Hell on Wheels by Julie Ann Walker Page A

smile turning genuine.
    She nodded regally and backed out of his office. He listened until he heard the delicate click of her Prada slingback pumps echoing down the tiled hallway before he hissed into the phone, “I don’t give a fuck how you do it. Find a way to grab her. And do it now. Tonight. I want those missing files on my desk by tomorrow morning.”
    He punched the end button on the cell phone so hard he chipped the manicure he’d received just this morning.
    Fuck!
    ***
    What am I doing here?
    It was the second time in less than twenty-four hours Ali had the thought. Only here happened to be Red Delilah’s.
    Not necessarily a quintessential biker bar name, but this was certainly a quintessential biker bar. Peanuts littered the floor, Metallica blasted from the jukebox but still couldn’t drown out the loud continuous click of a cue ball making contact with its target at the felt-covered table in the back, and the musty smell of spilled draft beer and old cigarette smoke lingered in the air.
    Yes, this was certainly a quintessential biker bar. One that just happened to be run by the most intimidating, stereotypical, ’50s pin-up girl on the planet.
    As if her day could’ve gotten any worse.
    But wait. It had. Because she was here. In this god-awful place, wearing these god-awful clothes, finishing up her last bite of this…well, in truth the dinner was far from god-awful.
    She’d woken up from her nap—if you could call eight hours of near comatose sleep after a good solid hour of crying herself sick, something as simple as a nap—totally ravenous.
    Becky’d spotted her as she’d stumbled down the stairs, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Without preamble or prudence, Becky demanded, “Get changed. We’re all headed over to Delilah’s. We’ll order dogs from the joint next door.”
    Uh, what? “Dogs?”
    “Yeah,” Becky eyed her with a sly grin. “You have had a traditional Chicago-style hotdog before, haven’t you?”
    “Ugh. Processed mystery meat. No thanks,” she said, even though her stomach was busy gnawing a hole through to her backbone. She’d take a pass.
    “Oh!” Becky grabbed her chest as if shot. “Bite your tongue.” She hooked a friendly arm around Ali’s shoulders and herded her back upstairs. “A traditional Chicago hotdog is an all-beef frankfurter with a boat load of toppings. We say it’s a dog that’s been dragged through the garden. You’ll love it. I promise.”
    Ali had her doubts, but they were totally assuaged as she licked the last bit of celery salt from her fingers. No joke, there was only one word to describe the concoction she’d just wolfed down. Delicious.
    Her outfit was another matter entirely. She warily glanced down at her bare midriff for about the thousandth time.
    If the faculty and students of Ridgeline Elementary could see her now…
    They’d probably run screaming in the other direction. Sheesh.
    A ragged AC/DC tank top that did humiliatingly little to hide the lacy straps of her red bra combined with a skintight pair of Becky’s low-riding Guess jeans—which had more holes than material—to have her tugging once more at the cropped hem of her shirt in a vain attempt to conceal her belly button ring. Obviously Becky approved of that little item of jewelry because it was the one thing of her own the woman allowed her keep.
    Pfft . Really, Ali was the one who needed advice on fashion?
    Glancing around at the other patrons, she scowled. No. Absolutely not. Not unless it was fashionable for a guy who closely resembled Santa Claus to squeeze himself into leather pants and a holey white T-shirt with a slogan that read FREE MUSTACHE RIDES .
    Ugh. Her hotdog started to reverse direction at the thought as the constant rumble of motorcycles coming and going echoed through the building over the sound of the jukebox. A group of businessmen, whom Becky described as “weekend warriors,” looked completely out of place in the rough-and-tumble joint,