Sherrilyn Kenyon - Stroke of Midnight

"Leave the man alone, dude," Rider said, shaking his head. "The poor SOB is about to drop a brick in his pants, as it is."

"Just marking our territory as off limits," Crazy Pete argued, accepting his shot of tequila. He downed it hard and set his glass in front of the bartender for another. "Can't have them desecrate sacred lands. Next thing you know this'll be a damned mall."

"Everything's changing around here," Bull's Eye said with a weary sigh, then removed the sweaty black bandana from his bald head to mop his sunburned brow.

"Yeah, well, with change comes progress," Rider said sarcastically, then ordered a Jack Daniel's, as the others around him laughed and slapped Pete's back.

"Progress?" Pete was beyond indignant, but still had to laugh. The tequila helped.

Rider took a deep swig of his drink as soon as the bartender put it in front of him, made a face and shuddered. "No. I stand corrected," he said, holding up his near-empty glass. " This is progress."

His cronies laughed and raised their glasses, each mimicking him, and slamming their glasses down hard enough to nearly shatter them.

"But how did we end up in this godforsaken place?" Razor asked. "No women, nuthin' but an old man bartender and old tunes on the juke."

The bikers cast a disparaging glance around the tavern. Rider nodded in agreement. This was piss-poor and pitiful. The establishment seemed like it had had a day, once, a looong time ago. It wasn't the mix-match chairs, or the wooden tables that were scored and engraved with names and every profanity known to man that gave it a dead look. Truthfully, that was pretty cool, gave the joint character.

He couldn't put his finger on it. It wasn't the old sawdust on the floor, or the old Elvis tunes skipping and popping vinyl in the ancient jukebox, nor was it the dingy paneled walls and dusty moose head hanging above the bar. He and the fellas weren't picky. It wasn't even the old pool table that couldn't give a good game anymore because it wasn't level and leaned like a dead battleship. To his mind, it was pure evidence that a good brawl had broken out here at some point. Now that was life.

What he was feeling had absolutely nothing to do with the fans that only swirled dead, dry air. The long, yellow strips of flypaper that were polka-dotted with insects didn't bother him, no more than the ever-present dank smell around them did. Hell, the guys he was riding with gave BO funk a new definition. Maybe it was the eerie fact that they had the place all to themselves. The guitar on his back suddenly felt too heavy.

Rider pulled out a Marlboro and slowly lit it. He watched the ember fire red on a hard inhale, and tapped the back of his pack, offering the group's leader one. He glanced at the bartender when Snake accepted it and just put it behind his ear, then he glanced over to the bus driver and noted his dejected expression. He could tell by the look on the man's face that the bus was fried and nobody was coming for a tow tonight. It was the way the bus driver slowly hung up the receiver and passed the telephone back to the bartender.

Both men seemed to be in their late forties. Their crew-cut hair was just too neat and conservative, restricted, their faces puffed red from the incessant heat. Their shoulders slumped like life had kicked their butts; their guts hung over too-tight pants. One had on a blue-gray uniform soaked with sweat, the other had on a butcher's apron over a sleeveless T-shirt, sweat making the thin white fabric stick to his portly build. Watching them made the heat in the joint unbearable. They reminded him too much of his father. Trapped. How did men allow crap like this to happen to them? he wondered. Maybe that's what was making the crew edgy, seeing the possible future in these two old dudes and looking around a place that held only the remnants of its heyday. Maybe it was because one of their own had recommended it from that memory.

Rider took his time, choosing his words carefully. Snake was the leader and had to make the decision to leave, or else it would be taken as a sign of disrespect that wouldn't be tolerated. He could tell everybody else was feeling it, too.

They all watched Snake's massive back expand slowly and contract the same way, stretching his black leather vest to the limit and making the medallions on his breast pocket catch the setting sun in prisms. Their leader was leaning on his forearms, studying his drink like it might divine the future. His ragged black ponytail attracted gnats, which he swatted away intermittently like a bored bull, making his huge bicep flex. No, he wasn't gonna mess with Snake, if they'd taken a wrong turn.

Crazy Pete's eyes held a quiet desperation. Pete could never sit still, and his narrow weasel face was almost covered by his greasy, matted brown hair. It irked Rider the way he kept raking his fingers through it, like that would solve their problem. They needed food, gas, liquor, and willing women—not to be trapped in a bar like bugs on sticky paper. This was no way to run a road trip.

Rider only shook his head, watching Razor whip himself up into what was sure to be a trademark Razor tirade. It was in his bloodshot blue eyes. But no matter how skinny the dude was, Razor had him by two inches, was made of stone, kept a bowie knife on his hip, and had done prison… Bull's Eye was normally cool, but, carried a gun at all times, and was one cock-strong bastard when provoked. He had to wait it out. This was why he normally rolled solo; he didn't have to deal with democratic decisions. Rider had a nose for trouble and for tracking opportunity. He smelled both in the offing here. Group consensus sucked.

The other guys had fallen in and had taken up a post at the bar. Fifteen in all; that was a lot of testosterone to defuse and a lot of bikes to refuel. Rider slowly removed his sunglasses and stuffed them into his vest breast pocket.

"So, Snake, man," Rider said after a while, finally growing impatient, "your boy said this was the place to pull over. I know Oklahoma is a dust bowl, but this is ridiculous. We need fuel and…" The fact that Snake hadn't looked up made him let his argument rest.

Snake calmly pulled the cigarette from behind his ear, put it in his mouth, struck a wooden match on the bar, sucked hard on it, and hailed the bartender. "You all got grub here?"

The bartender shook his head and simply refilled Snake's drink. "Just liquor." He glanced at the bus driver who was edging toward the door. "No fuel either."

Snake nodded and stood. An inaudible sigh of relief swept through the group as money was slammed onto the bar and everyone stretched their legs, downed the last of their drinks, and rolled their shoulders.

"We ride," was all Snake said.

Progress.

Then something happened that should never have happened. A fragile female figure entered the doorway, her chin held high and her gaze darting nervously around the tavern. The last of the sun hit her light-blue calico dress, framing her petite form like a halo. The rays fired her caramel skin, warming it with reds and gold, and the hued light shone off her long, dark brunette braids. She moved with the trepidation of a doe that needed water so desperately that she'd take a risk, even though she knew danger was lurking near. Her light lavender scent wafted in on a breeze and was the only life in the place.

When she saw him this time, she couldn't pull her gaze away. Even beneath the grime, this one was different. He was bronzed strength from head to toe in a filthy pair of jeans slung low, no shirt on beneath a black leather vest. But his eyes… Liquid hazel set in a ruggedly handsome face. In their depths she saw honor. No, she couldn't let this one die.

Rider immediately cringed. The girl at the door had glanced at him and then gone up to the bar, literally stepped around a pack of wolves, ignoring the fact that the blood had drained from the bus driver's face, and hailed the bartender. The group behind him stopped. Snake stopped and cocked his head to the side like a hunting dog. Oh… no…