Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [140]
Monty went down, landing against the jukebox, his palm flattened on the metal side, trying to break his fall. He fused there. As it had knocked Asha on her arse, shocking her, she saw it now fed Monty electricity much in the manner of a man in an electric chair. Monty’s face swelled, his eyes bulged, yet he couldn’t let go. The jukebox arched, sizzled and popped; smells of phosphorous and copper filled the air. The horrid scene went on and on.
Her leg giving out, Asha collapsed into a heap at the edge of the bar, crying, unable to watch any longer. Suddenly, arms encircled, pulling her away. Instinct arose and she struggled against them, but then Jago was kissing her face and telling her it was all right. She was safe.
Jago.
She cried harder. So much pain and worry, all the fear—adrenaline was pumping through her and she couldn’t come down.
Monty howled as electricity pumped through his body destroying it. Then suddenly there was a loud explosion from within the Wurlitzer and it went silent. For an instant, Monty stood, frozen. Then fell face forward onto the floor. Dead.
Jago scooped her up in his strong arms, and carried her out of the nightmare scene.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Near dawn, Asha sat crosswise in the bathtub—one leg propped up on the edge to keep the cast out of the water. Soaking in soothing lavender bubble bath, she reached to find some sense of normalcy.
The state police had come and gone, taking Monty’s body away. Before that, the ambulance had carried Delbert, who was conscious by then, to the Chandler Hospital in Lexington. The young doctor attending assured Asha that her friend would recover completely, that they would keep him for observations. Seeing her bad limp, he’d suggested she ride with them and have her foot x-rayed. Asha hadn’t wanted to let go of Jago. If she did, she’d feared she would start shaking and might never stop.
Jago had driven her to the emergency room, held her hand while they x-rayed her foot, and then as they put it in a cast. Liam, Netta, Sam and Colin were in the waiting room when they came out. Once Sam made sure she was fine, he said he’d stay with Delbert. Colin drove Jago’s Jeep back to The Windmill, while Jago sat in the back holding her all the way home.
So much had happened in such a short span of hours.
The warmth of the lavender in the bath filled her mind, its calming influence making her drowsy. She closed her eyelids, but just for a moment . . .
“Tommy, I’m scared. What are they doing?”
Laura saw Tommy glance in the rearview mirror, knew he recognized Ewen hung out the passenger window, Wolf whistling and thumping on the door panel of Monty’s truck.
In slow motion—yet all happening too damn fast—Monty revved the truck’s engine to smash into the car again. Hard. The cement truck up ahead started to slow to make a left turn onto Richmond Pike. Laura watched, barely able to breathe as the road became winding, dangerous. The cliffs were coming up. Tommy dare not let this madness drag on there, or Monty would likely force them off one of the sharp S-turns.
The truck ahead started to slow, the brake lights only working on one side. There’d be no stopping. Tommy hit the gas, hoping to swing around the truck before it turned. As he did, Monty slammed into the car, jarring them forward. Too late, they saw the Peterbilt, barreling down on them from the other direction. The driver never had a chance to hit the brakes. Tommy attempted to swerve back, but Monty crashed into the Mustang again, pushing them forward into its path.
Crying tires, busting glass, grinding metal . . . her painful scream, as she knew everything was being stolen from her.
In movies, they show how your life passes before your eyes at the instant of your death. They lied. It wasn’t the years of her short life that ran through her mind. It was Tommy.
Always Tommy. That she wouldn’t marry him come next year. No Christmases, no long walks along the sandbar at Lock 8. No more kisses under the bell