Riding the Thunder (15 page)

Asha was rocking her hips to “The Phoenix and The Ashes” by Brolum—a Trad Scottish group—when she heard a low-throttle rumble. A black car slowly pulled into the lot and parked in front of the restaurant. Still on the stepladder, she bent down to see it was Derek's Shelby. Oddly, he pushed out of the passenger side: Derek
never
let anyone drive his baby. He had a hemorrhage if anyone so much as got a fingerprint on the bloody car. Just asking if you could drive it sent him into an apoplexy. She noticed Winnie watched, too, curious. Jago climbed out of the driver's seat.

As the men came through the front door, Asha went back to hanging the metallic garland, pretending she couldn't care less that Jago had finally returned; she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing she'd anticipated spending the morning with him. Glancing toward Winnie, she noticed the girl had shifted into the same cold-shoulder routine, an instinctive universal mode of handling men that most of the poor things had never learned to offset.

“This should prove interesting.” She chuckled softly.

All buddy-buddy, Derek and Jago sat on stools at the counter. Derek thumped his fist on it. “Service! What sort of greasy spoon, jip joint is this? I want service!”

Asha continued hanging the garland. “Sorry, management reserves the right to refuse service.”

Trading smirks of silent communication, they waited until
she finished. Derek casually glanced over his shoulder at Winnie in the back booth.

Figuring she'd made them wait long enough, Asha climbed down and went to stand before them. “What will you gents have?”

“Coffee and two of anything that goes with breakfast,” Jago ordered, not bothering to look at the menu.

Derek said, “OJ, scrambled eggs, sausage, and half a dozen of Sam's buttermilk biscuits.”

“Hmm . . . maybe you should've gone to see Ella at The Cliffside. I hear she passes out blueberry muffins—to men. I'll see if Sam's still serving breakfast. Since we are preparing for the lunch rush now, it might be too late.” Asha wrote up two tickets, went to the window and attached them to the wheel, then spun them around. Sam was cleaning the grill, his back to her, so she dinged the bell to get his attention.

“You gonna ding that stupid bell one too many times, girl, and I'm going to toss it out the door. I ain't deaf like Delbert. Just holler. Whatcha want?” the cook asked.

“I was checking if you are still serving breakfast, but I see you've cleaned the grill for the lunch crowd, so I guess not.” She smiled playfully.

“You gone loopy, girl?
What
lunch crowd?” Yanking down the tickets, Sam scanned the orders. “Morning, Jago,” he called through the opening. “Ignore Asha. She's been listening to “Purple People Eater” too long. I'll have breakfast up in about ten minutes.”

She poured juice and coffee for both men. Only then did she make full eye contact with Jago. His suppressed smile said he was aware he received the cold shoulder. When she continued with her silence, he crooked a brow and nodded to the Wurlitzer.

“‘Something wrong with the deranged jukebox?'—he asks hopefully,” Jago queried.

“I gave it the morning off.”

He laughed aloud, an infectious sound. “Wonder why.”

Sam poked his head through the open space. “Hey, Jago, I fed your cat chicken for lunch. Hope that's okay with you.”

“My cat?” A question lit Jago's eyes.

Asha pointed to the glass porch, where the black kitty stood waving his paw. “I'll just add the chicken on your tab.”

“Oh, I get it. He belongs to The Windmill and is trained to go around mooching, then you add his meals on the tab. Neat way to pad the bill.”

Asha chuckled. “Sorry, you're not getting out of it so easy. You're the one who came dragging him in. He's your cat, Charlie Brown.”

“What would I do with a cat? I have apartments in New York and London,” he replied.

She shrugged, hoping to sound casual. “Maybe you should consider settling down somewhere. A cat needs a good home.” Asha tried to meet his stare, but those green garnet eyes bore into hers, seeing all. She knew, though she'd tried to make the suggestion sound playful, that it had come across as an expression of her hunger.

Idiot! She mentally kicked herself. A man like Jago Fitzgerald wasn't interested in a home, kids and kitty cats. He was sex and sin. Oh, he would be open to a passionate affair with all the trimmings, and despite her vow never to trust a pretty man again she wanted all those hot, sleepless nights, lost to the glory of their bodies. But that's all it ever would be.
Take him as he is, what he offered and be thrilled with that much
, she told herself.

Then why did she see
everything
in his eyes? Tomorrows. Children, fat cats and SUVs. Jago would fit so well with her house on the river. Feeling ridiculous for painting such images in her mind with a man she barely knew, she almost fled when he offered her a grin.

“Yeah, maybe I should consider settling down,” he said. “Any ideas where me and the cat might find a good place to plant roots?”

She swallowed hard, struggling for a reply. Daring to hope opened one to all sorts of pain; she knew that only too well.

Sam saved her by announcing, “Breakfasts are up.”

Jago motioned to Derek. “Why don't we move to the table, then we can finish our business?”

“Sure thing.” The redheaded man nodded, and climbed off the stool to collect the meals.

Asha echoed, “Business?”

Derek grinned. “Yeah, Jago is buying the Shelby. We took it for a test drive this morning to prove that it lives up to my praise.”

She wasn't sure why the deal bothered her, but it did. Like a slap in the face, it was a chilly reminder of why Jago was really here. All her dreams of what might be vanished as the trepidation settled in her stomach. “You're buying his Shelby?”

Jago nodded, his eyebrow arched, saying he sensed her shift in mood. “Yes, I just have to write a check.”

“Warming up? You're chafing at the bit to buy the horse farm, so you wile away your time keeping the skills sharp with Derek?” That would teach her to fantasize about a stranger. It just proved she didn't want to have the babies of a bloody developer!

“Whoa, lass! Off on a tangent again before you have all the facts.” His tone was chiding, though he gave her a half-smile.

“Ease up, Asha. He bought the car at the price I asked and then some. You know what that money means to me. He's my faery godfather.” Derek glanced uneasily to Jago and then back at Asha. “You should kiss the man instead of taking a bite out of his ass.”

Jago's eyes danced. “Oh, she's welcome to take a bite of my arse anytime she fancies—or kiss me. I'm game for either.”

Asha knew she had overreacted, but had a hard time shifting into reverse gracefully. She stuck her tongue out at him. “Bah, humbug.”

He picked up the Halloween witch doll from the counter and wiggled it in front of her face. “Wrong holiday, lass.”

Feigning disinterest in the two men as they ate, Asha went back to hanging decorations. The dishes were soon shoved aside, Jago took out his checkbook and Derek pulled a piece of paper from his pocket that looked like a title to a car. With a grin, he pushed it across the table.

At the other end of the diner, Winnie suddenly slid from her booth. Two spots of red stained her pale cheeks as the young woman stood, hesitating for a breath. Stinging from six weeks of Winnie shooting him down every time he asked her out, Derek had ignored Winnie since coming in, clearly not in the mood for more of her games. When he continued to pay her no heed, she marched to the counter, tossed a handful of bills and the used lottery tickets on the top, then slammed out of the restaurant. Her yellow Beetle squealed tires leaving the lot.

“Beau Derek?” Jago's voice rang through the diner. “I just bought a car from Beau Derek Whittaker?”

The Jukebox suddenly groaned to life, causing Asha to glare at it. The monstrosity had been unplugged! She'd done it herself, but chords of “Hey Little Cobra” by the Rip Cords now blared forth. “
Hey, Little Cobra . . . You're gonna shut 'em down
. . .”

Asha tossed the crepe paper pumpkin down to the counter. “That's it. Where's my pistol? I'm going to show you, you deranged metal monster, how
I
shut 'em down.”

Asha had forgotten. Fed up with its antics, she put her hand on the Wurlitzer, intending to yank the plug from the wall socket—again. Only, the instant she touched the shiny metal, she received a shock that knocked her back about three feet and onto her arse. She didn't black out, but it was damn close. She couldn't move. Similar to how a person must feel like after being hit with a Taser, she just lay there numb and stared up at the people gathering over her, concern etching their faces.

Rule number one around The Windmill: never touch La Jukebox in a threatening manner. She groaned.

Jago was the first to reach her. Poor man was a ghastly shade of gray, all the blood having drained from his face. Sam, Derek and even Delbert hovered at his shoulders. They were speaking, yet their words were distant. She wanted to assure them she was fine, but all she could manage was to breathe.

She tried to lift her right hand to cup Jago's beautiful face. Damn him. Damn
her
. She'd vowed never to get involved with a pretty man again, and yet here she was falling in love with him. Falling in love? How could she believe that, when she barely knew him? Here only three days and still she could not imagine life in her contained little world without him. The overwhelming sense of futility nearly made her cry. She was happy here at The Windmill. This was where she belonged. A man as sophisticated, as high-powered as Jago Fitzgerald would never settle for living in the middle of Nowhereville, putting up with her collection of oddball people who, some might say, life had tossed away. The Windmill was a haven for lost souls.

Jago Fitzgerald was not a lost soul. But
she
would be when he left her.

The tears came. Not heavy, just one in each eye. Frustrated, she couldn't even move her hand to wipe them away before he saw them.

“Don't stand there. Someone call a doctor!” Jago demanded.

Netta came through the front door, returning from having her hair done, dropped her purse and rushed over. “What the hell happened?”

Sam gave her a furtive look. “Damn jukebox. She was going—”

Netta frowned and leaned closer. “Unplug it. Sugarplum, don't you know to sneak up on that thing yet? Frontal attacks only get you knocked on your ass. Quick, someone
give me a quarter.” She held out her hand and Derek placed one in her palm.

Stepping over to the jukebox, she inserted the coin and pushed H-13. Instantly, the Wurlitzer came to life and began playing “Tell Laura I Love Her.” Netta smiled at the thing and patted it gingerly. “There, you metal demon. Your world is right again.”

Jago stared at them all, clearly not believing. “Have the whole bunch of you gone nuts? She needs a doctor,
not
a spin doctor.”

“Chill, Sexy Lips. I've been zapped by that psycho box before. Stuns you for a few minutes, then everything comes back to normal. Give her a minute and she'll be right as rain,” Netta assured him.

Asha noticed other people standing behind Netta. Focusing, she saw a young man and woman. Strangers, they must've come in just after she was shocked. Then it hit her. They weren't strangers after all. She'd seen them both before.

Last night
.

She lifted her hand as the twenty-something man stepped nearer. A handsome lad with emerald eyes and short black hair, she could well understand how Laura deeply loved him. “Tommy,” she whispered.

Delbert's head snapped back, then he glanced to where Asha looked. A myriad of emotions flooded the man's dear face: surprise, hope, disappointment, wonder . . . regret. All were so clear in those faded green-gray eyes. The emotions coalesced into a desperate hunger as he swung his eyes back to Asha. “You see him?”

As feeling returned to her body, Asha gave a faint nod and struggled to sit. She blinked, then tried to clear her vision to look at the two people behind the others, but she felt dizzy.

“Her, too?” Delbert pressed, shaking. “You see her?”

Asha nodded weakly.

Jago's head swiveled between them, as though trying to
figure out what the hell they were talking about. She used his strong arm to sit up. She liked the solid feel of Jago Fitzgerald—a man you could lean upon. A man she foolishly wanted in her life, despite that it could only see her hurt.

“I . . . am . . . fine,” she said slowly, hoping to comfort him. “Help me stand, please. Wow, cheap buzz.” She tried to laugh it off, hating people fussing over her.

Jago didn't look so ashen, but he was still pale. That brought a fleeting smile to her lips, registering his extreme reaction meant he cared. Even if just in passing.

It was Delbert who now worried her. He backed up several steps and then dropped down to sit on the end of a booth bench. Netta noticed, too. She went to him, leaning down to look at his eyes carefully.

“Are you all right, Delbert?” she fretted, patting his hand.

His head gave a bob. “Please don't worry, pretty lady. Just a wee bit of excitement. You young ones need to recall I am . . .” He rolled his eyes as if thinking. “Well, let's say older than dirt. Where does the time go? Everything doesn't seem that long ago, but it's nearly half my lifetime. So much sadness. So much waste.”

Asha moved past Jago to her aging friend, more concerned about him than she was for herself. She'd taken a shock, but was quickly returning to normal. She was less certain about Delbert Seacrest. When she reached to touch his arm, wanting to take his pulse, he caught her hand, squeezing firmly. That eased her concern some. His grip was strong.