Ride the Lightning Read online

  RIDE THE LIGHTNING

  A Juliana Martin Mystery

  Terri Lynn Coop

  The Necessaries

  Cover Design by Matt Norris of M.G. Norris Photography of Agawam Massachusetts. Contact Matt about book cover design, wedding photography, and the best in fantasy and cosplay portraits at mgnorris.com

  Copyright © 2019 by Terri Lynn Coop of North Main Media

  www.terrilynncoop.com

  All rights reserved.

  Ride the Lightning is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  My big brother Ken left us in 2012, the same week my first anthology work hit print. I still have his copy. That I didn’t get to share it with him is one of my biggest regrets. But I know he’s still here with me: my best friend, number one reader, and personal lifeguard. As always, this one’s for you.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I always knew my law degree would come in handy. I was promoted from bartender to manager of the strip club outside of Biloxi in less than three months. It didn't hurt that the owner had walked in on my old boss auditioning a dancer on the couch in his office. The books were also a mess, both sets. It turns out the talent wasn't all he'd been tapping.

  Tommy Martin had taught his only daughter well. No one would ever find the skim I'd set up. As long as I kept the cash flowing, taxable and otherwise, I had free rein to run The Lightning Lounge as I saw fit.

  It sure as hell isn't Texas and that's a good thing.

  Employment applications cluttered my desk. I was short-staffed, and the pickings had been slim. A knock at the office door interrupted my musing. With any luck, part of the solution had arrived.

  "Come on in."

  She glided into the room on red stilettos. Her painted-on jeans and tank top hugged ample curves all the way up to a mass of blonde curls that Dolly Parton would kill for. Forty was in the rearview mirror, but she owned it.

  I took the outstretched hand dripping with rings and jangling bracelets. Her grip was strong and sure. This woman could wrestle trays of beer mugs and make it look easy.

  "Sit down," I glanced at her application, "Miss Hyatt."

  "Please, call me Maddie." I'd been here long enough to notice the different accents. She wasn't local.

  I pushed her application, heavy with experience behind the counter in diners, aside. The internal radar that used to tell me when a client or witness was lying helped me spot closet speed freaks and hustlers. Her wide blue eyes met mine without flinching. There was humor and intelligence there instead of the Free Parking sign I saw in too many.

  "Maddie, have you ever worked at a titty bar?"

  "Not exactly, but I think I have the right qualifications," she said in a voice dripping with southern honey.

  The laugh that bubbled up made my decision. I liked this broad.

  "I can put you on a training shift this Thursday. Payday's not until Friday and since it's all-you-can-eat crab at the casinos, it's our slowest night. Swap out the FMs for comfortable shoes. You'll be logging plenty of mileage."

  I handed her a paperwork package. "Bring your ID. I run a clean place. Everybody's paid on the books. No freelance hooking during working hours. No champagne scams. None of that shit."

  "You sure this is a roadhouse and not a convent?"

  "Hardly. Make sure those jeans are washable because you'll be collecting plenty of handprints. Running a legit shop is more profitable. We get tourists looking for excitement, every cop in three counties, and the boys from the chemical plant. My business plan is to legally separate those good folks from as much of their green as possible. You and your qualifications fit that goal perfectly."

  "Miss Martin, I do believe I'm going to like it here."

  "Call me Juliana. Feel free to stay and look around or come in before your shift for lunch. We actually have a halfway decent cook. I'll see you tomorrow night."

  I stood, indicating the interview was over. One more slot filled.

  CHAPTER 2

  I supervise the bar on Friday night. It's the busiest night of the week with cash flowing like beer from the taps. I had the top drawer talent on stage and the best waitresses on the floor filling glasses and emptying wallets.

  Maddie Hyatt was everything I'd hoped for. After only one training night, I turned her loose, and she handled both the locals and tourists with saucy ease. A cheer and a flash of the motion-sensor strobes to my right brought a smile. What my new dancer Sandra lacked in elegance, she made up for in novelty and enthusiasm. Her stage was hopping.

  This is my kind of night.

  "Hey Boss Lady, tap number two will need to be switched out soon. You want me to do it?" Joey was the head bartender and helped manage the lucrative chaos.

  "Don't worry about it. You sling drinks. I'll grab a busboy." I wiped my soapy hands and signaled one of the lanky kids dawdling over a table near the middle pole. I paid minimum plus dinner and had no trouble keeping the shit jobs filled. "Come on Nick, before you get whiplash. We need to move kegs."

  The chore went quick, and he was back on the floor before the next bikini top hit the stage. I stayed behind to do a quick inventory. The way we were running through the brew, I was worried that I'd need to call in a favor for an off-schedule Saturday delivery.

  We'll make it. There's no need to waste a lap dance on the distributor.

  After my stint in the cold box, I was chilled through. I stopped by my office and tossed a cup of tea in the nuke. When the timer bell dinged, Simon, my Chihuahua, popped awake in his bed by the sofa.

  "Hey Buddy, how come I can never wake you up when I need you off the furniture, or it's time to take a walk?"

  At the sound of the w-word, he perked up and looked at his leash on the hook by the door.

  I scratched his ears. "We've got time for a quick one. I could use some air."

  I let the bar know I was taking ten and slipped out the side door. After clipping Simon to a long lead, I sat at the picnic table I'd set up for employee smoke breaks. Despite the thrum of the bass penetrating the walls, the clear night was an oasis of peace and calm.

  I hated it.

  Robbed of the constant music and clamor for my attention, I was forced to listen to what was going on inside my head. One of my shrinks tried to medicate the chatter into silence. The problem was it'd turned me into a zombie, content to shamble between my bed and my mother's sofa. By working myself into exhaustion, I'd thinned out the dreams but the soundtrack rarely took a break.

  I ran my finger across the raised scar on my breastbone. The silver moonlight reminded me too much of the flash of the knife blade.

  Stop it. Nesbitt is dead.

  Shaking my head to break my concentration, I tugged the lead and brought my dog scampering. He was warm and wiggly and loved me with every scrap of his fuzzy little heart.

  This is real.

  Another snuggle and I tucked him under my arm.

  "Come on, the fine folks of this county depend on us for questionable entertainment and sales tax collection."

  As I punched the security code into the keypad, the distinctive growl of Harleys cut the night. They were freestyling, revving their engines as they backed their bikes into a row to mark their territory. It didn't matter to me. As long as their cash was good, I was down with it.

  I stopped by my office to drop off Simon. On slow nights, I let him hang out in a bed on the back of the bar. Customers love him, but we were too busy tonight to have him in the way.

  The intercom buzzed.

  "Yeah Joey, what is it?"

  "We n
eed a re-up on the top shelf. A couple of high rollers are hitting the Mescal pretty hard."

  "Thanks. I'll stop at the vault. We don't want to deprive anyone of their pleasures. By the way, we've got bikers in the parking lot. Size them up and send a round of drafts on the house."

  Motorcycle clubs are always a subject to handle delicately. If they were a pack of middle-managers playing badass for the weekend, solicitude from me usually paid off in spades for the dancers. If they were an outlaw MC that same respect went a long way toward keeping the peace. The Lightning had a rep as a rowdy night on the town and the tourists loved it. I gave them a little walk on the wild side during their annual vacation.

  The vault key was on my ring. I let the bartenders stock the well but kept the high-test booze locked down. When I took over, I discovered one of the shifts was running a switcheroo with the inventory. I got rid of the ringleader and let the others stay on with a warning. Then I removed the temptation.

  A cheer sounded down the hall, and the doubts inside my head faded into the din.

  This is real.

  CHAPTER 3

  "Thanks, Boss."

  I waved over my shoulder to the kitchen crew as I headed toward the bar. There was nothing like mediating a battle on how spicy the buffalo wing sauce should be to make a girl feel important. As a Texan born and bred, I have definite opinions on the subject and settled it in favor of hotter. A joint like this is a sack full of moving parts. When they turn in the same general direction, a good time is had by all.

  The radio on my belt squawked the emergency code. The bouncers kept the audience off the girls and could usually back down a sloppy drunk with a stare. Even so, the bartenders were under orders to beep me if a real fight was brewing.

  I keyed the mic as I hit the main hallway.

  "What's up?"

  Joey's voice crackled through the music. "Looks like a couple of locals are squaring off with the bikers. By the way, they're the real deal. We only have one bouncer tonight, and he's guarding the stages. You want him to step in?"

  My bat wielding ex-Marines could throw a bucket of water on almost any situation and get everybody out the door to the parking lot before it got out of control. I still wouldn't pit one guy against an MC. My gut told me that this called for less brawn and more theatrics.

  "No. Only send him in if the girls or tourists are being threatened."

  Before he could answer, I burst through the swinging door behind the bar. I handed over the Mescal and reached under the shelf for my Mossberg 500 pistol grip shotgun. I kept it loaded with rock salt and birdshot, not that I had any real intention of ever pulling the trigger. The roof on this place had been almost thirty grand to repair after the last hurricane season.

  Using a stack of beer cases as a stepladder, I vaulted onto the bar and signaled Joey to hit the lights and kill the music. One thing my previous life in high-stakes law had taught me was when and how to own a room.

  The harsh lights, usually reserved for last call, startled the crowd into silence. Eyes flicked between me and the two men standing nose to nose. One I recognized. Duane Edwards was a regular who came in every Friday night to drop off part of his paycheck. The other had his back to the bar. I couldn't make out the patch and rockers on his leather cut, but the tumble of gray-streaked black hair over his old-school vest told me shit could get ugly fast.

  I always store the Mossberg without one in the chamber because there are few sounds more universal than the racking of a shotgun. In the tense room, the metallic crack echoed like thunder. Duane flinched and looked away. The biker didn't turn but stood straighter. The rest of his crew transferred their attention from Duane to me.

  It was time to get this rodeo started.

  I jumped off the bar, and the crowd parted as I advanced with the weapon in the ready position. My finger was outside the guard because this was a time for strict trigger discipline. I didn't need an accident or any of the concealed-carry guys getting itchy.

  "Duane, what the hell is going on here?"

  He lunged at me with his fists clenched. His round sweating face lost some of its belligerence when I shouldered the bullpup.

  "Me and him is just talking. Ain't none of your business."

  "Everything that happens in my bar is my business. And you were fixin' to do a lot more than talk. How about this? Before you start a stupid game and win a stupid prize, how about you head on home to your wife and new baby. We'll forget about tonight. If you take your boys with you, I'll also forget the table's bar tab in exchange for the inconvenience."

  A rude noise to my left reminded me of the other side of this equation. I flipped the biker a hard look and got a smirk and two palms out in mock supplication in return.

  Halfway there.

  I turned my full attention back to Duane. "So, what's it going to be? You know the law's upstairs. Wouldn't you rather get you some home cooking than spend the night in the can?"

  The mention of Sheriff Harry Sheldon caused two of the men at Duane's table to take a sudden interest in their fingernails and another to work on adjusting the band of his trucker cap. The tension in the room released as Duane deflated. The pack recognizes surrender.

  "Probably ought to get on home. I'm working a double tomorrow."

  I watched them until the last was out the door. Tilting the shotgun over my shoulder, I turned to the bikers.

  "You guys passing through or are you hanging around for a while? Who's calling the shots here?"

  The would-be fighter folded his hands over his deceptively ample belly and shrugged. Two of the others looked me up and down before turning back to their beer. When I didn't get an answer, I flipped the Mossberg to waist level and leaned in toward the table.

  Lowering my voice so only they could hear, I said, "The sheriff is upstairs getting his oil changed. We do not want him down here. I'll ask again. Who's your shot caller?"

  "The president isn't here, but I'll stand up for the crew."

  The drawling baritone caught me off guard. It was all I could do to keep my weapon level. A memory from not long enough ago flitted through my mind.

  I have one question. Do you stand up for him?

  The speaker came out of the shadows. He was more imposing than tall, with ice-blue eyes that sparkled in amusement under a fringe of shaggy dark hair. A shirt that wasn't much more than a thin rag stretched across his muscled chest and his worn jeans, split at one knee, sported the expected array of chains and stains. I suspected his vest covered a well-used pistol.

  Since the P226 is still in my closet, I wonder what he carries these days.

  Time froze as I locked eyes with Special Agent Ethan Price.

  I lowered the shotgun and put out my hand. "I'm Juliana Martin and I run this place. May I have a word with you in my office, Mr. —" I stopped short, inwardly cursing myself.

  You don't know his undercover name. Shut up.

  He shook my hand, finishing with a tiny squeeze. "Call me Price. The only people that call me mister are judges and lawyers."

  "My office, please, Price."

  A familiar sideways smile with mismatched dimples was my answer. He shrugged to his companions, drained his beer, and said, "After you."

  Every set of eyes in the place was on me, waiting for my next move. I twirled my fingers above my head in the universal sign for the bartender to set up a round. Immediately the lights dropped, and applause filled the room.

  The music didn't cover the sniggers and whispers as he swaggered through the crowd behind me. I didn't look back until I was in my office, and the door clicked closed.

  CHAPTER 4

  Simon immediately lightened the vibe by throwing himself on Ethan's boots belly up. When he kneeled to comply, I couldn't help laughing as the big bad biker dissolved under a flood of sloppy doggy kisses.

  "It's a good thing that MCs don't travel with Chihuahuas; you'd be toast."

  He tucked Simon into the crook of his arm. "It's good to see you."

  "Y
ou too."

  This reminded me too much of the last time we saw each other on my patio back in Texas. Apparently, we both suck at reunions. This wasn't the time for reminiscing. The club was watching my office door.

  "I know we only have a minute. Tell your MC crew I expect there to be no fighting. None. I've worked hard to keep things in balance with the local law. The sheriff is a prick of the first order. Catering to his dick and his ego is the only way I keep from being constantly rousted. Stress that if everybody keeps their cool, I'll control the locals and see that you're treated like visiting royalty. How long are you all in town?"

  "I don't know."

  His tone caught me off-guard. He wasn't joking.

  "What do you mean?"

  "The club president, a psycho named Beauregard Jones, ordered us here. Our instructions are to scope out the area and set up camp at a farm about fifteen miles north."

  I didn't like a word of this.

  "Baby, I have to get back out there. I'll do everything I can to keep the peace. Is there a time when we can talk? Alone?"

  I met his eyes. The old endearment cut through me. Part of me wanted to talk to him, and part of me needed to talk to him. Not just about old times. If shit was about to go sideways in my new life, I had to know.

  "Last call is at one. I'll make sure I chase everybody out by two, and I'll leave the side door unlocked for an hour."

  "That'll work perfectly. For now, I'll leave looking suitably chastised."

  "Go already. Keep it cool. I have rubes to fleece."

  He handed me Simon so the dog couldn't follow him. The music waxed and then waned as he pulled the door behind him.

  After a couple of minutes to regain my composure, I reclaimed my place behind the bar and got to work filling drink orders. Shit-canning Duane and his surly attitude, coupled with the house round, did wonders for improving the mood on the floor. The tourists got a thrill from having a renegade MC in attendance. I caught several of the cruise-wear crowd sneaking peeks at their new perch in the corner.