Riding the Thunder Read online

  “Crawfish or crabmeat, it smells delicious.” Asha inhaled and sighed.

  The door pushed open and Netta came in, grumbled something unintelligible that might’ve been a “good morning,” then grabbed a cup of coffee and a Mars bar, clearly hiding behind her dark Wayfarer sunglasses. When Asha tilted her head, silently asking how it went with Liam after she’d left, Netta’s brows lifted.

  “Don’t ask.” She shook the candy bar in warning. “Don’t even think about it.”

  Asha had just finished writing out all the paychecks, as Netta plopped down on the stool beside her. With her perfectly manicured nails, she thumbed through the checks until she found her own. Seeing the amount, she scooted the sunglasses down to the end of her nose to look over them.

  “I gave you a raise,” Asha explained.

  “Much appreciated, boss. However, if Rhonda sees this she’ll pitch a hissy fit,” she warned, holding the check in the air.

  Asha shrugged. “Let her. You work harder than she does. In the year since I hired you, money has gone up steadily around here. One of the best things I ever did. You keep people coming back with your chatter. Everyone adores you. As for Rhonda, I’m fed up with her calling in sick or coming in an hour late several times a week. Business is growing, so I am considering taking on a couple part-time waitresses. While I’m making changes, I thought you’d make a better hostess. You interested?”

  Netta stalled by sipping her coffee and pretending to glance at the morning newspaper. Finally she gave Asha a half-hearted, “Could be.”

  Sam pushed through the kitchen door with a load of glasses for under the counter. “Morning, Netta. You want some breakfast?”

  She ripped open the Mars bar wrapper with her teeth, took a chomp and waved the candy. “Thanks, already got it.”

  “Girl, that ain’t no fit breakfast. Shame on you.” Sam chuckled, shaking his head.

  Once he’d ambled back to the kitchen, Netta leaned on the counter with her elbow. “So, why did you go hot-footing it away from Sexy Lips last night? It looked like you two were getting quite chummy in the shallow end of the pool. Then, pow—you were off running like you’re practicing for the Boston Marathon.”

  Asha closed the ledger-style checkbook with a loud snap. “Don’t ask me about Jago, and I won’t ask about Liam.”

  “Well, hell, that’s no fun.” Netta huffed, then turned and greeted the old man shuffling down the aisle. “Morning, Delbert.”

  “Morning, pretty lady.” Delbert sat at the end of the counter, leaned back and called to Sam through the open space in the wall. “Two eggs over-easy, bacon, a side of hash browns and tomato juice.”

  “Comin’ up.” Sam nodded and gave him a wave. “Glad someone knows what a fit breakfast is around this place.”

  “Good Lord, what the hell is that?” Netta laughed.

  They all turned. The cat from last night precariously walked along the narrow ledge of the windows, peering inside. Aware of their attention, he jumped down and ran to the door; standing up on his hind legs, he pawed at the glass.

  Asha chuckled. “A wet cat is a funny sight, but one doing a Goodyear Blimp imitation is beyond words.”

  Picking up the plate Sam placed on the warmer, Delbert asked, “Why doesn’t your counterfeiter let his kitty inside? He should take better care of his pet. Cats don’t like to be out in the rain.”

  “Counterfeiter?” Netta pushed her shades to the top of her head. “Did I miss something exciting?”

  “Just our Asha being overimaginative—again.” Delbert poured himself a cup of coffee. “She raised a question whether Fitzgerald is a counterfeiter because of all the hundred-dollar bills he tosses around.”

  Netta walked over, and tapped on the glass window with a long red nail, getting the cat to bat at her finger. “He’s Jago’s cat? Cool.”

  “Not exactly,” Asha said. “I think the cat’s declaring adoption. Anyone ever see him lurking about The Windmill before?”

  Delbert stabbed his egg yolks with his fork. “He’s not a stray—not unless he goes around eating small dogs. From the looks of him, he hasn’t missed a meal in a blue moon.”

  “We’ll have to name him,” Netta suggested brightly. “How about Flexie—you know like the old cartoon?”

  “I think you mean Felix.” Delbert paused, toast halfway to his mouth. “Maybe Fitzgerald wants to name him, it being his pet after all. The cat must be waiting for him to come back.”

  Asha tried to sound casual, but nearly cringed when the words came out sounding too eager. “Jago went somewhere?”

  Delbert nodded, leaving both Asha and Netta in suspense. After a couple slurps of his coffee, he informed them, “He went off first thing this morning with Derek.”

  Asha noticed Winnie’s head snapped up at the mention of Derek’s name. Delbert returned his attention to his breakfast, leaving all three women hanging. Unwilling to give him the satisfaction, Asha went to the fountain and fixed herself a lemonade. She took a drink, waiting until Delbert finally decided he’d milked the pregnant pause for all it was worth.

  “Figured you’d know about it, Asha, seeing as you were with him all night,” he said, deadpan, gray eyes watching her for a reaction to his prod.

  Netta made a big O with her mouth and lifted her eyebrows. “Glad one of us had a good night.”

  “Delbert’s yanking your chain. I went to bed, then Jago came rapping at the door before dawn saying someone was in the restaurant.” Asha shook a finger at the night manager. “You’re being naughty, Obi-Wan.”

  “Didn’t find anyone, did you?” Delbert inquired, in a manner that convinced Asha that he hadn’t expected them to find anyone.

  “No, we didn’t.”

  Netta nodded. “Ahhhh.”

  “Ah,” Asha agreed.

  The jukebox spluttered to life for the first time all morning, the lights glowing. Asha held her breath, waiting to see what the deranged thing would play. “You better be good after last night’s performance or you will be playing, ‘They’re coming to take me away—ha ha, hee hee’.”

  Asha couldn’t stand the kitty crying in the rain any longer; she let him onto the glassed-in porch off the end of the restaurant. From there, he could see into the lunch-room and have a nice dry place to clean his fur. It was either that or play dodge-the-kitty each time someone went in or out of the restaurant. She bundled him in a towel and gave him a good rubdown, then left him on the glider swing. She warned, “Sorry, Puss. No kitties allowed in the diner.” Before dashing off to her 11:00 a.m. appointment at Juanita’s Wash and Curl, Netta went and patted him.

  The Windmill was still dead. No lunch rush. No Jago.

  After the jukebox had gone into spinning “Purple People Eater” endlessly, Asha had unplugged it and now had on her portable CD player. She glanced over at the silent Wurlitzer and stuck out her tongue. “Nanabooboo—and not a single one of them from the 1960s.”

  She turned up the music and set about decorating the restaurant for Halloween. She loved this time of year. Kentucky’s landscape was stunningly gorgeous painted with brilliant reds, oranges and yellows, especially along The Palisades of the Kentucky River between Lock 7 and Lock 8. She was going to bedeck the diner first and then the pool clubhouse, where she planned to toss a big Halloween bash, costumes not optional. The drive-in would run movies from dusk to dawn—B horror flicks from the early ’60s, back in the heyday of Vincent Price and Christopher Lee. Nearly vibrating with the anticipation, she dragged the big box of decorations from The Oriental Trading Company out of the office. She sorted out the black garland with little metallic ghosts and started hanging it behind the counter.

  Sam poked his head out of the kitchen. Seeing she was occupied on the ladder, he tiptoed past with a plate, heading toward the glassed-in porch.

  “Taking a lunch break, Sam?” she called, hiding her laughter.

  “Damn, woman, you scared me.” His teeth flashed in a big grin. “I thought the cat that ain’t got a n
ame might be hungry. I fixed him some leftover chicken.”

  “He doesn’t look as if he’s missed many meals,” she pointed out.

  “Don’t mean he ain’t hungry. I don’t like anything to go hungry.”

  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.

&n
bsp; “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.