Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [25]
Both men were smiling, talking easily, obviously comfortable with each other. Evidently something was said about her, for Liam turned and very pointedly looked as she wiped down the counter. A blush rose to Asha’s cheeks as both sets of eyes fixed upon her, but Asha only saw the man with sable hair. Unable to look away from Jago, all around her shifted focus, blurring.
Asha swallowed hard, fighting back panic. This special bond summoned by Jago Fitzgerald scared the bloody hell out of her.
The spell broke as Monty Faulkner swaggered through the door. Asha gritted her teeth. Something was decidedly queer about Faulkner, and not as in Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, but off. He rarely came in the restaurant, and he never did anything out of line, but Asha hated the way he leered at her.
The man’s eyes were a strange flat gold, reminding her of a crocodile she’d once seen on a school field trip to the Cincinnati Zoo. She’d gone into the reptile house along with the other children. Snakes gave her the willies, and lizards weren’t much better; eschewing those exhibits, she walked to the corner and looked down. Oddly, she’d found herself staring at a glass floor with a crocodile under her. A large one. She’d watched it, assuming it to be stuffed, a harmless display. The eyes were a weird yellow-gold, lifeless like marbles. As she observed the thing, repulsed yet hypnotized, the blasted croc jumped up and snapped at her. She was terrified, seeing that yawning jaw coming at her; only when the croc bumped into the glass did she breathe again, remembering there was fortunately a barrier between them. As soon as the blasted creature understood that, too, the thing went back to lying there, alive, yet there was no life force to the reptile. It existed and killed. That was the long and short meaning to its life.
Asha recalled that crocodile when she looked at Montague Faulkner—only there was no glass wall between them.
In his twenties and thirties he’d likely been beautiful, a golden angel that would’ve outshone Liam or Jago. His hair was California blond, the shade few ever kept into adulthood, the mass of curls at odds with a face ravaged from time and drink. Not having a magic portrait tucked up in his attic like Dorian Gray, the ugliness of his soul was etched on his dissipated countenance.
Without waiting for Rhonda to seat him, he shoved into the large C-shaped booth at the front of the diner. Asha opened her mouth to caution him, but a breeze brushed against her cheek. She glanced around, puzzled. The door to the kitchen and the one to the front were closed. The heater overhead blew warm air; this had a distinct chill. Feeling little guilt, she shrugged and kept her mouth shut.
Netta strolled over, placing an empty tray on the stack at the end of the counter. She flashed a fake smile and through her teeth said, “Jerk alert.” Going to the fountain, she drew a Big Red and then grabbed a Snickers bar. “I’m taking my break. Let Rhonda earn her keep.” With that, she retreated into Asha’s darkened office.
“How about some service?” Faulkner growled.
Rhonda tended to ignore people that dared seat themselves. With a perfect arched eyebrow, she glanced at Asha and frowned in distaste. Asha gave her a faint nod. With an exaggerated sigh, Rhonda went to take his order.
Asha glanced at Jago. He caught her staring and winked. When she pretended to ignore him, he leaned over to the jukebox’s wallette and flipped through the selector. Pulling change from his pocket, he dropped a quarter in the coin slot and pushed the red buttons. The room filled with the slow sexy sound of the Shirelles’“Baby It’s You.” “It’s not the way you smile that touched my heart . . .”
Asha’s heart slowed to