“You rode a dirt bike to the bar?” Not that it didn’t happen, but generally, if he was racing the bike, the guy wouldn’t want to drive it around on the streets, taking the chance of picking up a nail or something.
Vince chuckled and shook his head. “No. It’s on a trailer. I’m actually on my way over to Rogers Speedway, planning to camp for the weekend. They’re having an amateur race tomorrow.”
Ah, yes, Tommy had qualified in plenty of amateur races before going pro. Most of them at Rogers, as a matter of fact. He almost wanted to head over there himself, just to watch.
“Good luck, man,” Tommy said. “I hope you win.”
“Thanks. Say, I don’t suppose you’d take a look at my bike? Give me your expert opinion?”
Camila was at the other end of the bar, reaching for a bottle of liquor high on a shelf next to the big mirror engraved with the Bell’s Brewery logo. Tommy stared at her ass until she turned back around to start mixing a drink.
“What do you think?” Vince asked, and Tommy shifted his focus.
“Sorry, what?”
Vince waved at the entrance. “My bike. Would you take a look at it? I’d like to hear what you think of it.”
He didn’t really want to. He’d rather stay right where he was until the bar closed and Camila’s shift was over.
But he was a professional, had been a celebrity long enough to understand proper etiquette. Fans like Vince were the reason his sport was so popular. The reason he kept racing, kept winning.
His phone pinged again. Chuck calling. Tommy sighed and sent him to voicemail. He needed to talk to his manager, explain what was going on, before the guy had a conniption. Or, more likely, flew out here to Detroit to confront him in person.
Heading out to the parking lot with Vince would serve two purposes, actually. He could take a look at the guy’s bike to appease him and also call Chuck and let his manager know that he’d explain everything when he saw him this weekend.
“Yeah,” Tommy said, sliding off his barstool. “Let’s go have a look.”
A grin spread across Vince’s face. The guy would probably gush to all his friends and family about how nice his favorite motocross racer was. Exactly the kind of publicity Tommy’s PR team loved.
Tommy scanned the bar, hoping to make eye contact with Camila so she knew he’d be right back, but she wasn’t there. The other bartender, a guy named Pete, apparently noticed Tommy looking, because he said, “She’s taking out the trash.”
Guess he wasn’t doing a very good job of hiding his admiration for the woman. Then again, he wasn’t exactly trying to hide it. Let the world know he was crazy about her. He didn’t care, because it was true.
Except—“Alone? Outside?”
“Marcus wanted to smoke, so he went with her.”
Why the hell couldn’t Marcus take out the trash himself, or better yet, why not the barback? At least Camila wasn’t wandering around outside on her own. That was really all that mattered.
“Thanks, man.” He turned to Vince. “Ready? Let’s go check out that bike.”
Vince nodded, tugged his cap lower on his forehead, and they headed toward the entrance.
The bar was located on a busy intersection, with the building close to the road and the parking lot spread around the sides and behind the structure. Vince hurried past Jude, who was busy checking the IDs of a group of co-eds who, if they were twenty-one, it was just barely.
Tommy hesitated. He should let Jude know he was stepping away from the bar. He hadn’t seen Philip, Elliot, or Madison when he walked away, so no one knew to keep a sharper eye on Camila. What if that stalker showed up in the five or ten minutes Tommy would be gone?
“Hey, man, you coming?” Vince called. He was already to the corner of the building, hands shoved into his pockets, nodding at the lot. “I parked out back, since I had to take up more than one space.”
Tommy patted Jude’s massive shoulder to get his attention and said, “I’ll be right back. Keep an eye on Camila, okay?”
“Always,” Jude said and then returned his focus to the potential patrons, who, it appeared, were all of legal drinking age, since Jude was letting them inside, one by one.
Vince rounded the corner and disappeared from sight. By the time Tommy reached the end of the building, Vince was already to the next corner. Man, he was eager to show off his bike.
Hopefully, it was worth it. Sometimes, fans wanted him to admire machines that were nothing but a bunch of spare parts rigged together and holding on by sheer will and a whole lot of duct tape. How the hell was he supposed to pretend he thought for a hot second those things would actually finish a race, let alone win one?
Vince waved at him. “Come on.”
Tommy picked up the pace. The faux log cabin structure that housed the bar gave way to a cinderblock wall he presumed housed the dumpster. At least Camila didn’t have to trudge all the way through the parking lot to throw out the trash.
All of a sudden, something was pressed to his face, covering his mouth and nose. Tommy automatically breathed in, sucking in a weird odor. Like ether. It was fogging his brain, making him feel kind of numb. What the hell?
He immediately flung his arm up, knocking the smelly item away, and pulled oxygen into his lungs, clearing some of the fog, at least.
Somebody swore, and that ether-scented item was pressed against his mouth again. Tommy batted it away and blinked rapidly, trying to focus, to figure out who kept shoving something in his face, but for some reason his
