“Well, I don’t use a crystal ball or tarot cards.”
He seemed about to say something else, but the waitress chose that moment to drop off the check, her perky smile flashing at Witt. Max went for the small wad of cash in her purse.
Witt took the check and handed back her two fives and twelve ones. “I’ll pay.”
“I have enough.”
“My date doesn’t pay for her own dinner.”
“This isn’t a date. We’re staking out the Round Up. It’s like work. You can probably even put in for overtime.” Besides, she hadn’t been on a real date since Cameron was alive. The idea was ludicrous and downright petrifying.
“I’m not working tonight. And you’re not paying.”
“Is this like a matter of honor or something?”
He stared at her a moment, shook his head, then flashed his sexy grin.
“Max, if we both make it through the night without doing bodily harm to each other, it’ll be a miracle.”
Chapter Five
Billy Joe’s Western Round Up wasn’t jumping, but then it was only Tuesday night. Well-populated tables ringed the dance floor, but the rest of the place was empty. Witt was the only guy without a cowboy hat, and she was the only gal without denim fringe on her blouse. Eight couples twirled smoothly across the wooden floor as a music video played on big-screen TVs. The music was loud, and her feet itched to move. Someone hooted and clapped, acknowledging a good shot at the pool tables. Laughter and voices, raised to be heard over the country videos, made the bar feel far more crowded than it was.
She picked a table right next to the sunken dance floor and ordered two Coronas.
Without the normal crush of bodies, Max could smell the lemon cleaner they’d used to wipe down the lacquered tabletops. The usual haze of illegal cigarette smoke hovering near the ceiling had almost dissipated. Two front windows were boarded up and broken chairs were stacked against the back wall. The glasses behind the bar were two deep instead of the customary three. One of the TV monitors was blank. That was the extent of the evidence of Saturday night’s riot.
Except for the scattered remnants of Tiffany Lloyd inside Max’s head. The dead woman had loved inciting a riot.
Max picked up her beer, felt the cool sizzle of it in her throat just as Tiffany had, and fixed the players of Saturday night in her mind. Witt simply watched her.
“Tiffany was over there.” She pointed at a stool halfway down the bar. “He was over there.” She indicated the other side of the dance floor. “He came over and asked her to dance.” Her lids drooped as she recalled the beat of the music, his body grinding against her backside. She could still smell his male scent as his callused hand found its way beneath her skirt.
Max’s fingers clenched on the lip of the table. Her eyes snapped open. Witt still watched, eyes hooded, gaze enigmatic in the gloom of the bar. She had the disturbing feeling he knew exactly what she’d been thinking.
Desire pumped through her. Hot, sharp, and spicy. God, he had large hands. She shivered. Wow. Guys with hands like his had the biggest cocks. She really went for blonds with blue eyes. But then she went for dark guys, too, with hot gazes and even hotter tongues. In fact, she got wet for all kinds of guys, all shapes, all sizes, all ages, all races, all occupations, and all educations. She’d never been choosy. By the age of nineteen, she’d promised herself she’d fuck as many types as she could. She’d write a book about it, like Xavier Hollander, or whoever that Happy Hooker lady had been. She’d rate them, say what kind of guy was best at what sexual acts and what positions—
“Wanna dance?”
“No.” Max’s voice squeaked like a terrified mouse. Ohmygod. What was happening? Her breath came in fast little pants. Her mouth tasted like sandpaper. Beneath her blazer, her nipples were hard as diamonds. She wanted to drag Witt out onto that dance floor and do him in front of everyone in the whole place.
Holy hell.
Tiffany.
Deep inside Max, the woman writhed in sexual agony. Good God, she’d been possessed again, just as she had been with Wendy Gregory. Taken over by the alien thoughts and emotions of another woman.
Max grabbed her Corona and gulped it down to wet her parched throat.
Witt frowned. “You all right, Max? You’re all flushed.”
She squeaked again, totally unintelligible.
Tiffany went for guys like Witt. Max made the fatal mistake of looking at his big hand holding the bottle on his thigh. Oh goodness. Oh my. “I think we better go.”
“Just got here. What’s wrong?”
He’d have to drive her home in his black and red Ram truck. She’d never survive. Because Cameron wasn’t lying when he’d said he hadn’t given her that fantasy last night.
Tiffany had.
And Tiffany wanted to do it on the hood of a Ram truck.