Outside Red Delilah’s Biker Bar
Monday, 12:56 a.m.
Delilah glanced at the yellow and black police tape crisscrossed over her front door and shuddered as she swung from the back of Mac’s big, gnarly bike. Reaching up to tug the helmet from her head, her arms felt like they weighed two hundred pounds. And she realized someone, at some point, had thrown a handful of grit in her eyes, because the suckers burned like fire as she watched Mac toe out the kickstand and switch off the loudly growling engine.
Crime scene…
Her beloved bar was a crime scene. The scene where her staunchest patron had been shot down in cold blood.
Cold blood…
Why did people use that phrase? Blood wasn’t cold. It was hot. Hot and slick and smelling of the iron-richness of life, and—
God, I’m exhausted. Exhausted and sad and—
She glanced at the taped-up doorway again, and her stomach did a series of flips like it was competing for a slot on the Olympic gymnastics team or something. She had to toss Mac the helmet so she could put her hands on her hips and bend at the waist, taking deep, gulping breaths of the dense city air lest she loose her cookies on the spot.
“Hey,” Mac reached forward to lay one of his big, broad hands on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
Okay? “No, I don’t think I am, I—”
She glanced up, and there it was again. All that glaring, yellow tape. A reminder that she’d watched as the last of Buzzard’s life-giving blood seeped from his chest and puddled onto the floor and—
Holy shit, she didn’t think she could stay here. Not tonight. Not when the memory of…everything was still so fresh. Too fresh. Too goddamned fresh to stay here and face it all…
Tomorrow, she promised herself. Tomorrow, if the police will let me, I’ll start putting my business back together. Tomorrow, I’ll look into contacting Buzzard’s estranged sister to tell her he’s dead. Sweet Mary and Joseph, dead. She still couldn’t quite believe it, except that the tears burning the back of her nose and the bile scalding the back of her throat told her it was true. Tomorrow, I’ll suck-it-up-buttercup and deal with what has to be dealt with.
But not tonight…
Tonight she just needed to be…away. And despite everything that Eve had suffered, despite what the woman was still dealing with, Delilah discovered she was green with envy. Because Eve was…away.
After they’d left the police station, she and Mac had waited at a nearby coffeehouse while Bill and Eve went to the BKI chopper shop on Goose Island to pack a couple of bags—and, yes, Delilah totally suspected they’d done it that way because neither Mac nor Bill wanted her going inside the place. Although, when she’d said as much to Mac while trying to choke down a cappuccino, he’d simply pointed a finger at his slightly crooked nose and sing-songed, “You see this? You can’t read my p-p-p-poker face.”
Which truthfully, and despite a day that’d gone from perfect to puke, and despite the fact that she couldn’t close her eyes without seeing Buzzard’s last moments emblazoned on the backs of her lids, it’d made her laugh. To hear a big, burly guy like Mac quoting Lady Gaga in a slow, Texas twang was nothing short of hilarious. She figured he’d offered up the levity on purpose—God love him—in an attempt to lighten the tense atmosphere and brighten her black-on-black mood. And it’d worked. For all of about half a second. Then her laughter had died a quick death when he’d added, “Besides, you’re completely wrong. We’re waiting here because I thought you could use this time to gather your thoughts.”
Gather her thoughts? Gather her thoughts? Really? He thought she needed to gather her thoughts? That was the last thing she needed! In fact, what she needed then, what she needed now, was to stop thinking altogether. Just stop the sickening cascade of memories…And for a moment, after Bill and Eve had returned, and while she and Mac had followed them out to Belmont Harbor, and especially when Mac had…wait for it…helped Bill check the boat for bugs—and not the creepy/crawly kind, either; the black wands the men had waved over the entire vessel had been searching for the transmit-y/receive-y kind—she’d gotten her wish. For those few, too few blessed minutes, she’d completely forgotten about her own troubles. She’d been too busy watching the men flit around the boat like drain flies while simultaneously trying to swallow down the giant serving of bullshit, a.k.a. we’re nothing more than motorcycle mechanics who’ve seen the darker side of life, that Mac’d served her earlier.
Sheesh. The man was obviously under the impression she’d fallen off the turnip truck only yesterday. Or else, he simply didn’t care what she thought.
Then again, none of that mattered now because the point was she didn’t want to be alone with her thoughts, she didn’t want to stay here tonight, and she’d watched with an envious heart as Bill and Eve fired up the inboard engine on the sailboat. She barely resisted calling out “Take me with you!” as she stood on the softly rocking dock, the stars glinting overhead while the vessel motored out into the vast midnight blue of Lake Michigan. So, yup. She was jealous of Eve. Because she, too, wanted…no, needed to get away.
And then an idea washed over her so brightly, she actually tilted her head back to see if there was a light bulb shining above her. Nope. No light bulb. But an epiphany nonetheless.
“Let me stay with you tonight, Mac,” she blurted. When he blanched like she’d kicked his dog, she tried really hard, really, really, really hard not to let the expression get to her. And before he could open his mouth to reject her, again, she pushed ahead. “The cringe-factor here is just way too high. I could seriously use a few hours away.” And when he hesitated once more, she swallowed her pride and begged. Well, as much begging as her ego—her very well-adjusted and perfectly proportioned ego, thank you very much—would allow her. “Please,” she added.
He twisted up his lips, narrowing his eyes at her. And when he said, “Is there a mathematical way to calculate a cringe-factor that isn’t too high?” she realized she was holding her breath.
Blowing it out in one exasperated puff, she said, “I’m serious, Mac. I don’t want to stay here. And I don’t care what you’re trying to hide at the chopper shop. Really, I don’t. My motto has always been don’t get other people’s shit on my shoes. So, my lips are sealed, whatever it is. I can promise you. My. Lips. Are. Sealed. I just want a warm bed somewhere other than the place one of my friends died. And I don’t think I can stand to be alone in some hotel. Is that too much to ask?”
He had that stop-and-stare thing down pat. And as he sat there straddling his big, mean-looking motorcycle, regarding her so intently, she realized why it was she was so attracted to him. Forget about the muscles and the thick, dark hair, forget about the piercing blue eyes and the air of mystery. Because, to put it simply, all that stoicism, all that quiet, macho-man reticence was like a hit of cocaine for a woman like her. A hit of cocaine for a woman who knew that still waters ran deep.