Toni sighed. She hated these arguments with her inner self. She
always lost. She could rationalize to somebody else, but she couldn't
fool herself--not for long, anyhow.
Alex's anger had ignited her own, and when they'd both had a chance to
cool down, they'd be able to discuss things more rationally. He did
love her, she knew that, and just because they'd had a fight didn't
mean all was lost forever. She hadn't had much practice at that,
fighting with somebody you loved, and every time it happened, she had a
belly-twisting fear that it would be the end. One cross word, blap!
they'd go their separate ways. Maybe you got over that, in time. She
hoped so.
All right. So now the question was. Should she wait and hash this out
with Alex? Or should she go to Quantico, see the director, and tell
her she was going to take the job? Her ego said to hell with him, do
what you want.
But her heart said she should at least sit down and explain to him why
she wanted to do it. Okay, so he was pissed off at her, he was busy,
and he had a lot on his mind, but they could find a few minutes to work
this out. This was more important than anything else in her life, she
couldn't just turn and walk away from it.
'Here we are, lady,' the cabbie said.
Toni blinked. The trip had been a blur, she couldn't remember any of
it.
'Thanks,' she said.
Her mind was set. She would get the rental car, drive to the office,
and find a time and space to talk to Alex.
She could make him understand. She knew she could.
New York City
The bar was a rat hole--shoot, a self-respecting rat would think twice
about sticking its nose in here, and if it had two neurons to spark at
each other, it would decide not to risk it. The lighting was
mercifully dim, but you could still see the knife scars in the wooden
bar, the initials carved in the tables and stools. There were flats
and holographs on the walls lit by neon beer signs, the posters of
mostly naked women perched in various poses on Harley Davidson
motorcycles. On a couple of the pictures, certain portions of the
women's anatomy had been worn through to the dark wall underneath,
caused by somebody rubbing or kissing the images. The mirror behind
the bar was cracked in two places, held together with glass-mend
strips, and few of the liquor bottles on the shelves behind the
bartender were more than half-full.
The bartender was six and a half feet tall, probably weighed three
hundred pounds, and he wore a leather vest and oil-stained jeans that
presumably went to the tops of his big old motorcycle boots. He had
tattoos all over what was visible of his body, everything from Li'l Hot
Stuff to naked women with large breasts--and large fangs. The
centerpiece was a Harley logo on his chest, partially obscured with
thick patches of graying hair.
Lined up at the bar and seated at the tables were other bikers, men and
