Love bytes, p.24
Love Bytes, page 24
She stood and pulled her shorts back on. “I don’t care. I want to dance with you. In public.” She leaned over and kissed him, invading his mouth with her tongue, then kissed her way to his ear where she whispered, “Then we’ll come back to my place and spend the weekend fucking like bunnies.”
“You mean like we’re already doing.”
“Mmm-hmm,” she hummed. “Nova’s big test is on Monday and I want to be relaxed.” She pulled her top around her bare breasts, hefting them into its fabric.
Alex watched, mesmerized, looking away just long enough to reach for the door handle. “Ready?”
“Hold on, let me finish this,” she said, retying the top’s bow knot and adjusting her hat. “How do I look?”
Another wave of lust washed over him and he took a deep breath to steady himself. “Absolutely gorgeous, but Doctor Adams, while I very much would like to keep dancing horizontally with you, we have more dancing of the vertical sort to do before we go out tonight.”
He opened the door and let Cynthia squeeze through before he could give into the temptation to pull her back onto the couch. “I need to wash my hands before we get back to it.”
“As do I,” she replied. “Meet you back at my wallet.”
As he followed her toward the restrooms, he saw Cassandra out of the corner of his eye and immediately knew they’d been caught, his face flushing warm with embarrassment.
“Hi Cass. You’ve got a Salsa class next hour, don’t you?” he asked as Cynthia disappeared into the ladies’ room.
Her face was expressionless. “I’m never sitting on that couch again.”
Chapter twenty-nine
Boot Scootin’ Boogie
“You look like someone shot your dog.”
“Lot worse than that,” Harley grumbled, shoving the empty stein and shot glass toward Tammy, his favorite bartendress at The Railyard. She was nice, but nosy. “Keep ‘em coming.”
Tammy arched an eyebrow. “You’ve already had four boilermakers, Harley. You know what they call that?”
“A good start,” he growled, staring at Tammy’s chest. Were those things even real?
“I was thinking more like the sign of a problem,” she said, taking a swipe with a rag at the beer puddled on the bar’s worn surface.
“What you need to be thinking about is how your tip depends on how fast you can get me another, this time with two whiskies.”
She shot him a whatever look and reached for a pair of shot glasses. “So, what particular brand of shit was today?”
Harley stared hard at a bottle on the shelf behind her, blinking back the tears and shoving down the rage and the hurt and the humiliation that had every right to pour forth for all to see. Jack Daniel’s No. 7 Old Tennessee Whiskey. His favorite and he intended to drain that fucking bottle shot glass by shot glass before he left. He chuckled and shook his head, pushing his cap back a little.
“They took my daughter away from me and they fired me today.”
“They? They who?” she asked, frowning at him from behind the beer taps as she waited for Harley’s next stein to fill.
“Fucking curs,” he choked out. Shouldered upward by humiliation, rage lunged into his throat only to find itself blocked by the lump it found there. “Who else? They go after guys like me all the time.”
Her furrowed brow said she wasn’t following him. “Why would lycanths take your daughter?” she asked, wiping beer off the bottom of the stein.
He didn’t want to talk about the restraining order. “It’s all a part of them indoctrinating American citizens. My ex’s cur boyfriend had my parental rights terminated. Said I wasn’t good enough for Misty and he got a fucking lawyer to convince a judge to do it.”
Tammy slid the beer and whiskey in front of him and regarded him silently for a long moment. “That sucks and I know you’re hurting, but I can’t let you drive home on your own. Let me know when you’re ready to leave and I’ll call an Uber to come get you, on the house.”
Harley nodded and picked up one of the shot glasses. Yeah, he was hurting alright, and if anyone crossed him tonight before he was too drunk to stand he wouldn’t be the only one.
The loud crack and rattle of brightly colored billiard balls crashing into each other punched through the music. Cynthia’s ears swiveled, trying and failing to pick up conversations through the din as tension ratcheted up inside her.
“Not what you hoped for, huh?” Alex asked, giving her hand a squeeze.
She adjusted herself on her pair of stools and picked up the menu, squinting at it in the light from strings of bulbs hanging from the black ceiling. “I’m not sure what I was expecting,” she said, gazing around The Railyard’s dim interior. “I mean, it’s got a halfway reasonable dance floor, but the other couples traversed the line of dance inefficiently, their forms were less than optimal, and they seemed to be doing their best to get in our way.” She wrinkled her nose. “It stinks of cigarettes too.”
“They’re not well versed in floor craft, obviously, and cigarettes come with the territory.” Alex leaned closer to her and looked up into her eyes. “If you want to leave, just say the word and we’re outta here.”
Cynthia stared longingly at the burgers on the tables around them. They smelled delicious and she was hungry to the point of getting the shakes. “I’d at least like to have a few burgers and a beer and dance with you one more time before we go. It really was a long drive here.”
Alex stood on the rungs of his stool, searching for a server. “Can’t say much for the service, either. Those tables over there have been served drinks already and they came in after us.”
Her stomach tightened. “You don’t think it’s because of me, do you? I’m the only lycanth in here, so maybe they’re not into people like me.”
“I hope these folks aren’t that stupid.” Alex scanned the cavernous room again. “But I’m beginning to have doubts. I’ll go to the bar and get a couple of beers and ask for a server to come over. You fancy anything in particular?”
She flipped the menu over and examined its back. “I don’t see any craft beers.”
He chuckled. “Not that kind of place.”
“I’ll take anything as long as it’s not a stout or an IPA.” She wrinkled her nose. “Too bitter for me.”
“Got it. Back in a second.” He slipped off his stool and gave her a peck on the lips before disappearing into the crowd.
Cynthia watched dancers Two-Stepping in big loops around the floor as the band played on the stage to the side. Alex had taught her the Two-Step basic and some turns and she’d loved dancing with him, her new hat perched jauntily on her head. But something bothered her about the place. Wrapped up in the smells of cigarettes and beer and fried food was a fainter odor that made her uncomfortable. It came and went, and either some of the patrons were flatulent or they really didn’t like her being there.
She readjusted herself on her stools and searched for Alex near the bar. Something just wasn’t right.
Alex worked his way between booths and tables, squeezing between patrons seated on stools wearing all manner of t-shirts emblazoned with their favorite sportsball team logo or motorcycle brand or noxious political statement. A few smirked and shook their head as he passed, and he wondered if they disapproved of his powder blue Rogers Dancesport Studio t-shirt or the lady lycanth he’d brought into their favorite establishment.
Judging from the larger-than-average number of mullets and the snuff-ravaged, lower-than-average number of teeth per patron, he figured it was probably both.
Whatever. He’d get the beers, order the burgers at the bar, and hopefully wrap the evening up before some drunken fool said something stupid.
He pressed through the crowd near the bar and found a space between a blonde lady with huge hair and cowboy boots and a guy about his size wearing a flannel shirt over a wife-beater and a red cap with a fish embroidered on its front. “Excuse me,” he called to one of the bartenders over the din of the music. “I’d like to get a couple of beers, please.”
A red-haired woman in her twenties with snake bite piercings in her lower lip and a ring in one nostril came over. “Draft or bottle?”
He craned his neck, squinting at the labels on the taps. “Corona if you have it.”
“That’d be a bottle.” She pulled two bottles from a cooler, setting them on the bar in front of him. “Wanna open a tab?”
“Sure. Can I get four burger plates too?” he asked, pointing in Cynthia’s direction. “Our table is over there at the corner of the dance floor.”
Her eyes followed Alex’s gesture. “The table with the lycanth?”
“That’s the one.”
Her eyebrows arched. “You’re pretty bold bringing one of her kind in here.”
“Why’s that?” He knew what was coming, but he wanted to hear her say it.
She smirked. “Some folks don’t rightly approve of humans mixin’ with them lycanths is all,” she said, glancing at the guy with the cap and a half empty stein in his hand. “You might consider taking your business elsewhere after you eat.”
“Sounds like good advice to me,” Fish Cap growled, staring into his beer mug, his words slurred from too many of whatever he was drinking.
Alex knew better than to object to the stupidity on display. “Tell you what, let’s skip the burgers and I’ll pay for the beers now,” he said, pulling a ten out of his pocket and shoving it across the bar to the bartendress. “Keep the change.”
He picked up the bottles and managed to make it to the edge of the dance floor before a savage kick from the side swept his legs out from under him. Alex hit the dance floor hard on his stomach, the bottles flying from his hands and shattering on the floor, sending beer and glass shards spraying across the dirty hardwood. Dancers scattered and a startled “oh!” rippled through the honky-tonk. The band stopped playing as dancers stood in an awkward silence, staring at Alex and Fish Cap.
Fish Cap’s voice slurred in the sudden silence. “You goddamn dog fucker. Why in the fuck would you bring your filthy cur of a girlfriend in a place meant for humans, huh? Fuckin’ goddamn idiot. Get up, pussy. I got a thing or two to teach your sorry ass about bein’ a man.”
The fall had knocked the wind out of Alex and he struggled to draw in that first breath, rolling onto his side and looking up at Fish Cap, who was standing unsteadily above him, fisting his angry hands, glaring at him with pure hate in his eyes.
Heavy footsteps pounded rapidly across the dance floor. “What did you just do?” snarled an enraged woman’s voice. “Get away from him. Now!”
Alex saw Fish Cap look toward the voice, his jaw dropping as he took a step back.
A pair of large, furry, high-heel-clad feet with clawed toes appeared in front of Alex’s face just as Fish Cap’s filthy work boots shot straight up from the floor, their owner arcing through the air and crashing in a drunken heap ten feet away.
“Cynthia, stop!” squeaked Alex with the little bit of air he’d managed to pull in, waving his hands, but she was already crouching over Fish Cap, fangs bared and eyes ablaze.
She picked Fish Cap up by his shirt with one hand and pointed to Alex with the other. “You go apologize right now, whoever you are,” she gritted through her teeth, shaking him violently as his limbs flapped like a rag doll. The honkytonk erupted in laughter. “That was the epitome of rude,” she snarled.
“What’s epitome mean?” someone asked.
Alex saw her eyes narrow as she bared her fangs, her tail up and straight. “Are you going to do it?” she hissed.
Fish Cap’s eyes darted from Cynthia to Alex and back again and he gave her a jerky nod. Laughter and jeers rippled through the place. She set him on his feet and planted her hands on her hips, growling as he straightened his shirt, its front stretched out of shape by her fist. He picked his cap up off the floor and put it on his head.
“Fuck you cur,” he spat, then turned and half ran, half stumbled out of the bar to raucous cackling and shouts of “Pussy!”
Cynthia helped Alex to his feet. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”
He dusted himself off. “Yeah, I’m okay. Let’s just get out of here.”
“I found the source of the stink. It was that guy,” she said, taking Alex by the hand and leading him through the crowd. “At least mostly. But now it’s coming from everywhere.”
Alex struggled to keep up, trying to stay within the wide wake she cut through the wary crowd, his ankle aching where Fish Cap had kicked him. “He didn’t look like someone who showered on a regular basis.”
“Wouldn’t matter if he did,” she said as she opened the door and led him out into the parking lot. “You can’t wash off hate.”
Harley pulled off I-20 and took the first right into the Waffle House parking lot, easing his pickup into a space away from the restaurant door. He turned the key in the ignition and as the engine coughed to silence, he rolled down the driver’s window and pulled out his phone. Not only was he pissed off about the beating he got and being jeered at, he was also pissed that his pistol was missing its clip. Fucking dumbass Rufus. Coulda taken care of that cur and her pervert boyfriend when they left The Railyard, but no, the retard had to go rummaging around for ammo to shoot squirrels and leave Harley unarmed when he most needed his goddamn gun.
“Lessee here,” he mumbled, fuming, “what was that on that piece of shit’s t-shirt? Somethin’ dance studio.” He opened his phone’s map app and searched for “dance studios near me.” A dozen options came up and he squinted at the glowing screen, his eyes having trouble pointing in the same direction from all the boilermakers he’d pounded down. Wasn’t his fault he went and got drunk. If his goddamn lycanth boss hadn’t gone and fired him for no good reason, Harley would have been home in Rufus’s trailer drinking beer in front of the TV instead of drowning his sorrows at the bar, even though it was his favorite place Tammy had a hell of a rack.
His bleary eyes locked on the fifth item in the list: Rogers Dancesport Studio. That was it. That’s what was on that bastard’s t-shirt.
And because the dude had the t-shirt and had been dancing with the cur at the dance hall, Harley figured he could probably find both of them at that stupid studio. He tapped on the web site link, navigating from page to page, settling on the Photos page.
“Huh,” he grunted, squinting at a picture of a guy dancing with a stupid cur in a ridiculous white dress with a tasseled skirt. The caption read, “Doctor Cynthia Adams dances with RDS director Alex Rogers.”
He stared through the cracked windshield into the brightly lit interior of the Waffle House, thinking, watching the cook and waitresses busy with customer orders. Now he knew their names. He’d go find the place tomorrow and, having nothing better to do, he could just watch the place for them to show up.
Harley sat quietly, conjuring up ideas of what he’d like to do to the cur and her boyfriend while waiting for sobriety to catch up to him, but soon got bored. He launched the YouTube app on his phone and brought up his favorite Pastor Bart sermon, dragging his finger along the little slider below the video to get to the good part.
A bloody Jesus bound to a cross with barbed wire hung on the cinderblock wall. Pastor Bart stood next to his podium in his secret chapel where the Government couldn’t find him. He’d sacrificed himself to bring God’s word to the American people about curs and Harley’d sent him money to help with the mission. As he watched, Pastor Bart looked up from his Bible and stared into the camera with his icy gray eyes. Harley was sure the guy was looking straight into his soul.
“And my children, I now quote to you from First Samuel, chapter fifteen, verses two and three,” Pastor Bart said solemnly. He picked up his Bible and Harley knew Pastor Bart was getting serious because he always did that when he had a big point to make. Goosebumps raised on Harley’s arms in anticipation.
“Listen now to the message from the Lord,” intoned Pastor Bart, his eyes on the Bible spread wide in his hand. “This is what the Lord Almighty Himself has inspired to be written: ‘I will punish the Amalekites for what they did to Israel when they waylaid them as they came up from Egypt. Now go, attack the Amalekites and totally destroy all that belongs to them. Do not spare them; put to death men and women, children and infants.’”
He put down his Bible and looked into the camera again. “White American men are the New Israel and Satan himself has brought back the Amalekites in the form of the soulless curs in his effort to vanquish the peaceful, God-fearing white race. Stand up for yourself, for your wives, for your children in holy deeds, not just words,” he shouted, red faced, looking down at his Bible again, “for it is also written in First Samuel, chapter fifteen, verse twenty-two: ‘Does the Lord delight in burnt offerings and sacrifices as much as in obeying the Lord? To obey is better than sacrifice, and to heed is better than the fat of rams.’”
Harley didn’t know what to make of “the fat of rams,” but it must have been pretty important for it to be part of the Bible.
“But I say this,” Pastor Bart continued, pounding the podium. “Obey the Lord thy God and give burnt offerings as well. Bring the fires of righteousness to the lycanths and everything and everyone they hold dear before they replace you, before they take everything from you!”
Harley stopped the video and turned his phone off, tapping his lip with a calloused fingertip. Bring the fires of righteousness…
His eyes opened wide and he sat up straight, feeling as sober as if he hadn’t taken a single drink. He knew what he had to do now, what God was commanding him to do through the words of Pastor Bart, and when God told you to do something, you fucking did it.
He started the truck and backed out of his parking place, the tires squealing as he heaved the truck onto the road and down the entrance ramp to I-20. He had been chosen. He had a mission for his life now, and it would start with Rogers Dancesport Studio.
