Devil s Bargin Page 0,2

going off in the back of her head and risked a look. A shadow loomed behind her.

Two shadows, actually. Big ones.

The weight-lifting trucker twins had taken an interest.

"Ain't that sweet?" one of them said in a high, girly voice. He was wearing Doc Martens boots, battered blue jeans and a faded T-shirt that read Kinnison's Feed & Supply. A three-day growth of straggly beard. Watery eyes. "Faggot's giving the lady a card." He made wet kissy noises.

His buddy was a grimy Xerox copy, except his T-shirt read Highway to Hell and was ripped at the sleeves to show off massive biceps. Tattoos, of course. You could never have too many of those. His mostly involved thorns, blood drops and naked women. The AC/DC fan ambled around Jazz and followed up his buddy's comment with a shove to Borden's shoulder. Borden rode the motion and slid off the bar stool. He wasn't a small guy, and he had good bones, but he wasn't a fighter, Jazz could see that at a glance.

"Hey!" Jazz said sharply, standing up, as well. "Back off, guys. I don't want any trouble."

"You don't," Borden said under his breath. "Right. What was I thinking?"

"Yo, leather boy, shove your cute little Valentine card up your ass, you're bothering the lady," said the one whose T-shirt advertised Kinnison's. He was the power of the two; Jazz knew that from a half-second glance. He had intelligence in those narrow light eyes, and a kind of lazy satisfaction. This was what he'd come here for, to find somebody to pound over a few drinks. She was just a convenient excuse. Lady. Yeah, right. She looked the part.

Borden's voice had gone dangerously soft, his eyes closed and dark again. "Is that right? Am I bothering you, Jazz?"

"Woman like this don't want no candy-ass butt boy," Kinnison's said over her shoulder to him. "Fine piece of ass like this, she needs some real companionship." He was deliberately staying behind her, pressed close. His idea of courtship would be asking what kind of condom she'd like, flavored or ribbed. If he was even that considerate.

"Funny," Jazz said, and downed the last glass of whiskey she'd ever drink in Sol's. "I started out a lady and now I'm just a fine piece of ass, and you haven't even bought me a drink yet."

"Shut up, bitch, nobody's talking to you," AC/DC snarled, and put one hand the size of a canned ham on Borden's chest and shoved. Borden, who must have been seduced by all that over-the-counter toughness he was wearing, shoved back.

Mistake.

"Stay out of it," Jazz said, brisk and succinct, to Borden. She needn't have bothered; Kinnison's stepped around her and landed a fat punch to Borden's jaw.

Ouch. She heard the crack of bone on bone, and Borden staggered back, off balance.

"Hey!" she snapped. "Give the bitch some attention, why don't you?"

Kinnison's, pulling back for another punch, hesitated and turned back around to face her. Grinning with unholy glee, he said, "Yeah, okay, baby, let's play."

He shot a sideways look at AC/DC, who went after Borden. No doubt in Jazz's mind that he was thinking he'd backhand her and put her in her place, then get on with the serious beat-down of his only real opponent - the man.

She smiled. "Yeah," she said softly. "Let's play."

She spun on the bar stool, clocked him with an elbow hard to his nose and felt the sharp crack of bone and cartilage. She didn't stop to let the pain register; she straightened her arm and muscled into a spin as her feet hit the floor. Kinnison's twisted away from her in a corkscrewing spiral, off balance, and as he came around roaring, she sidestepped his rush, grabbed a handful of greasy hair and slammed his forehead into the tough oak bar. Twice.

When she let go, he slithered limply down to the floor. It had taken all of about two seconds, and he was bloody and utterly unconscious.

Borden was just now gaining his balance, shaking off the punch and staring at her as if he'd never seen her before. Tactical error, because it gave AC/DC the opportunity to pound a fist straight into his gut, double him over and send him flying at the far wall, hard. AC/DC followed him, wading in with lethally steel-toed Doc Martens to the ribs.

Jazz, blood already pounding red-hot, didn't hesitate. She left Kinnison's limp body and leaped over a fallen chair, landed flat-footed as a cat in front of AC/DC. He yelled something