“Nothing like that,” Borden said. “I was told where to find you.”
She rejected that one out of hand. “I’ve never been here before, asshole. How could anybody tell you to come here to find me?”
He conquered the pocket’s zipper and wrestled out a red envelope. “Here,” he said. “I’ll wait until you read it.”
“Because?” She didn’t take the envelope.
“Because you’re going to have questions once you do.”
He gestured with the envelope again. Big, red, square, like a thousand Valentine cards she’d never gotten over the years, but it was long past Valentine’s Day and she was in a far-from-romantic mood.
She let him hang there for a good thirty seconds, watching his outstretched hand slowly sag with rejection, and thought, Well, what the hell, at least I can throw it back in his face if I actually take it.
She was reaching for it when Borden lowered the envelope and sat back, staring over her shoulder.
She felt alarms going off in the back of her head and risked a look. A shadow loomed behind her.
Two shadows, actually. Big ones.
The weight-lifting trucker twins had taken an interest.
“Ain’t that sweet?” one of them said in a high, girly voice. He was wearing Doc Martens boots, battered blue jeans and a faded T-shirt that read Kinnison’s Feed & Supply. A three-day growth of straggly beard. Watery eyes. “Faggot’s giving the lady a card.” He made wet kissy noises.
His buddy was a grimy Xerox copy, except his T-shirt read Highway to Hell and was ripped at the sleeves to show off massive biceps. Tattoos, of course. You could never have too many of those. His mostly involved thorns, blood drops and naked women. The AC/DC fan ambled around Jazz and followed up his buddy’s comment with a shove to Borden’s shoulder. Borden rode the motion and slid off the bar stool. He wasn’t a small guy, and he had good bones, but he wasn’t a fighter, Jazz could see that at a glance.
“Hey!” Jazz said sharply, standing up, as well. “Back off, guys. I don’t want any trouble.”
“You don’t,” Borden said under his breath. “Right. What was I thinking?”
“Yo, leather boy, shove your cute little Valentine card up your ass, you’re bothering the lady,” said the one whose T-shirt advertised Kinnison’s. He was the power of the two; Jazz knew that from a half-second glance. He had intelligence in those narrow light eyes, and a kind of lazy satisfaction. This was what he’d come here for, to find somebody to pound over a few drinks. She was just a convenient excuse. Lady. Yeah, right. She looked the part.
Borden’s voice had gone dangerously soft, his eyes closed and dark again. “Is that right? Am I bothering you, Jazz?”
“Woman like this don’t want no candy-ass butt boy,” Kinnison’s said over her shoulder to him. “Fine piece of ass like this, she needs some real companionship.” He was deliberately staying behind her, pressed close. His idea of courtship would be asking what kind of condom she’d like, flavored or ribbed. If he was even that considerate.
“Funny,” Jazz said, and downed the last glass of whiskey she’d ever drink in Sol’s. “I started out a lady and now I’m just a fine piece of ass, and you haven’t even bought me a drink yet.”
“Shut up, bitch, nobody’s talking to you,” AC/DC snarled, and put one hand the size of a canned ham on Borden’s chest and shoved. Borden, who must have been seduced by all that over-the-counter toughness he was wearing, shoved back.
Mistake.
“Stay out of it,” Jazz said, brisk and succinct, to Borden. She needn’t have bothered; Kinnison’s stepped around her and landed a fat punch to Borden’s jaw.
Ouch. She heard the crack of bone on bone, and Borden staggered back, off balance.
“Hey!” she snapped. “Give the bitch some attention, why don’t you?”
Kinnison’s, pulling back for another punch, hesitated and turned back around to face her. Grinning with unholy glee, he said, “Yeah, okay, baby, let’s play.”
He shot a sideways look at AC/DC, who went after Borden. No doubt in Jazz’s mind that he was thinking he’d backhand her and put her in her place, then get on with the serious beat-down of his only real opponent—the man.
She smiled. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Let’s play.”
She spun on the bar stool, clocked him with an elbow hard to his nose and felt the sharp crack of bone and cartilage. She didn’t stop to let the pain register; she straightened her arm and muscled into a spin as her feet hit the floor. Kinnison’s twisted away from her in a corkscrewing spiral, off balance, and as he came around roaring, she sidestepped his rush, grabbed a handful of greasy hair and slammed his forehead into the tough oak bar. Twice.
When she let go, he slithered limply down to the floor. It had taken all of about two seconds, and he was bloody and utterly unconscious.
Borden was just now gaining his balance, shaking off the punch and staring at her as if he’d never seen her before. Tactical error, because it gave AC/DC the opportunity to pound a fist straight into his gut, double him over and send him flying at the far wall, hard. AC/DC followed him, wading in with lethally steel-toed Doc Martens to the ribs.
Jazz, blood already pounding red-hot, didn’t hesitate. She left Kinnison’s limp body and leaped over a fallen chair, landed flat-footed as a cat in front of AC/DC. He yelled something obscene in her face; she didn’t even note the words, just the reek of bad breath, bad teeth and alcohol.
Watch him. Watch…
He rushed her like a charging bear. She swept out of his way and left him to trip over the fallen chair, but he was fast, faster than she’d thought and not nearly as drunk as she’d hoped. He swerved. Before she could turn she was engulfed by his brutally strong arms, rippling with thorn tats and overendowed girls.
Borden, down on the floor, coughed out a mouthful of blood and tried to get up.
“Stay down,” she said. Weird, how calm her voice could sound at times like these. She might have been asking him to pass the salt. “I’ll be done in a second.”
AC/DC’s breath pistoned her ear, and she felt the suggestive grind of his hips against her.
“In your dreams, asshole,” she said, and simply let her knees go, dragging him over. When his center of gravity was higher than hers she flowed forward, then quickly reversed, whipping his own momentum against him into a shoulder roll. He grabbed a handful of her hair on the way over, and she ended up on his back. He flailed and bucked, trying to throw her off, but she had her arm around his neck and she applied pressure, cutting off blood flow until his body went slack.
And then she kept on holding the pressure, fury mounting. Stop it, you’ll kill him, something told her, but it was a small voice, and she wasn’t really in the mood to listen anyway.
She kept choking him until a baseball bat slammed splinters out of the wood floor right next to her.
She looked up to see the bartender/owner—Sol himself? — his face purple with fury, pull back for a straight-for-the-bleachers swing at her head. She let go and held up her hands. He didn’t lower the bat as she got to her feet.
“Cops are on the way,” he said, which was the longest speech she’d heard from him yet. “Take your boyfriend and get the hell out. Don’t come back.”
Jazz fought off an adrenaline-hot wave of dizziness and went to where Borden sat crumpled against the wall. He was probing his bleeding mouth and looking dazed. She grabbed a leather-clad elbow and dragged him to his feet.
“Let’s go,” she said, and guided him toward the door. He yanked free after a couple of steps and staggered back for something.
The red envelope, lying on the floor.
He tucked it into his jacket and followed her out, stumbling over the two prone bodies.