled back on her knees, attempting to literally cover her ass.
“Ma’am? You okay?” A silver-haired man and his equally silver-haired female companion had hunkered down beside her, wrinkled faces heavy with concern.
Kenna managed a small, “Ooof.”
They assisted her to her feet amidst the leering crowd, who’d given them a wide berth but no offers of help.
The sweet little old lady—who sported a baggy fuchsia leather halter and matching leather hotpants—gently tugged Kenna’s Lycra skirt down from her hips. She readjusted her tank top and clucked over the scrapes just starting to bleed.
The man muttered, “Sad, when you aren’t even safe in broad daylight in South Dakota.”
“Thanks for helping me.” Kenna’s body began to pulsate with pain. Spots danced in front of her eyes, distorting her vision.
“Sweetie, you really should go to the first aid station.”
“She really ought to go to the cops,” the man grumbled.
“I’ll be fine in a minute.” She closed her eyes and staggered backwards. “I’m waiting for a friend.”
“Kenna!” Marissa’s panicked voice cut through the air. Strong hands steadied her. The familiar scent of patchouli soothed her. “Oh God! Honey, what happened?”
“Purse snatcher.” She grimaced when shooting pain zapped her in the head. “Failed attempt, fortunately.”
“Where are the police?” Marissa demanded.
“That’s what we wondered.”
Marissa took charge and reassured the worried older couple. “It’s okay. I’ll make sure she’s taken care of. Thank you.”
Kenna peeled her eyes open, one lid at a time. “I just need to sit down.” She stumbled toward the wooden bench facing the street.
Marissa mut
tered and plopped next to her, handing over a bottle of water. “Drink this. You look like you’re gonna pass out, chica.”
“Feel like it too.” She drank, careful not to guzzle it all at once, lest she add throwing up to her public humiliation. “I can’t believe this happened to me on top of what happened last night.”
“What happened last night?”
She took another sip. “After we left the bar, someone shot at us at the apartment complex.”
Marissa gasped. “Shot at you? Are you sure?”
“Yep.”
“Why?” A total expression of bafflement deepened the frown lines between Marissa’s eyes.
“I don’t know.”
“Where did you go after someone shot at you? To the police station?”
“No. I went with Drake.”
“To the campground? Dammit, you could have stayed with me. Why didn’t you call me last night?”
Kenna hedged. “Because I was really freaked out. I’m still freaked out. That’s why I called you today. This whole thing with Drake…I don’t know if I trust him, even if he supposedly was a friend of Jerry’s.”
A soft hand stopped her from taking another drink. “I’m glad you called me. I’ve been worried sick about you and this Drake person.”
When Marissa didn’t elaborate, Kenna said, “Why?”
“Don’t get mad, but I don’t trust him either.” Marissa expelled a heavy sigh. “I learned some pretty disturbing things about my so-called friend Jerry when I went to Daytona this spring. So disturbing, in fact, I told him there was no way I’d let you hang out with him during Sturgis this year. No matter how much money he offered. I cut all ties with him shortly afterward.”
Kenna’s stomach rolled over. But she’d kept in touch with Jerry via email without Marissa knowing. Crap.
“Then he wound up murdered.” Marissa shivered. “I wish I’d known what kind of person he’d become. He was always so sweet and harmless when we were younger.” Marissa’s enormous brown eyes shimmered with tears. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been such a lousy friend. And when this guy showed up out of the blue, claiming to be a buddy of Jerry’s…I didn’t want to tip him off that I knew what kind of guy Jerry really was. He was so determined that you show him the sights…and I couldn’t get him to leave so I could talk to you alone.” She sniffed and reached in her purse for a Kleenex. “This is so unbelievably screwed up.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Yes it is! Don’t you think it’s suspicious that all this bad stuff has happened since he showed up?”
Maybe Marissa was on to something. Kenna felt those niggling doubts come back full force.
Her gaze sharpened. “And where is this Drake guy now after some thug tried to steal your purse?”
Kenna pointed to the seedy bar kiddy-corner from where they sat. “He had a meeting at the Back Door Saloon.”
Marissa slumped back into the bench and wouldn’t meet Kenna’s quizzical gaze.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on, tell me, Marissa.”
“Fine.” Folding her arms over her chest, her tone was cool. “The Back Door Saloon is rumored to be the place to make deals without the cops’ interference.”
“As in drug deals?”
She shrugged. “That among other things.”
“How do you know all this?”
“My friend Angela used to work there as a bartender. She’s told me some things about that place that’d set your hair on end. Stay out of there and stay away from anyone who admits to doing business there.”
While Kenna digested the information, she watched the gleaming motorcycles parading up and down Main Street. The rumble of engines, the smell of exhaust, the dry heat. Gave her a headache. Every muscle in her body throbbed. She glanced down; her knees were bleeding. She wanted to crawl in bed—her own bed—and sleep until the pain went away. She thought about the Excedrin and everything else in her duffle bag back at the motel. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any aspirin?”
“Yep. In my line of work I need it every day.” Marissa rummaged in her Coach purse, coming up with two white pills.
Kenna popped them in her mouth and gulped the last of the water. “Since someone shot at me I can’t go home. Got any suggestions on what I should do now?”
Before Marissa answered, a shadow fell across the bench.
Kenna didn’t have to look up to know Drake had found her.
Chapter Eight
“What is going on? For christsake, Kenna, you’re bleeding!”
Drake bent down, gingerly tracing the soft flesh beside the gash on her knee. He examined the matching cut on the other knee and the rivulet of blood running down inside the leather boot. Hell. He’d left her alone for thirty minutes, max.
He glared at Marissa. “What are you doing here?”
“Maybe the question should be where were you when some asshole tried to snatch her purse?” Marissa retorted.
Jaw tight, his gaze flickered to the rainbow-beaded bag nestled in Kenna’s lap before he focused on her pale face. “Tell me what happened.”
“I was standing here, minding my own business when some jerk-off grabbed my purse and ran. I tackled him. He didn’t get my bag, but when I turned around the slimy fucker had vanished.” She frowned and twisted her arm, checking the damage on her elbow. “Bastard. I hope he’s bleeding.”
Drake gaped at her. What had possessed her to tackle someone? Especially a guy? No wonder she’d been beat to shit.
Marissa murmured in Kenna’s ear.
Kenna shook her head vigorously and groaned in pain.
Marissa straightened up and faced Drake. “Kenna will make lousy company today. I’m taking her home. I’ll bandage her up and make sure she gets some rest.”
“The hell you are.”
Kenna’s eyes widened.
Was it an illusion, or did his informant suddenly seem afraid of him? Great. Just fucking great.
“Watch it, Mr. Mayhaven,” Marissa said crossly. “I don’t know what your game is. Frankly, I don’t care. However I do care about Kenna and since she’s met you she’s had nothing but problems.”
“Let me tell you something, Ms. Cruz—”
“Enough.” Kenna made a time out sign. Her hand covered Marissa’s and she squeezed. “Thank you. But I’ve got to go with him to pick up my duffle bag. All my stuff is there.”
“And then what? You’re not staying with him at the campground?”
Kenna didn’t answer.
Drake watched some mental communication pass between them. Gave him a weird vibe he didn’t like one bit.
Marissa hugged Kenna and said, “Promise you’ll call and let me know how you’re doing. Promise me. I mean it. No matter what, you have to call me.”
“I promise.”
She stood. Flicked her long brown hair over her shoulder as she spun on her navy pump and melted into the crowd.
Kenna slowly rose to her feet. “I need to get this blood cleaned up. There’s a first aid station on the next block.”
When she wobbled, he caught her. “Want me to carry you?”
“And make a bigger spectacle of myself than I already have? No thank you.” She shrugged off his assistance and tottered down the block in her sexy boots.
Damn stubborn woman. She wouldn’t even let him inside while an EMT tended to her.
Racked with guilt, he paced outside the medical tent.
A stick-thin teenage boy sat on the folding chair. An angry red road rash stretched from his elbow to his shoulder. Next to him, a shirtless, bloated Jerry Garcia clone held a bloody towel to his recently broken nose. His old lady chewed his ass for fighting again.
Where the hell had Bobby and Geo been? They were supposed to keep an eye on Kenna. Coupled with the gunshots last night, he had a hard time believing she’d been a random mugging victim today.
But who could possibly want to hurt her? And why? What wasn’t she telling him?
<
br /> An EMT led Kenna through the tent flap. Drake rushed to meet her, forgoing the urge to fold her frail body in his arms. “Is she okay?”
“Not the worst I’ve seen this week.” The stout African-American woman wagged her finger in his face. “There a reason she hasn’t had anything to eat today, sir?”
He blanched, showing his guilt.
The plastic beads adorning the med tech’s braids clicked merrily as she shook her head. “I gave her some crackers, but she should’ve eaten something before she took those painkillers.”
“What painkillers?”
“I asked Marissa for some aspirin,” Kenna said. “No big deal.”
He exchanged a look with the med tech.
She shrugged.
He hoped whatever it was she’d taken kicked in soon.
“Thanks. I’ll see she gets food in her stomach right away.” Drake draped his arm over Kenna’s shoulder. When she flinched he took perverse pleasure in pulling her closer.
Despite her protests, Kenna managed to eat a soft pretzel and drink a Coke. She glanced up from the row of Indian motorcycles she’d been admiring and froze. Impatient bikers nearly mowed her down.
He gently moved her from the flow of traffic. Her eyes were wild. Sweat trickled down her face. Oh man. He hoped she wasn’t going to throw up. “What?”
“The head of my department is right over there. Omigod. That suck-up Trent is with him!” When he tried to peer over her shoulder, she clapped her palms on his cheeks, holding his head in place. “No. Don’t look.”
“What do you think he’s doing here?”
“Weaseling his way into Dr. Herbert’s good graces.” She gasped. “Shit! Herbert’s posing with the Hooters girls. And that cheapskate Trent is paying for it.”
Kenna seemed to be missing the main point; Trent could’ve seen her and snatched her purse. Or paid somebody to do it.
But why? For kicks? For spite?
Drake needed to see what this Trent guy looked like. He craned his neck despite Kenna’s paranoia.
The chunky, mustached, bald guy wearing black socks with sandals had to be the professor. Christ. Even his Hawaiian shorts were starched. Drake’s gaze narrowed on the tall, good-looking Native American man. He had expected a greasy pencil-necked geek with a pocket protector and thick dork glasses. With the exception of the butt-length braid, Trent dressed like a frat boy: khaki Dockers, navy polo shirt, brown leather boat shoes and toothpaste white smile.
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