Swallow the Moon (6 page)

But she could not visualize it in the garage, that damn thing was too powerful.

Drat it.

June was fuming when Eric politely tapped on the kitchen door. He walked into the kitchen, then rubbed his eyes, as if to clear them. He was well over six feet tall with tousled hair that was several shades darker than his beard and mustache. He had shed the leathers; he looked much less formidable in a T-shirt and jeans. She liked the wide set to his shoulders and the way he moved.

If he'd get a date with a barber, he'd be a knockout.

"Hey, I was wondering if I could use your phone book." Eric had a soft, deep voice.

"Uh, phone book?" June brought her hands out of the dishwater. The book was in one of the drawers. She wiped her hands off on a towel before she got it out. "Here." She handed it over.

"Um, would you like something to drink, a soda or coffee?"

"Coffee. Can I wash my hands?"

"Sure." June moved away from the sink. She didn't like the way he towered over her. He made her feel small, which she was but also fragile, which was silly, since she'd been able to drag his dead weight into the ditch.

"Coffee smells wonderful." He leaned against her counter. "I didn't get any sleep last night."

"I wouldn't think so." June busied herself with getting him coffee. Say something, talk to him damn it. She thought frantically, "Did you get any breakfast?"

"No, ma'am."

"I'll you fix something."

"I don't want to be any trouble."

June turned to him, coffee cup in hand.

"If it was any trouble, I wouldn't have offered." She carried his coffee to the breakfast bar, setting it down. It was a hint for him to get out of her kitchen. He was still leaning on her counter.

"Please have a seat."

His eyebrows went up but he sat at the bar.

That was an improvement.

"I think you've gotten a bad impression of my home town. I'd like to fix that."

He sipped coffee while he leafed through the phone book.

"There aren't any motorcycle dealers in the phone book."

"No?" June cocked her head. "You may need to call information to find the nearest. There isn't a whole lot of money in this town. You may have to go to Erie or Cleveland to find a dealership."

"Have you got internet?"

"Dial-up."

 "Stone-age, but sufficient. Where is the computer?"

June led him to the back office where her old PC was hooked to the phone line. She left him muttering about dinosaurs while she finished the dishes. She rummaged in the pantry for potatoes, planning a big breakfast. He must be starving.

"Is there something I can do to help?" Eric asked from behind her.

June jumped. She hadn't heard him come back into her kitchen; she didn't like surprises. If he kept this up, she would call Tasha in. The thought cheered her up.

"Wash these, then nuke them for six minutes." She handed him the potatoes. That would keep him where she could see him.

"Okay."

"Did you find what you needed?"

"Not around here. Hopefully I won't need a new wheel."

Refreshing both cups of coffee, she snuck a glance at him from under her lashes. He seemed to know how to use a microwave. He sipped his coffee while she puttered around, getting her pans ready. When she took the egg basket out of the pantry, he broke his silence.

"You don't refrigerate your eggs?"

"They were just laid yesterday," June said. "I only refrigerate them after they're a couple days old."

He was looking at her with one eyebrow raised.

"Haven't you ever eaten farm eggs?"

"I'm a city boy."

"There's a first time for everything." June grinned. "How do you like your eggs?"

"Over easy." His expression was still hidden behind all that facial hair. Was he the macho type who never cracked a smile? Hints didn't work – time to get firm with him.

"Out." She shooed him out of the kitchen with a wave of her hand. His eyes smiled as he backed out of her space. The microwave chirped. June pulled the hot potatoes out, then cut them up. While her back was turned, she heard the click of a burner control. He was back in her kitchen.

"Do you cook?" She dropped the potatoes into the hot pan, expecting him to say 'no.'

"Yes." Then he smiled, transforming from stern to charming. "I'm a good cook."

"You said you were a chemist."

"Cooking is all about chemistry." The twinkle of mischief in his eyes reassured her.

She allowed him to brown the potatoes while she fried the eggs and they chatted about chickens as they cooked. Once everything was ready, they sat down at the bar to eat. She could tell how hungry he was by the way he concentrated on his breakfast.

"Did you get enough to eat?"

"Yeah, the eggs were great." Eric grinned at her. His plate was clean. "Everything tastes better when you're hungry."

"I've got more."

"I'm good for now." He toasted her with his coffee cup.

"So how bad is the bike?"

"Flat tire, the wheel may be bent." His face changed from open and friendly to closed and thoughtful. "I got the mud off. If I don't need a new wheel, I can get out of here today." He fidgeted with his watchband, twisting it. "I have to find Van Man Go."

"Where did you get the motorcycle?" June made small talk as she picked up the dishes. On one hand she felt sorry for him, but the bike needed to go.

"I bought it in Columbus, from the widow of a cop name Patterson." Eric said. "She was very bitter, said that the bike had killed her husband. She said he was out for a ride and…" Eric put down his coffee cup with an audible clunk. His coffee sloshed over the rim onto his hand.

 "Crap."

"What?" June looked over at him as she snagged a paper towel.

"She said…" He shook the coffee off his hand. "He wiped out on a curve."

They looked at each other, the pieces falling together. June could almost hear the triumphant shout: 'We killed the narc!'

"Was he a narc?" June asked as she handed him a paper towel over the counter.

"I think so." Eric cleaned up the spill. "There was a plaque from the DEA." He thought for a moment. "She said she should burn 'the bitch' for killing her husband."

"It's different." June thought about the cold hulking beast and shuddered. "Did you have it painted like that?"

"No, I think that was the first owner." Eric yawned. "The artist is a genius. I've never seen anything so realistic."

"Me either."

"Sorry. I'm short on sleep." He rubbed his bloodshot eyes, yawned again and stretched.

"It's nearly noon," June said after a glance at the clock. "I'd better bring the dogs in." She left the kitchen. He'd had a horrible night and a hard morning. He was disheveled and exhausted. She had seen into his soul, he meant no harm – she could be compassionate. She let Rags and Tasha in the house. Their nails clicked as they danced around her in greeting. She smiled as Tasha – a hundred pounds of frisky Doberman – played with the ten-pound terrier.

Eric was smiling, too. He called Tasha over and roughed up her ears. She gave him a happy look and pressed against his leg for more petting. Tasha's acceptance made June's mind up.

"I have a guest room. You can lie down and catch some sleep."

Eric shook his head as another yawn threatened to crack his jaw. "I went for days without sleep when I was active duty."

"A couple of hours sleep won't hurt you," June said. "Crash out for a bit. I'll get you up." She took hold of his wrist, tugging. "Come on."

He looked sheepish, but his eyes were warm with gratitude. June decided she liked him a whole lot. It didn't hurt that he had that lean sexy look to him. She led him to the guestroom upstairs. It had a low ceiling and was furnished with Aunt Lizzie's cast-off brass bed. The bed had a brick hard mattress, but Eric sat down with a sigh. Tasha jumped up beside him, giving him an once-over sniff before she curled up.

"Tasha, get off."

"It's okay," Eric said. "After what she did to that guy, she's welcome to stand guard over me any day." He kicked off his boots.

"As long as you're sure," June said. "I'll leave the door closed or you'll have Rags and the cat in here, too. Naptime is an invitation to pile up."

"Those pain pills didn't last very long," Eric complained as he stretched out. "I need to fill that prescription." His lean frame went limp. Tasha rested her head on his thigh, heaving a sigh.

June shook her head as she walked out the door. Lucky dog.

~^~

Eric drifted for a moment between waking and sleeping. The room was dark; the warmth at his back was unfamiliar. He moved his head, cracked open one eye – moving hurt. The big black Doberman was stretched out, keeping his back warm. The rest of him was cold.

"Go back to sleep," a woman with white hair said as she pulled the quilt over him.

Eric pulled the quilt higher, then settled under it.

~^~

"Van Man Go" was painted in red and yellow flames on the window of the old gas station. Spray-painted graffiti style on the wall were two racing crotch-rocket motorcycles, red and white, followed by a horde of demons. The rider of the lead motorcycle was a red-skinned devil with horns. He was laughing over his shoulder at the woman on the white bike as the demons closed in on her.

DEA agent Jake Patterson stopped his pickup truck in front of the window. The mural gave him the screaming shivers; he parked where he couldn't see it. He could hear the deafening shriek of someone torturing a guitar – he couldn't think of it as music – coming out of the bay.

A massive amount of crystal meth was coming from a lab somewhere between Erie, Pennsylvania and Cleveland, Ohio. He needed a damn good excuse to hang around with bikers at the local bars. He wanted a sharp bike to make him noticeable, one that was fast enough to save his skin in a pinch.

The one he wanted was inside.   

"God help me," he said softly as he stepped in the bay. There was an electrical snap, the music stopped mid-screech.

"Hell fire!" A scrawny gollum of a man rose to his feet from behind the very bike Jake had come to see.

"What do you want?" The man demanded as his eyes flickered over Jake. He wore a sleeveless t-shirt, jeans, a metal ring around his neck. His skin was covered in tattoos and his face was pierced in several places.

"I came to see the cobra bike." Jake pointed towards the gleaming, golden Hayabusa. The white base paint was overlaid with a scaled texture like a snake, in diamonds of brown, white, ivory and soft buttery yellow. It looked so real his fingers itched to caress it.

"Cora's not ready yet." Van Man Go looked down at the bike, like a man who thirsted for a drink he knew he couldn't take.

"Cora?" Jake breathed the name walking forward, letting his fingers lightly skim the smooth, cold steel. He had to have her - it. The Hayabusa would give him 'street-cred,' bikers would accept him and women would beg him for rides. She – it – was exactly what he needed for this sting.

"Cora Cobra, I painted the bike for her. She died owing me half her soul." Van's lips twisted. "Take a look." He pointed to the far wall where dozens of photos of a scantily-clad woman with black hair, the bike and a snake hung in one section of a huge collage on the wall.

Jake couldn't tear his eyes from the photos.

The woman looked back at him with sultry fire in her eyes. Her lush body promised him everything he ever dreamed of. He could do this, pull off this deep cover operation and come out a fucking hero. He'd be a north-coast Sonny Crockett, envied by every DEA agent in the state; no, in the country. She could make it all happen.

He had to own her.

"I want her."

"She won't come cheap."

"How much?"

"Fifteen, plus five for the touch up – call it an even twenty grand."

Jake crossed his arms over his chest. This guy was trying to rip him off. That wasn't going to happen.

"I want her as is."

"I can't sell her like this," Van snorted. "I've got to restore her." The thin artist grabbed his hand, pulled him over to the other side of the bike. There were several long scratches on the fairing.

Jake touched the raw wounds in the plastic. He would find a way to work his cover around it.

"I need six weeks." Van Man Go's stooped body straightened. "I'll hold her for you with ten down, ten on completion. She'll be worth the wait."

"I have cash."