She was tall for a woman, and almost all legs. I only discovered that much once I had wound my way over to her side of the bar and gotten a good look at the stems that shifted and slid just below the surface. It was an unthinkable train of thought, but I couldn't help imagining the entire time I talked to her—Ana, she said her name was—what those lean legs would feel like wrapped tightly around my waist, thigh muscles clenched.
And I'm not just talking about on the back of my bike.
But again, unthinkable. I ride alone, and I sure as Hell don't get myself enmeshed in situations like the one this woman is clearly running from. Whatever, or whoever, is hounding her, she's better off dealing with it on her own…and I'm better off not getting dragged into the equation. Parting ways and disappearing back down separate roads is the best possible conclusion to this little diversion for the both of us.
I see the thugs coming. I didn't see them when they entered, but I could care less about who comes and goes through the doors of an establishment like this. I'm not a regular, not even a local. I stopped off in this derelict watering hole for a quick drink and maybe a bite to eat to refuel, with every intention of riding all night into the next town and sleeping the day away. I rest better during the day, and drive like a demon at night. It's just the way it goes.
Looking at a woman like Ana, I can imagine a better use of my time than sleeping in whatever hole-in-the-wall motel I wind up at. But I'm not going to let myself think it. Maybe, on the long, lonely drive back over county lines, I'll allow myself to reflect on this woman and what might have been.
That had been my intention, anyway. Then that asshole laid his meaty hand on her, right in front of me, and those China-blue eyes I had been losing myself in for the past half hour, those eyes that drowned me surer than what passed for top shelf whiskey in a joint like this, locked on me and wouldn't let go.
She's gotten herself into something. Maybe it's something she never even asked for. She's desperate for help, but too stubborn to plead for it from a relative stranger she has just met at the bar. I shouldn't get involved. But now, I'm seeing red rather than blue; I'm seeing a hand that has no business being there sullying the thin arm of a woman whose been skirting trouble ever since she walked through the door.
I drain my whiskey in a single swallow, knock the empty bottom of my glass against the bar for good luck; then I turn, and smash it over the man's skull.
His head isn't as steel-plated as it looks. He stumbles forward, and Ana darts out of the way of his falling body. He lists heavily and goes down, reaching out to take the nearest table with him. The two men sitting at it lunge backward out of their chairs as it collapses on top of the suited man, raining a shower of liquor and shattering glasses.
I raise myself up out of the stool as I watch the fiasco unfold; I'm sure my expression doesn't betray anything in the way of surprise at my actions. I lost my cool, but only I seem aware of it. My immediate jump to violence is having more of an effect on the people around me. Ana stares at me, her blue eyes now horror-stricken, but somehow I don't think she minds seeing my monstrous side rear its ugly face in her defense. The expression vanishes, and the muscles in her thin face set in determination as she bends to retrieve her bag from where she dropped it. I can see that she is shaking, but not as much as she had been before, when she first spotted the men and manufactured a weak excuse to leave the bar and go her own way.
The other men swarm us. I expected it, but I'm out of drinks. I reach behind me for Ana's abandoned stein, only to find that the bartender, who is losing glassware left and right, has snatched it back and crouched back behind the bar with it. I shoot him a very black, very unhappy glare, but there's no time to force him into manufacturing another weapon for me.
I grab my stool and wheel it around, putting all of my weight behind a second assault and utilizing all of my momentum. At the last second, right when it looks like my aggressors are about to dodge back and out of the way, I release it and let it fly; it sails through the air like a missile and throttles the man in the lead. It hits him in the chest and he staggers back, dragging down another table with him.
The patrons of the bar are clearly regulars from town; evidently, they have had enough of seeing their favorite dive shattered and splintered to pieces by out-of-towners. In this instance, these strangers' apparent penchant for dressing expensively has worked in their disfavor.
I back quietly from the scene in an effort not to make myself a target as the locals grab up chairs and start throwing punches—sometimes aimed at the person sitting across from them, mostly aimed at the two men on the floor and the two that remain hovering upright in clear indecision as to how to act next.
Ana backs toward me. I reach for her arm before I can direct myself not to, but she doesn't shy or cringe away from me as she did with the man in the black suit. In fact, she allows herself to be directed easily. With my hand clutching her forearm, I steer us toward the back of the establishment. We walk right into the kitchen; the cook glances up, but he appears dull-eyed and disinterested by our entrance. A portable radio blares mariachi music at an almost intolerable level, covering the sounds of glass and furniture breaking as the fight continues. I push Ana out the back door and into the alley beside the dumpsters.
Dusk is falling. Wan light from the setting sun infuses the gray sky above us. There are clouds gathering in the distance down the road in my intended direction that don't bode well for my night's ride. As always, I'll ride anyway.
Ana follows me around the side of the building to my bike, a panther-black Harley-Davidson Sportster. We don't run, but walk quickly; Ana has to take two steps for every one of my longer strides to keep pace. There is a silent understanding between us that I don't care to pause to examine. She needs a ride out, and in a place like this I'm her only viable option. I don't know who is hunting her.
What I do know? She's going to need a man who has done his own hunting to protect her.
"I'm heading west."
My hands come up, and I toss my helmet to her. I don't have a spare. She catches it against her chest, never breaking eye contact with me; she looks puzzled by the unspoken invitation, but not ungrateful. She nods minutely, in understanding and submission, as I turn away.
My own safety isn't a primary concern of mine, and it needn't be one of hers. She's in enough trouble already, by the looks of things—the helmet will lend her some anonymity that appears desperately needed. I can only assume the men pursuing her aren't half as dumb as they look if they managed to track her all the way out here. Odds are they'll be looking for a rider like me. My plan is to drop her in the next town and be done with the whole affair. I have my own mission to fulfill, and I can't have a woman as distractingly beautiful as this one riding behind me if I'm going to keep a clear head.
I throw my leg over the seat and settle in. Ana quickly follows suit. I feel the blunt carapace of the helmet come to rest between my shoulders, and I try and concentrate on that point of contact—and that one only—as the Sportster roars to life.
We peel out of the parking lot, gravel popping and flying beneath the teeth of my wheels. The bike lurches out onto the road, and I feel Ana's arms tighten around my already tensed midsection.
I expected the Sportster to ride differently with her additional weight on the back, but it handles better than expected. It's possible that with the rider weight more evenly distributed now it won't be as front heavy. I'm curious if there will be a noticeable difference in my ability to speed up. I wrench the accelerator as we fly through the dwindling daylight, straight into the night. The needle on the speedometer tracks our mileage normally, seamlessly, as I hit ninety and keep going up.