Riding the Thunder (14 page)

“Auld . . . souls?” she echoed, as if she wanted to know more yet in the same breath was terrified of his answer.

He nodded and took her wrist, pulling her into an embrace, slow-dancing to the music. “You feel it, too. As if we've known each other before. Always.”

The Pitney song ended and was replaced by the soft voice of Dionne Warwick crooning. “. . .
could you be the dream that I once knew
. . . ?”

Jago lifted a brow. “See, even the damn jukebox knows.”

Asha nervously licked her lips, trying to smile. “That Wurlitzer has a mind of its own. I actually got fed up with it, sold it once. Had an offer of $35,000 for it and its wallettes. When they came to uninstall it, they ran into . . . hmm . . . trouble. It damn near electrocuted them every time they tried to take it out.”

He chuckled. “Why didn't you just cut the power?”

“We did. It kept coming back on. So it stays here . . . playing all these tunes from the '60s, along with a handful of others it deems worthy enough.” Determination was behind her words as she added, “Where it belongs.”

He chose to ignore the challenge in her eyes, daring him to say he would buy The Windmill. “When you dance with the devil, lass, there's hell to pay.”

“I hadn't kenned I danced with Satan himself.”

“Live ‘n' learn, lass, live ‘n' learn.”

Jago loved how they fit: Her height perfect as if she were crafted just for him. He wouldn't have to bend far to capture
that small, full mouth. He stopped dancing, just rocked with her as he sang along with Dionne, then lowered his head to hers.

Knowing it was madness, he brushed his mouth against hers. She tasted sweet, with a tart hint of lemon. She tasted exotic, she tasted . . . familiar.

He should never have kissed her, not even this light brushing of lips. The fathomless hunger that had prowled within him for the last ten months sprang to life. He needed her more than air, needed to brand her as his to claim her in the most primitive way, as a man claimed his mate.

His hands slid up and down her back, urging her against him. She melted, pliant, molding those lush curves against his hard planes. That blew his mind. He inched back, trying to find something solid to lean against, finally coming against the front of the Wurlitzer with a jolt that jarred the song to end abruptly.

He spread his legs and pressed Asha closer, a sigh rolling through his thoughts, a whisper of
I'm coming home.

“
I AM THE GOD OF HELLFIRE, AND I BRING YOU . . . FIRE! I'LL TAKE YOU TO BURN
. . .”

Startled, Jago leapt up off his feet, knocking them both off balance. The cat squalled as Asha stepped on its long tail, sending the creature scurrying under the table of the nearest booth. Out of danger, the beast watched as the humans went down in a tangle of arms and legs. Asha tossed her head back, laughing; tears came to her eyes and she had trouble catching her breath.

Jago leaned on one elbow. His other hand on his heart, he rubbed his chest. “Jeez Louise! What the hell is that?”

“The Crazy World of Arthur Brown's ‘Fire.' Asha named the '60s song.

The jukebox screamed, “YOU'RE GONNA BURN!”

“Well, I was on my way to doing just that”—he glared at the machine—“before you scared me out of ten years of my life, you possessed pile of junk!”

Asha glanced out the restaurant window, watching the steady rain. It had stopped just after she returned to the bungalow from swimming last night, but this morning came down as if settling in for the rest of the day. She looked forward to rainy days, relished the smells, the sounds, the lazy pace. In Scotland they called it
the soft,
and it made her want to go walking aimlessly for hours. It soothed her soul. Renewed her. She was aware most Kentuckians didn't share her delight. When she gave in to the urge and strolled through the pouring rain, locals observed her with a jaundiced eye. “Crazy foreigner,” they muttered and shook their heads.

Typical for a rainy day, the customers stayed away from The Windmill, as though they were made of sugar and would melt should raindrops hit them. The restaurant was virtually dead, which pleased Asha. She enjoyed leisurely days in the diner. They had a special feel.

Even the jukebox had been quiet.

Winnie MacPhee sat in the corner booth with two dozen
scratch-off lottery tickets, working her penny furiously. At least, that was her excuse for still being here. She kept glancing out the plate-glass windows, same as Asha. Asha looked for Jago. Winnie looked for Derek.

An hour earlier, Winnie's yellow Beetle convertible had zoomed up, and she'd sashayed her tight little buns into the restaurant, claiming to be starving for one of Sam's biscuit-and-sausage gravy breakfasts. The meal had been unhurriedly eaten and the dirty dishes removed, though to Winnie's disappointment it wasn't Derek but Mike clearing them away. Tuesday through Friday Derek worked afternoons and nights; on weekends he pulled a double shift, doing mornings as well, augmenting his savings for veterinary school. Winnie was aware of this routine. Except this morning, Derek had sent word through Delbert that he would be late. So, Winnie sat, one eye on the parking lot, scratching lotto tickets.

Asha admitted she was in a grumpy mood. She'd anticipated having breakfast with Jago, only his bungalow was empty, his car gone when she'd gotten up. Hoping he would still show and they could share a morning meal, she'd skipped eating. Now, her tum was rumbling due to the smell of Sam's cooking. He was preparing crawfish etouffee and grumpy about being forced to use crabmeat.

“Crawfish or crabmeat, it smells delicious.” Asha inhaled and sighed.

The door pushed open and Netta came in, grumbled something unintelligible that might've been a “good morning,” then grabbed a cup of coffee and a Mars bar, clearly hiding behind her dark Wayfarer sunglasses. When Asha tilted her head, silently asking how it went with Liam after she'd left, Netta's brows lifted.

“Don't ask.” She shook the candy bar in warning. “Don't even think about it.”

Asha had just finished writing out all the paychecks, as Netta plopped down on the stool beside her. With her perfectly
manicured nails, she thumbed through the checks until she found her own. Seeing the amount, she scooted the sunglasses down to the end of her nose to look over them.

“I gave you a raise,” Asha explained.

“Much appreciated, boss. However, if Rhonda sees this she'll pitch a hissy fit,” she warned, holding the check in the air.

Asha shrugged. “Let her. You work harder than she does. In the year since I hired you, money has gone up steadily around here. One of the best things I ever did. You keep people coming back with your chatter. Everyone adores you. As for Rhonda, I'm fed up with her calling in sick or coming in an hour late several times a week. Business is growing, so I am considering taking on a couple part-time waitresses. While I'm making changes, I thought you'd make a better hostess. You interested?”

Netta stalled by sipping her coffee and pretending to glance at the morning newspaper. Finally she gave Asha a half-hearted, “Could be.”

Sam pushed through the kitchen door with a load of glasses for under the counter. “Morning, Netta. You want some breakfast?”

She ripped open the Mars bar wrapper with her teeth, took a chomp and waved the candy. “Thanks, already got it.”

“Girl, that ain't no fit breakfast. Shame on you.” Sam chuckled, shaking his head.

Once he'd ambled back to the kitchen, Netta leaned on the counter with her elbow. “So, why did you go hot-footing it away from Sexy Lips last night? It looked like you two were getting quite chummy in the shallow end of the pool. Then, pow—you were off running like you're practicing for the Boston Marathon.”

Asha closed the ledger-style checkbook with a loud snap. “Don't ask me about Jago, and I won't ask about Liam.”

“Well, hell, that's no fun.” Netta huffed, then turned and
greeted the old man shuffling down the aisle. “Morning, Delbert.”

“Morning, pretty lady.” Delbert sat at the end of the counter, leaned back and called to Sam through the open space in the wall. “Two eggs over-easy, bacon, a side of hash browns and tomato juice.”

“Comin' up.” Sam nodded and gave him a wave. “Glad
someone
knows what a fit breakfast is around this place.”

“Good Lord, what the hell is that?” Netta laughed.

They all turned. The cat from last night precariously walked along the narrow ledge of the windows, peering inside. Aware of their attention, he jumped down and ran to the door; standing up on his hind legs, he pawed at the glass.

Asha chuckled. “A wet cat is a funny sight, but one doing a Goodyear Blimp imitation is beyond words.”

Picking up the plate Sam placed on the warmer, Delbert asked, “Why doesn't your counterfeiter let his kitty inside? He should take better care of his pet. Cats don't like to be out in the rain.”

“Counterfeiter?” Netta pushed her shades to the top of her head. “Did I miss something exciting?”

“Just our Asha being overimaginative—again.” Delbert poured himself a cup of coffee. “She raised a question whether Fitzgerald is a counterfeiter because of all the hundred-dollar bills he tosses around.”

Netta walked over, and tapped on the glass window with a long red nail, getting the cat to bat at her finger. “He's Jago's cat? Cool.”

“Not exactly,” Asha said. “I think the cat's declaring adoption. Anyone ever see him lurking about The Windmill before?”

Delbert stabbed his egg yolks with his fork. “He's not a stray—not unless he goes around eating small dogs. From the looks of him, he hasn't missed a meal in a blue moon.”

“We'll have to name him,” Netta suggested brightly. “How about Flexie—you know like the old cartoon?”

“I think you mean Felix.” Delbert paused, toast halfway to his mouth. “Maybe Fitzgerald wants to name him, it being his pet after all. The cat must be waiting for him to come back.”

Asha tried to sound casual, but nearly cringed when the words came out sounding too eager. “Jago went somewhere?”

Delbert nodded, leaving both Asha and Netta in suspense. After a couple slurps of his coffee, he informed them, “He went off first thing this morning with Derek.”

Asha noticed Winnie's head snapped up at the mention of Derek's name. Delbert returned his attention to his breakfast, leaving all three women hanging. Unwilling to give him the satisfaction, Asha went to the fountain and fixed herself a lemonade. She took a drink, waiting until Delbert finally decided he'd milked the pregnant pause for all it was worth.

“Figured you'd know about it, Asha, seeing as you were with him all night,” he said, deadpan, gray eyes watching her for a reaction to his prod.

Netta made a big
O
with her mouth and lifted her eyebrows. “Glad one of us had a good night.”

“Delbert's yanking your chain. I went to bed, then Jago came rapping at the door before dawn saying someone was in the restaurant.” Asha shook a finger at the night manager. “You're being naughty, Obi-Wan.”

“Didn't find anyone, did you?” Delbert inquired, in a manner that convinced Asha that he hadn't expected them to find anyone.

“No, we didn't.”

Netta nodded. “Ahhhh.”

“Ah,” Asha agreed.

The jukebox spluttered to life for the first time all morning, the lights glowing. Asha held her breath, waiting to see what the deranged thing would play. “You better be good after last night's performance or you will be playing, ‘They're coming to take me away—ha ha, hee hee'.”

 

Asha couldn't stand the kitty crying in the rain any longer; she let him onto the glassed-in porch off the end of the restaurant. From there, he could see into the lunch-room and have a nice dry place to clean his fur. It was either that or play dodge-the-kitty each time someone went in or out of the restaurant. She bundled him in a towel and gave him a good rubdown, then left him on the glider swing. She warned, “Sorry, Puss. No kitties allowed in the diner.” Before dashing off to her 11:00 a.m. appointment at Juanita's Wash and Curl, Netta went and patted him.

The Windmill was still dead. No lunch rush.
No Jago
.

After the jukebox had gone into spinning “Purple People Eater” endlessly, Asha had unplugged it and now had on her portable CD player. She glanced over at the silent Wurlitzer and stuck out her tongue. “Nanabooboo—and not a single one of them from the 1960s.”

She turned up the music and set about decorating the restaurant for Halloween. She loved this time of year. Kentucky's landscape was stunningly gorgeous painted with brilliant reds, oranges and yellows, especially along The Palisades of the Kentucky River between Lock 7 and Lock 8. She was going to bedeck the diner first and then the pool clubhouse, where she planned to toss a big Halloween bash, costumes not optional. The drive-in would run movies from dusk to dawn—B horror flicks from the early '60s, back in the heyday of Vincent Price and Christopher Lee. Nearly vibrating with the anticipation, she dragged the big box of decorations from The Oriental Trading Company out of the office. She sorted out the black garland with little metallic ghosts and started hanging it behind the counter.

Sam poked his head out of the kitchen. Seeing she was occupied on the ladder, he tiptoed past with a plate, heading toward the glassed-in porch.

“Taking a lunch break, Sam?” she called, hiding her laughter.

“Damn, woman, you scared me.” His teeth flashed in a big grin. “I thought the cat that ain't got a name might be hungry. I fixed him some leftover chicken.”

“He doesn't look as if he's missed many meals,” she pointed out.

“Don't mean he ain't hungry. I don't like anything to go hungry.”