Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [28]
“Represents the breed? Hmm . . . never heard the expression before. I’d say it applies though.” Jago fixated on Asha’s mobile rear, as she stretched across the tables to gather sugar, salt-and-pepper containers. The curves in those tight, white jeans made his hands itch. He took a draw on his beer; the icy cold Coors did little to stem the rising heat in his body.
“It’s a horse breeders’ term. You hear it a lot on the farms around here. That one special horse above all others, when their confirmation is so perfect, that the contours just make you want to run your hands over their sleek body, ache to get them between your thighs.” Liam sighed, his eyes seeking Netta.
“A horse, hmm?” Jago consider the metaphor. “When I watched Asha last night, I thought of my Harley. I own a ’67 Electra Glide. The bike’s design, the sound when you start it—nothing can compare to it. It’s riding thunder.”
“A horse? A motorcycle? You young-uns.” Sam scoffed. “When I look at a good woman I think of boats. I was in Florida for my vacation last year. Some guy had one of them high-priced, cigarette boats they race, tied up at a dock. This baby was neon blue and black—a Tiger XP, the owner said it was. He was nice enough to take me for a ride. Opened those engines wide. Wow. Talk about riding thunder.”
Derek Whitaker, busboy at The Windmill, pushed through the swinging door from the kitchen and went behind the counter, untying the folded apron around his hips. “Don’t tell Asha, but I’m stealing a beer.”
“We’re mum. We men have to stick together,” Liam replied unconcerned.
“You think of a good horse, Liam,” Derek said, clearly having overheard. “Our new Brit here thinks of a Harley. Sam—a cigarette boat. You’re all wrong. A good woman is like a Shelby—quality throughout and damn few of them about. You slide into that tight driver seat, shove the key in the ignition . . . now there is riding the thunder.”
Liam rotated halfway on his stool. “What’s that, Derek, wishful wet dreams talking? I hear Winnie MacPhee has been shooting you down for the last month.”
“Forget Winnie, she’s crazy.” The tall, strawberry blond man offered his hand to Jago. “I’m Derek Whittaker, assistant cook and busboy. You’re Jago Fitzgerald, mystery man. Not much happens in this wide spot in the road that isn’t common knowledge in an hour.” He sat and took a swig of his beer. “Now my Shelby—that’ll make a grown man get down on his knees and cry. It’s clean, man. Runs like a scared deer. Sad sorry shame I have to sell it.”
Jago stared at Derek, incredulous. “Sell a Shelby? That might be considered grounds for an insanity claim.”
The young man shrugged. “I want to be a vet. Asha pulled some strings and got me into Auburn University. Not an easy trick, even with good grades. It’s the only veterinarian school in about a five state area. I’ll have to travel back and forth between Kentucky and Alabama frequently, to make sure mom is doing okay on the farm and such. It’s a ten-hour drive each way—the Shelby deserves better treatment. I figured it’d bring enough money to get a dependable car for me and have some cash left over to help out my mom. The problem is no one around here can afford it. I have it up on eBay with a buyer’s reserve of $35,000. So far, no bid has come close. This car is mint, cherry. Black interior, black exterior, a little red pin-stripe on the fenders . . .”
Liam chuckled. “Yeah, you so much as put a hand on the door and he has to wash and wax it.”
Jago took out his box of Swisher Sweets. “Okay if I smoke?” All the men nodded, so he lit up and passed the package around, each of them taking one. “What year?”
“Same as your bike—’67.”
“I haven’t seen it in the lot.” Jago glanced through the plate-glass windows. “I’d have noticed a Shelby.”
“Leave it in the lot to get dinged or for Monty to gouge its length with a key? Bite your tongue. I drive mom’s truck to work.” Derek shook his head.
“Have breakfast with me in the morn. Bring the car and let me take it for a test run,” Jago suggested, exhaling the smoke. “If it’s as cherry as you say—”
Liam butted