The Hot Ladies Murder Club. Ann Major
pregnant Zoë.
Every outlaw in the smoke-filled din lifted a beer and saluted the four women in the doorway.
“Three cheers for the Hot Ladies.”
Veronica laughed as if oblivious to the undercurrents in the room.
“Doesn’t look like there’s a table for four,” Hannah blurted. “Taz, let’s go.”
Taz grabbed her by the elbow and held her fast. “Looky—Over there—By the pool tables—Four gentlemen—”
“Not exactly,” Hannah murmured as four guys in tight, greasy jeans and dark wraparound glasses shot clumsily off their stools, knocking a couple over as they pointed at the table and beckoned them.
Taz’s braids shook as she laughed in delight. “What did I tell you? Bikers—my kind of guys. Is this place great or what?”
Zoë and Hannah rolled their eyes.
“Are you crazy?” Hannah asked.
“It’s my makeover that’s got ’em so wild.”
Don’t forget Veronica with her platinum hair and low-cut outfit.
“You’re a high school principal,” Hannah said.
“Don’t remind me.”
“Maybe you should do volunteer work at an all-male prison,” Hannah suggested as she clutched her purse against her nipples, which were standing at attention in sheer terror. Then, like a duck following her mama into a deep pool, she stayed glued to Taz’s ample hips as her friend plowed through the men and the haze of cigarette smoke to their table.
Why had she worn a white T-shirt that glowed blue and clung to her flesh like shrink wrap? Hannah wondered. Better question—why hadn’t she at least worn a bra and a blousy shirt that hid her belly button?
“Table or not, I still want to go home,” Hannah repeated as the women squeezed themselves onto four short stools and Taz signaled a waitress and ordered four beers.
“No beer! I—I want a diet cola,” Hannah blurted, but the waitress had already left. “Taz, this is a mistake. These guys are in lust.”
“We just got here,” Taz said. “Chill. Okay? I can handle the situation. Like you said, I’m a principal. And where I grew up, girl, these guys would be pussies.” Taz smiled her huge smile and began to clap and writhe along with Veronica to the jungle beat.
Since Taz, her ride, seemed hell-bent on staying, Hannah turned to Zoë. “Why didn’t you tell me the hotel was overrun with a motorcycle gang?”
“It’s some kind of convention. The manager says they do this every year. I’m sure they’re all dentists and doctors and lawyers. Veronica met one of them on the beach earlier. He said he was a stockbroker. She even had a beer with him and a doctor.”
Veronica did not strike Hannah as a reliable judge of men’s characters.
Veronica laughed. “Mr. Moneybags is over there trying to be invisible. We may get together…later.”
Veronica waved at her new friend, who was long and lean and slouching in the darkest corner of the bar.
“You said you were going to write…later,” Zoë reminded her.
Hannah eyed the bar’s denizens uneasily. “Dentists? Doctors? You’re kidding.”
Veronica nodded and fluffed her puffy white hair.
“Right,” Hannah said. “The three-hundred-pound Goliath over there with the grizzled eyebrows, swollen black eye, potbelly, long red hair and the golden loop in his right ear is a dentist? He’s staring holes through my T-shirt every time I lower my purse—and you’re telling me the big bear does root canals for a living?”
“Well, maybe not him,” Veronica admitted. “It’s your fault. You should have worn a bra.”
The ape adjusted his yellow bandanna as he leered at Zoë. There was a gap in his crooked smile.
“Don’t encourage him, Zoë.” In desperation Hannah lowered her lashes, clutched her purse tighter against her chest for coverage and sipped from her mug. The beer felt cold and tart going down, but it heated her blood and calmed her a bit. For the first time all day she relaxed a little.
Good stuff. Too good. Hannah swigged some more. Then she wet her napkin, tore off little bits, wadded them up to use as earplugs and stuffed them into her ears.
“You pointed Goliath out to me,” Zoë reminded Hannah.
“Forget I said anything. Just quit looking at him.”
“He’s cute,” Taz said. Lifting her beer, she smiled at him. “Cheers, everybody.”
“I really think we should go,” Hannah began again.
“Relax,” Taz growled. “Shoot some darts or something. Drink. Hey, I brought you a target.”
“No way am I getting up and making a spectacle of myself before this wolf pack.”
Before Hannah could stop her, Taz waved Goliath over. “We want to shoot some darts…er…What’s your name, big boy?”
“The Charger,” he purred. “What’s yours, hot lady?”
She gave him a look. “Okay, Charger, can you get us some darts and pin up this target…?”
When he glanced at the newspaper picture, the biker looked a little startled.
“You got a problem, big boy?” Taz asked.
“No problem, hot lady.” His broad hand slapped the clipping of Joe Campbell against the dartboard, pinning it there with four darts.
“Draw a circle around his crotch,” Taz ordered. “Here—use my lipstick.”
She handed the Charger a tube of the stuff, and he drew crude red genitals instead of a circle. The bikers roared approval.
“First guy to hit the big red pickle where it hurts standing from behind me gets to dance with the Egyptian hot lady here,” Taz yelled. “On my table!”
The men nearest Taz got off a few earsplitting yells. A squabble broke out and a table was turned over before the issue of who got to throw the first dart was resolved.
A guy in a black vest with a scorpion tattooed on his arm and a patch over one eye went first. When he hit Campbell in the eye, everybody booed. The next guy got a turn. The dart hit the mark but bounced off without even tearing the paper. Hannah hid her face in her hands and said a prayer.
“Me—I go for men with balls of steel,” Veronica mused, winking at her friend in the dark corner. He lifted his hand and signaled her to come over. When she didn’t jump up, Hannah felt his hostile gaze fix her, and she shivered. Not that she could really see him. But she could feel him. And he gave her a bad feeling like she’d had in the garage.
The next biker took his turn and missed as well. The mood in the bar turned brutal.
Goliath had the deadliest aim. A few darts thrown from his meaty arm put a gaping hole where Campbell’s lipstick-smeared pickle had been.
“Ouch,” Taz said as she climbed up onto a table to dance and beckoned the Charger.
Hips undulating, the Egyptian hot lady and her gap-toothed Hun from Hell put on a show to a loud song with a wild beat. He stomped; she wiggled and twisted and ate him with her dark eyes, showing caramel-colored legs every time she twirled. Their dance was pure raw sex, and she stirred the men to a frenzy. When they were done, every man in the bar rushed over to help Taz down from the table. They were all clamoring to dance with her when the Charger told them she was his and asked her to dance with her again.
“I ain’t nobody’s,” Taz said.
He was climbing back onto the table,