Midnight Fantasy. Ann Major

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      Tag got all warm and tingly inside. The wind sped up and the silvery night pulsed bluish-pink. A couple of beer cans came loose from the grave and started to roll straight toward Tag.

      He shut his eyes, but the same pulsating, vivid rosy-blue fog swirled behind his eyelids, too. He blinked. Open or shut, the otherworldly, blue-pink radiance pulsed.

      After a while, somebody, maybe Frenchy, switched off the pink light, and the moon settled down. The streetlamp came back on, gold and bright as ever. The night beyond was silvery dark. The can didn’t stop rolling till it hit the toe of Tag’s boot. He picked it up, noticed it was Frenchy’s favorite brand. Tag flattened the can, stuffed it in his back pocket.

      What the hell had that been about? Had the streetlight malfunctioned? Or was it just him?

      As he stared at the moon he felt different somehow, not so tight and morose. The hole in his chest seemed to have closed. And the night, like his future, beckoned with amazing possibilities.

      Had Frenchy done this? Had he actually haunted him? Had he given him this strange sensation of peace? Of new opportunities?

      Hell no. The grief and the booze he’d drunk earlier, coupled with not eating, was getting to him. He was hallucinating.

      He’d better make it a short night, grab a burger and go to bed. Warily, he looked both ways before pulling out.

      Two cars zoomed recklessly toward him from his right. Kids, playing chase. Where the hell was Jeffries when there was real work for a big bully with a gun to do?

      Impatiently, Tag waited for the juvenile delinquents to pass.

      When he caught that first glimpse of long blond hair, the back of his neck began to tingle. She was a rich tart on the prowl for a cheap thrill.

      Happy to oblige, pretty lady.

      Then she came into clearer focus the way a terrified deer does in your headlight.

      He didn’t notice the make of her late-model, flashy red sports car. He was too busy noticing her. She looked nervous and scared.

      He felt her—deep inside. She touched a raw place he hadn’t known was still alive. She made him ache and hurt and crave things he’d thought he’d given up for good. What would it be like to have a woman like her waiting at the door with a smile every night when he came home?

      In the space of a microsecond he memorized that pale pampered face; those classy, even features she’d painted with way too much makeup, probably to make herself look older and more sophisticated. Pert, shapely breasts spilled above a low-cut white bodice. The style was overly sophisticated for her, too.

      He caught a glimpse of something sparkly around her throat. Diamonds? Rich, too?

      He knew her type. She was the kind of woman who wanted her real man to be a money machine but found “nice” men too tame in bed. So, she came looking for a guy like him at Shorty’s. He’d gone with plenty to motels. Some preferred backseats of cars, but once they got their kicks, they rearranged their skirts and drove off. They never asked his name, and he always felt depressed and cheapened, less than nothing when they were done with him.

      Other men envied him his popularity. What the hell was the matter with him? What did he want really?

      He couldn’t tear his gaze from this one. With her long blond hair streaming behind her, she looked like an angel riding the wind.

      He willed her to look at him, to really see him.

      Suddenly she tossed her head toward him. Her eyes grew huge the instant she saw him—as if she were equally fascinated and yet scared, too. Again, he thought her different than the others. He had the strangest feeling that if he stared into her eyes long enough, he would rediscover his own soul—which was a crazy feeling, if ever there was one.

      Something dangerous and fatal connected them. Unwanted longings and painful needs bubbled too near the surface. His pulse raced out of control.

      How could he feel so much in the space of a few heartbeats? She was a baby, younger than her voluptuous body, while he was far older than his years.

      “Do you hold yourself as cheap underneath as all the others, baby?” he growled.

      The minx flirtily tooted her horn and sped up. As if she wasn’t already driving fast, way too fast.

      Her little car careened onto the shoulder, pinging his bike and long, denim-clad legs with gravel, but she regained control. The beat-up sedan behind her raced past Tag in hot pursuit. Gravel sprayed his boots and his bike like bullets. Only he didn’t get any hormonal bang from these punks.

      Damn. He knew that junk heap. Rusty and Hank. Not kids. Two mean guys who were mad at the world in general and out for vengeance against him tonight. What if they took it out on her?

      He’d lied to Jeffries. Those guys were bad news. As bad as the thugs who’d almost killed him in the swamp. After he’d fired them, they’d sprayed paint all over the cars in the parking lot out back of Frenchy’s restaurant. Painted the outer walls of the kitchen in purple graffiti.

      Correction. His restaurant now.

      He had a score to settle. A damsel as a trophy only upped the stakes.

      Tag whipped his big bike onto the asphalt road, gunned it.

      The cars raced north at double the speed limit, flying over the lighted bridge, veering left on screaming tires, onto Fulton Beach Road. The moonlit bay glittered to the east of them. The mansions on pilings that lined the canals loomed tall and dark to the west.

      The quaint road along the beach, with its cottages, historic Fulton Mansion and motels, narrowed, roughened, but the girl and her pursuers kept driving like maniacs. Just as she got to the wharves and warehouses that lined the waterfront near his own restaurant, a black shadow raced from the water side into the road.

      Her brake lights flashed.

      Adrenaline pumped through Tag’s veins.

      Had she hit whatever it was…killed it—

      Animals touched a soft spot, especially strays. He had a collection of mongrel dogs and cats that lived out back in the woods behind his house.

      Her car spun off to the right, bounced over something on the shoulder, and rolled to a crooked stop in front of the alley that ran between two abandoned fish houses. A long shadowy tail disappeared into the tall reedy grasses of the marshy wetlands on the other side of the road.

      The junk heap came to a stop right behind her car, ramming her.

      The woman in skintight white stumbled out of her sports car.

      Rusty and Hank fell on top of her.

      Party time.

      Tag ripped his bike off road, stopping so fast, he nearly rolled. His right boot hit white shell, and he skidded in a geyser of white dust.

      Party time.

      Not their party.

      His.

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