Like a Fox on the Run, стр. 22
On the bed, the girl smiled at the two ex-lover’s parting. Obviously not taken back by their obvious affection, she sat patiently, awaiting her turn.
“Tanner …”
“Yes?” Shit! She called me Tanner … here we go.
“Please be careful tonight.”
He wanted to say something dismissive, to make light of her suspicions. But hell, she knew him better than anyone. To try to play her would be an insult. Besides, after all they’d been through, she deserved better than bullshit. Even though his window of opportunity had long since closed, she would always be a trusted friend.
“I always am, doll,” he smiled, as he gave her a wink. “I always am.”
Disconnecting from Lulah, Tiger stood silent for a few moments, still staring at the spot in space where her hologram had floated. It was always the same. A few wonderful minutes of reminiscing, followed by hours of soul-searching, regret and wondering what might’ve been.
He sighed in resignation and looked to the girl on the bed. He felt guilt. She was only a temporary fix, a quick shot of painkiller to ease the hurt of a heartache that would probably one day kill him. He wondered why he kept coming back to knock those damned scabs off time and time again.
The Andi laid back on the bed and stretched like a lazy cat, displaying those glorious breasts as she did. She was letting him know she’d been patient enough. She rolled onto her side and patted the mattress beside her.
Maybe it was all for the best. He could use a little distraction right now. Maybe it would keep him from thinking too much tonight. Thinking too much about Lulah when liquor was around always seemed to get him in trouble. And at least this time, it wouldn’t be with someone who ended up hurt and disappointed as well, once he put her on her way.
He took a deep breath and dropped the towel. Yeah, a little distraction would do very nicely right now.
Chapter 3
The Blackwater Bar wasn’t on any of the Chamber of Commerce brochures for Huntsville’s nightlife attractions. A cinderblock building with a rusted, corrugated tin roof, all the windows had been painted black, allowing no light in or out. It sat in a bend of the Tennessee River on the grounds of a long-defunct marina, behind what had once been Salvage Yard B of the old Arsenal. A long, red-dirt, access way adjacent to the yard led down to it from the main skyway. A creaky, rotten pier in the rear allowed waterborne access.
It was the kind of joint you didn’t have to go looking for trouble. It’d be waiting for you as soon as you walked in. Folks around town had a saying about the place, “If you didn’t have a weapon when you got there, one would be issued to you at the door.” It was a hangout for outlaw hoverbikers, smugglers, drug dealers and other miscreants who lived outside the law, moving in the shadows on the outskirts of regular society. These were people who lived a transient lifestyle, rarely sleeping in the same bed more than two nights in a row, usually just one step ahead of the law and always looking over their shoulder. These were hard, rough men and women who lived on the edge, literally and figuratively. They were outlaws and bandits, yet they were governed to a certain extent by unwritten and unspoken codes. They might steal, rob, deal, smuggle and even kill, but it was always business. Just business. There were no serial killers or kiddie rapists here. Just people trying to make a living and unwind at the end of the day.
The strippers here were a far cry from the high-dollar clubs of Atlanta and Nashville. Most were way past their prime and strung out on moonbeam. Many turned tricks on the side to supplement their income and support their addictions. The waitresses weren’t much better. If you were desperate enough and up to date on your STD vaccines, for a few extra points or a pack of real Martian-made cigarettes on their tray, you could get a few minutes out back or in a bathroom stall, although management frowned on those encounters, since they backed up the piss lines.
***
The sun was setting fast in the western sky, as the drab, olive-colored van roared down the access way, leaving a plume of dust behind it. The sun’s orange rays reflected harshly off the rusting metal hulks that dwarfed the little hovercraft over in the mammoth space junkyard. There were rows and rows of old Goliath III booster rockets, scavenged Charger bodies and obsolete StarBarge cargo pods. As the van settled to a landing in the bar’s gravel parking lot, the nondescript vehicle looked about as out of place as a two-point whore at a Buckhead bar-mitzvah.
Inside, the driver cycled the engines down and turned to his rider. “Well, here we are,” he said, an eager grin on his chubby, baby face. “I’m ready to wet my whistle.”
“Yeah, and you’re going to get us both fired, asshole!” his partner grumbled. “How’d you find this dump anyway?”
“The guy at the station where we charged up was telling me about it,” he replied while he slicked back his hair in the rearview mirror. “It’s off the main drag, so we ain’t gotta worry about someone from the company spotting us. The beer’s cheap and …” He gave his partner a wink, “So are the women!”
Toby Dodd shook his head. What rotten luck to be saddled with such a dick! He took his job as a security officer with GenetX Corporation seriously. For his partner, Wilbur Perkins, it was simply a position he was holding until his uncle in Human Resources found him something a little cushier. Until then, Toby was stuck babysitting this dumpy, fat bastard.
“Wilbur, I