Satan's Pony Read Online Free Page B

lapped up the last drop?”
    In the beginning they had all looked alike, but little by little distinctive characteristics began to emerge, like with the Seven Dwarfs. You remember that crew—Sleepy, Happy, Grumpy, Dopey, Sneezy, Bashful, and Doc? Only the bikers’ nicknames should have been more like Sexy, Boozy, Randy, Sleazy—oh, Dopey would do—and Doc. I think “Doc” would suit their leader just fine. He was the only one who seemed to have any brains, and his eyes, when they were fully open—like now—were more than intelligent. They were an electric, magnetic … blue, exuding power. It was a second before I realized he was the same guy that had insulted my bike in the parking lot. But at that time he had been wearing shades, hiding his finest feature.
    He made a big deal of getting me a Styrofoam cup, filling it, and asking, “Milk or sugar, ma’am?”

    â€œStraight,” I muttered.
    He handed it to me with a mock bow. His cronies, who had been watching this performance, guffawed.
    Before he could offer the paper plate with two doughnuts, I moved to the other side of the room and collapsed on the end of the sofa. I had intended to go right to my room and crash, but I had a stubborn streak: I didn’t want these guys to think they could drive me away.
    A middle-aged couple occupied the rest of the sofa—the only nonbikers in residence. They had checked in before the horde arrived and I was surprised they were still here. She was pretty, in a plastic sort of way. Permed hairdo, too-bright makeup, good body, but too much of it on display. She wore a haltertop and short shorts, and when a biker glanced her way (which they often did) she demurely lowered her gaze. Her husband, a stubby, jowly, morose man, sat beside her, watching every move she made.
    â€œAre you the doctor?”
    Half-asleep, at first I didn’t realize she was speaking to me.
    â€œMy husband has an upset stomach and I wondered—”
    â€œFran, please, I’m fine,” the husband protested.
    â€œWell, you weren’t fine last night, Stan.” Her voice rose an octave.
    â€œThese things pass,” he muttered.
    â€œSorry.” She rolled her eyes, letting me in on the big secret—husbands can be a pain.
    They both gave me a royal pain. I gulped my coffee and glanced around for the trash can that was always next to the sofa. A biker had confiscated it, turned it upside down, and planted his fat butt on it. I looked for somewhere else to put my cup.
    â€œLet me.” A biker with a mop of dirty yellow hair reached for it, in an awkward imitation of Doc’s earlier, smoother performance.
    I held on.
    His hand stayed around the cup and my hand—a little too long. I pulled away, starting a tug-of-war.
    â€œWhatcha doin’, Sunny?” Doc came up.

    Sunny let go.
    â€œJust helpin’ the lady out.” He moved quickly away, landing in the space I had just vacated on the sofa.
    The plastic chick cast him a coy smile. Her husband looked on nervously. I had to get out of here. Succumbing to a mammoth yawn, I staggered toward the door.
    Doc was in my way again. “Long night?”
    I nodded.
    â€œWant to talk?”
    â€œNo, thanks.” To my surprise, I was almost tempted to tell him about Bobby.
    â€œI owe you an apology,” he said.
    I looked at him.
    His gaze strayed over my shoulder. “Just a minute … .” He pushed past me toward the sofa and grabbed Sunny by the shirt, pulling him up.
    These guys are so damned physical.
    â€œWhat’s up?” Sunny looked outraged.
    The chick was pop-eyed.
    Doc gave Sunny a shove in the direction of the door and followed him out. Everyone was looking at them. An ultimate humiliation for Sunny. After the door closed behind them, there was a moment of silence. Through the half-open window, I could hear Doc chewing Sunny out, but his tone was more like a Dutch Uncle than a biker