Trickster s Girl - By Hilari Bell Page 0,38

to pass them on her way to the register.

"That your bike?" the redhead asked as she went by.

"Yes." Kelsa kept walking. She could feel the bikers' eyes on her back.

The redhead stood and followed her.

Her heart beat faster. She wouldn't have minded seeing Raven walk through the cafe door. Anytime now.

"It's a nice little bike," the young man told her. "We were thinking you might want to ride with us for a while."

Kelsa's hands were cold, her shoulders knotted with tension. "I can't. I'm meeting up with my father and some of his friends. They should be here any minute."

She approached the register and handed her receipt to the waitress.

"You should come a ways with us, anyway," the biker said. "We'd give you one hell of a ride." His eyes moved over her like hands.

Two of the others had risen as well, moving behind him to stand in the doorway. Raven wasn't coming.

"I'd like to speak to the manager, please," Kelsa told the waitress.

"Was everything all right with your meal?" the woman asked.

Couldn't she see how this creep was pushing Kelsa? The woman's expression held only professional concern.

"No." Kelsa was too frightened to care about looking like an idiot. "I want to speak to the manager. Now."

"Excellent," said the waitress. "That'll be eleven eighty-five." She pushed the scanner forward.

"I want the manager."

The waitress smiled politely, waiting for Kelsa to swipe her account card.

Kelsa looked around. The two retired couples chatted with each other, oblivious. One of the bikers was still eating, but he was watching her. The other two had staked out the door.

The second waitress set a plate in front of the trucker - though he'd been there when Kelsa came in. He picked up a small carafe of syrup, unscrewed the lid, and dumped the entire contents over his pancakes.

Then he looked up at Kelsa. His eyes were deep brown and had no whites around them. The eyes of an animal.

He was one of them.

Adrenaline slammed through her. This was the trap Raven had warned her about. But how? Never mind. Try!

Kelsa drew in a breath and screamed at the top of her lungs.

The biker behind her fell back several steps, but the woman in front of her didn't even blink. The elderly couples continued their conversations without missing a beat. The other waitress glanced out the window for a moment, before going to clear Kelsa's table.

The trucker stared at her with indifferent eyes and shoveled a forkful of pancakes into his mouth.

The red-haired biker had been looking around too and seen the same thing she had. Now he looked back at Kelsa and grinned.

She leaped past the register, past the oblivious waitress, and dashed through the open doorway into the steamy, onion-smelling kitchen.

The redheaded biker strode after her.

Kelsa looked for a weapon. Not a knife. There were too many enemies, all stronger than she was. She headed for the stove, past a pudgy, white-clad chef who didn't even look at her, snatched up the nearest pan and cast the contents into the biker's face.

It was in the air before the deadly reality of hot grease and frying onion registered on either of them.

The biker flung up a hand, his leather sleeve intercepting most of the grease, but not all of it. He cried out when it splattered his skin, then screamed in earnest as the pain bit.

The two who'd blocked the door had followed more slowly; now they rushed down the narrow kitchen.

Kelsa had a second to choose her next weapon, a big pot of steaming chowder that drenched them both. They shrieked and swiped at their faces.

The red-haired biker staggered toward the sink, emitting groaning pants of pain.

Kelsa whirled and ran for the back door. There was a back door, thank God. She raced outside and looked frantically for help, for a place to hide.

Her bike came skidding around the corner, with Raven riding it, though he took the turn so clumsily he almost tipped over.

"On the back. Get back," Kelsa cried, running toward him.

He stopped the bike, spreading his feet to keep it upright as he slid back on the saddle.

Then she was there, mounting, the handle grips firm and comforting under her palms. Her right hand stung with a burn she'd picked up without realizing it, but she paid it no heed, spinning gravel from under the tires as she slammed down the accelerator.

She raced down the road as fast as the dirt bike would run - the big hogs the bikers rode would