The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 5 (125 page)

“Whiskey and a woman.” He punched his voice up, deliberately, Gull imagined, so it carried above the noise. The hoots and laughter from his friends told Gull it wouldn’t be their first drink of the night.

A few people at the bar edged over to give the group room while the bartender poured their drinks. The lead guy tossed it back, slapped down the glass, pointed at it.

“We need us some
females
.”

More group hilarity ensued. Looking for trouble, Gull concluded, and since he wasn’t, he went back to watching Rowan on the dance floor.

Janis leaned toward him as the band launched into a painful cover of “When the Sun Goes Down.” “Ro says you work in an arcade.”

“She talked to you about me?”

“Sure. We pass notes in study hall every day. I like arcades. You got pinball? I kill at pinball.”

“Yeah, new and vintage.”

“Vintage?” She aimed a narrow look with big brown eyes. “You don’t have High Speed, do you?”

“It’s a classic for a reason.”

“I love that one!” Her hand slapped the table. “They had this old, beat-up machine in this arcade when I was a kid. I got so good at it, I’d play all day on my first token. I traded this guy five free games on it for my first French kiss.” She sighed, sat back. “Good times.”

Following her gaze as it shifted to the bar, Gull glanced back in time to see the whiskey-drinker give a waitress passing by with a full tray a frisky slap on the ass. When the woman looked around, he held up both hands, smirked.

“Asshole. You can’t go anywhere,” Janis said, “without running into assholes.”

“Their numbers are legion.” He shifted a little more when Rowan stepped off the dance floor.

“That’s my seat.”

“I’m holding it for you.” He patted his knee.

She surprised him by dropping down on his lap, picking up his beer and drinking deep. “Big spender, buying local brew by the bottle. Don’t you dance, moneybags?”

“I might, if they ever play something that doesn’t make my ears bleed.”

“You can still hear them? I can fix that. Time for shots.”

“Count me out,” Gibbons said immediately. “The last time you talked me into that I couldn’t feel my fingers for a week.”

“Don’t do it, Gull,” Yangtree warned him. “The Swede has an iron gut. Got it from her old man.”

Rowan turned her face close to Gull’s and smirked. “Aw, do you have a tender tummy, hotshot?”

He imagined biting her heavy bottom lip, just one fast, hard nip. “What kind of shots?”

“There’s only one shot worth shooting. Te-qui-la,” she sang it, slapping her palm on the table with each syllable. “If you’ve got the balls for it.”

“You’re sitting on my balls, so you ought to know.”

She threw back her head on that sexy saloon girl laugh. “Hold them for a minute. I’ll get us set up.”

She hopped up, swung around a couple times when Dobie grabbed her hand and gave her a twirl. Titania to Puck, Gull thought.

Then she hooked her thumbs in her front pockets and joined him in some sort of boot-stomping clog thing that had some of the other dancers whistling and clapping.

She shot a finger at Gull—and damn, there went his heart again—then danced over to the bar.

“Hey, Big Nate.” Rowan leaned in, hailed the head bartender. “I need a dozen tequila shots, a couple saltshakers and some lime wedges to suck on.”

She glanced over, gave the man currently grabbing his crotch a bored look, shifted away again. “I can take them over if Molly’s busy.”

The crotch-grabber slapped a hundred-dollar bill on the bar in front of her. “I’ll buy your shots and ten minutes outside.”

Rowan gave the bartender a slight shake of the head before he could speak.

She turned, looked the drunk, insulting bastard in the eye. “I guess since you lack any charm, and the only way you can get a woman is to pay her, you think we’re all whores.”

“You’ve been wiggling that ass and those tits out there since I came in. I’m just offering to pay for what you’ve been advertising. I’ll buy you a drink first.”

At the table, Gull thought,
shit
, and started to rise. Gibbons put a hand on his arm. “You don’t want to get in her way. Trust me on this.”

“I don’t like drunks hassling women.”

He shoved up, noted the noise level had diminished, so he clearly heard Rowan say in a tone sweet as cotton candy, “Oh, if you’ll buy me a drink first. Is that your pitcher?”

She picked it up and, with her height, had no trouble upending it over the man’s head. “Suck on that, fuckwit.”

The man moved pretty quick for a sputtering drunk. He shoved Rowan back against the bar, grabbed her breasts and squeezed.

And she moved faster. Before Gull was halfway across the room she slammed her boot on the man’s instep, her knee into the crotch he’d been so proud of, then knocked him on his ass with an uppercut as fine as Gull had ever seen when the drunk doubled over.

She back-fisted one of his buddies who’d been foolish enough to try to yank her around. She grabbed his arm, dragged him forward, past her. The boot she planted on his ass sent him careening into his friend as the man started to struggle to his feet.

She whipped around to man number three. “You want to try for me?”

“No.” This one held up his hands in a don’t-shoot-me gesture. “No, ma’am, I don’t.”

“Maybe you’ve got half a brain. Use it and get your idiot friends out of here before I get mad. Because when I get mad, I just get
crazy
.”

“I guess she didn’t need any help,” Dobie observed.

“That does it.” Gull laid a hand over his heart, beat it there. “I’m in love.”

“I don’t think I’d want to fall in love with a woman who could wipe the floor with me.”

“No risk, no point.”

He hung back as a half dozen Zulies moved in to help the three men to the door. And out of it.

Rowan gave her T-shirt a fussy tug. “How about those shots, Big Nate?”

“Coming right out. On the house.”

Gull took his seat again, waiting for Rowan to carry the tray over.

“Are you ready?” she asked him.

“Line them up, sweetheart. You want some ice for your knuckles?”

She wiggled her fingers. “They’re okay. It was like punching the Pillsbury Doughboy.”

“I hear he’s a mean drunk, too.”

She laughed, then dropped down into the chair Gibbons pulled over for her. “Let’s see what kind of drunk you are.”

G
ull watched her eyes as he and Rowan knocked back the first shot, as the tequila hit his tongue, his throat, and took that quick, hot slide to the belly.

That, he realized, was her first appeal for him. Those clear, cool blue eyes held so much
life
. They sparkled now with challenge, with humor, and there was something in the way they leveled on his that made the moment intimate—as much of a hot slide through the system as the tequila.

Matching his pace to hers, he picked up the next shot glass.

Then there was her mouth, just shy of wide, heavy on the bottom—and the way it so naturally, so habitually formed a smirk.

Small wonder he lusted for a good, strong taste of it.

“How ya doing, hotshot?”

“I’m good. How about you, Swede?”

In answer she tapped her third shot glass to his before they tossed back the contents together. She brought the lime wedge to her mouth. “Do you know what I love about tequila?”

“What do you love about tequila?”

“Everything.” After a wicked laugh, she drank the fourth with the same careless gusto as the first three. Together they slapped down the empties.

“What else do you love?” he asked her.

“Hmm.” She considered as she downed number five. “Smoke jumping and those who share the insanity.” She toasted them to a round of applause and rude comments, then sat back a moment with her full glass. “Fire and the catching of it, my dad, ear-busting rock and roll on a hot summer night and tiny little puppies. How about you?”

Like her, he sat back with his last shot. “I could go along with most of that, except I don’t know your dad.”

“Haven’t jumped fire yet either.”

“True, but I’m predisposed to love it. I have a fondness for loud rock and tiny little puppies, but would substitute heart-busting sex on a hot summer night and big, sloppy dogs.”

“Interesting.” They tossed back that last shot, in unison, to more applause. “I’d’ve pegged you for a cat man.”

“I’ve got nothing against cats, but a big, sloppy dog will always need his human.”

Her earrings swung as she cocked her head. “Like to be needed, do you?”

“I guess I do.”

She pointed at him in an
aha
gesture. “There’s that romantic streak again.”

“Wide and long. Want to go have heart-busting sex in anticipation of a hot summer night?”

She threw back her head and laughed. “That’s a generous offer—and no.” She slapped a hand on the table. “But I’ll go you another six.”

God help him. “You’re on.” He patted his pocket. “I believe I’ll take a short cigar break while we get the next setup.”

“Ten-minute recess,” Rowan announced. “Hey, Big Nate, how about some salsa and chips to soak up some of this tequila? And not the wimpy stuff.”

The woman of his dreams, Gull decided as he opted to go out the back for his smoke. A salsa-eating, tequila-downing, smoke-jumping stunner with brains and a wicked uppercut.

Now all he had to do was talk her into bed.

He lit up in the chilly dark, blew smoke up at a sky sizzling with stars. The night struck him as pretty damn perfect. Crappy music in a western dive, cheap tequila, the companionship of like-minded others and a compelling woman who engaged his mind and excited his body.

He thought of home and the winters that engaged and absorbed most of his time. He didn’t mind it, in fact enjoyed it. But if the past few years had taught him anything, it was he needed the heat and rush of the summers, the work and, yes, the risk of chasing fires.

Maybe it was just that, the combination of pride and pleasure in what he’d accomplished back home, the thrill and satisfaction of what he knew he could accomplish here that allowed him to stand in a chilly spring night in the middle of almost-nowhere and recognize perfection.

He wandered around the building, enjoying his cigar, thinking of facing Rowan over another six tequila shots. Next time—if there was a next time—he’d make damn sure they had a bottle of Patrón Silver. Then at least he’d feel more secure about the state of his stomach lining.

Amused, he came around the side of the building. He heard the grunts first, then the ugly sound of fist against flesh. He moved forward, toward the sounds, scanning the dark pockets of the parking lot.

Two of the men Rowan had dealt with in the bar held Dobie while the third—the big one—whaled on him.

“Shit,” Gull muttered, and, tossing down his cigar, rushed forward.

Over the buzz of rage in his ears, Gull heard one of the men shout. The big man swung around, face full of mean. Gull cocked back his fist, let it fly.

He didn’t think; didn’t have to. Instinct took over as the other two men dropped Dobie in a heap and came at him. He embraced the madness, the moment, punch, kick, elbow strike, as he scented blood, tasted his own.

He felt something crunch under his fist, heard the whoosh of expelled air as his foot slammed into belly fat. Someone dropped to his knees and gagged after his elbow jabbed an exposed throat. Out of the corner of his eye, Gull saw Dobie had managed to gain his feet and limped over to the retching man to deliver a solid kick in the ribs.

One of the others tried to run. Gull caught him, flung him so he skidded face-first over the gravel.

He didn’t clearly remember knocking the big guy down, getting on top of him, but it took three of his fellow jumpers to pull him off.

“He’s had enough. He’s out.” Little Bear’s voice penetrated that buzz of rage. “Ease off, Gull.”

“Okay. I’m good.” Gull held up a hand to signal he was done. As the grips on him loosened, he looked over at Dobie.

His friend sat on the ground surrounded by other jumpers, a few of the local women. His face and shirtfront were both a bloody mess, and his right eye was swollen shut.

“Did a number on you, pal,” Gull commented. Then he saw the dark stain on Dobie’s right pant leg, and the dripping pool. “Christ! Did they knife you?”

Before Gull reached him, Dobie two-fingered a broken bottle of Tabasco out of his pocket. “Nah. Busted this when I went down. Got a few nicks is all, and a waste of good Tabasco.”

L.B. crouched to get a better look at Dobie. “You carry Tabasco in your pocket?”

“Where else would I carry it?”

Shaking his head, Gull sat back on his heels. “He dumps it on everything.”

“Damn right.” To prove it, Dobie shook out the little left on the ass of one of the semiconscious men. “I came out for a little air, and the three of them jumped me. Laying for me—or any of us, I reckon. You sure came along at the right time,” he said to Gull. “You know kung fu or some shit?”

“Something like that. Better go get patched up.”

“Oh, I’m okay.”

Rowan moved through, crouched in front of Dobie. “They wouldn’t have gone after you if they hadn’t been pissed at me. Do me a favor, okay? Go get patched up so I don’t have to feel guilty.” Then she leaned over, kissed his bruised and bloody cheek. “I’ll owe you.”

“Well . . . if it’ll make you feel better.”

“Do you want me to call the law?” Big Nate asked him.

Dobie studied the three men, shrugged. “Looks to me more like they need an ambulance.” He shrugged again. “I don’t care if they go to jail, to fiery hell or back wherever they came from.”

“All right then.” Big Nate stepped over, toed the man sitting up nursing his face in his hands. “You fit to drive?” When the man managed a nod, Big Nate toed him again a little harder. “You’re going to get in your truck with the fuckers you travel with. You’re going to drive, and keep on driving. If I see you around my place or any other place I happen to be, you’re going to wish to God almighty I had called the law. Now get off my property.”