Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [26]
“What the hell is this?” he roared.
Asha started toward the table; however, Liam beat her there. “You got a problem, Mont-a-gue?” Placing both hands on the table, her brother leaned forward and glared.
Faulkner’s face turned a motley red. “Someone put salt in the damn ice water!”
“Liam.” Asha touched his elbow softly. After a second, her brother stepped back with a faint nod, recognizing she was the owner of the restaurant, not him, and thus it was her right to handle the problem. “Mr. Faulkner, is there some trouble?”
“Salt! Someone spiked the ice water with salt!”
“I saw Rhonda draw the water. She didn’t put anything in it. No one but you has touched it since,” Asha informed him in an even tone.
“You telling me that I put the salt in the water?” he snarled. He started to rise from his seat, hesitating as his eyes flicked to Liam standing behind her, and then to Jago, who materialized at her elbow. Sam stuck his head out the swinging door, a heavy metal spatula in his hand. Asha sighed. Men and their time-honored code of protecting their women.
“I didn’t put salt in my own damn water,” Monty insisted. Asha spread her hands in the air. “I didn’t accuse you of that, but since you broke the glass I cannot check it now. I’ll bring you another.”
“There better not be salt in it,” he threatened.
Asha calmly got a glass of ice water and set it before him.
In a flashback to that bloody crocodile, the disturbing man moved before she could blink. Deceptively fast for a man whose debauchery had taken its toll upon his body, his hand caught her wrist in a vise grip. “You won’t always have those young bucks standing behind you, missy. Remember that.”
Asha met his eyes lacking any spark of humanity, only that air of a predator that killed because that was how he was created. “You don’t scare me, Mr. Faulkner. I carry a Colt Python. You ever come near me, I’ll start with your knees and shoot my way up without hesitation.” For emphasis she smiled, formed her right finger and thumb into a gun and shot him.
“Let go of the lady—now,” Jago growled from behind her.
A surly look crossed Faulkner’s eyes, but Asha saw he was backing down. Bullies always did when they couldn’t shove people around. They were only strong when they had someone weaker at their mercy. The man swallowed hard.
Faulkner bluffed it by rising in the booth. “Or you’ll what, Fancy Pants?”
Suddenly, the jukebox turned on and Ray Peterson’s voice sang out, “Laura and Tommy were lovers . . . He wanted to give her everything . . .”
Faulkner turned a ghastly shade of gray and released Asha’s wrist. He looked at her strangely, and then his head jerked to Jago, the alarm growing to one of terror. “No. It can’t be.”
“Tell Laura not to cry . . . My love for her will never die . . .”
“This is some sick joke.” Faulkner pushed himself from the booth, shoving Asha aside. Jago caught her, then moved to stand before her.
Faulkner shoved past them and rushed to the door. He yanked on it, but found it oddly stuck. As he rattled the knob, he kept staring as if the jukebox were a metal monster from outer space come to munch humans. In desperation, he kicked at the door as the song built to a crescendo and ended. Immediately, the player launched into a new song, “Last Kiss” by J. Frank Wilson and the Cavaliers.
A swirl of wind ruffled the tickets by the register, causing Faulkner to jump. Like a cornered rat, he glanced around, searching for another exit. There was one through the formal dining room, but he’d have to get past Asha and Jago in the aisle between the booths. Another was through the office, but Liam and Netta were at the end of the counter blocking him. He started toward the kitchen, only to have Sam’s face pop up on the other side of the circular pane of glass, again brandishing a spatula. Faulkner spun and backtracked to the front door.