Easy Rider: A Jim Knighthorse Story (Short Story)

  EASY RIDER

  by

  J.R. RAIN

  A

  Jim Knighthorse

  Short Story

  Acclaim for the novels of J.R. Rain:

  “Be prepared to lose sleep!”

  —James Rollins, international bestselling author of The Doomsday Key

  “I love this!”

  —Piers Anthony, bestselling author of Xanth

  “Dark Horse is the best book I’ve read in a long time!”

  —Gemma Halliday, bestselling author of Spying in High Heels

  “Moon Dance is absolutely brilliant!”

  —Lisa Tenzin-Dolma, author of Understanding the Planetary Myths

  “Powerful stuff!”

  —Aiden James, bestselling author of Plague of Coins

  “Moon Dance is a must read. If you like Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum, bounty hunter, be prepared to love J.R. Rain’s Samantha Moon, vampire private investigator.”

  —Eve Paludan, author of Letters from David

  “Impossible to put down. J.R. Rain’s Moon Dance is a fabulous urban fantasy replete with multifarious and unusual characters, a perfectly synchronized plot, vibrant dialogue and sterling witticism all wrapped in a voice that is as beautiful as it is rich and vividly intense as it is relaxed.”

  —April Vine, author of The Midnight Rose

  Other Books by J.R. Rain

  STANDALONE NOVELS

  The Lost Ark

  Elvis Has Not Left the Building

  The Body Departed

  Silent Echo

  The Healer

  Winter Wind

  SHORT STORY SINGLES

  The Bleeder

  VAMPIRE FOR HIRE

  Moon Dance

  Vampire Moon

  American Vampire

  Moon Child

  Christmas Moon

  Vampire Dawn

  Vampire Games

  Moon Island

  Moon River

  Vampire Sun

  Moon Dragon

  SAMANTHA MOON SHORT STORIES

  Teeth

  Vampire Nights

  Vampires Blues

  Vampire Dreams

  Halloween Moon

  Vampire Gold

  Blue Moon

  Dark Side of the Moon

  JIM KNIGHTHORSE SERIES

  Dark Horse

  The Mummy Case

  Hail Mary

  Clean Slate

  Night Run

  JIM KNIGHTHORSE SHORT STORIES

  Easy Rider

  THE WITCHES TRILOGY

  The Witch and the Gentleman

  The Witch and the Englishman

  The Witch and the Huntsman

  THE SPINOZA TRILOGY

  The Vampire With the Dragon Tattoo

  The Vampire Who Played Dead

  The Vampire in the Iron Mask

  THE AVALON DUOLOGY

  The Grail Quest

  The Grail Knight

  SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS

  The Bleeder and Other Stories

  The Santa Call and Other Stories

  Vampire Rain and Other Stories

  THE VAMPIRE DIARIES

  Bound By Blood

  SCREENPLAYS

  Dark Quests

  Co-Authored Books

  COLLABORATIONS

  Cursed! (with Scott Nicholson)

  Ghost College (with Scott Nicholson)

  The Vampire Club (with Scott Nicholson)

  Dragon Assassin (with Piers Anthony)

  Dolfin Tayle (with Piers Anthony)

  Jack and the Giants (with Piers Anthony)

  Judas Silver (with Elizabeth Basque)

  Lost Eden (with Elizabeth Basque)

  Deal With the Devil (with Elizabeth Basque)

  The Black Fang Betrayal (with Multiple Authors)

  NICK CAINE ADVENTURES

  with Aiden James

  Temple of the Jaguar

  Treasure of the Deep

  Pyramid of the Gods

  THE ALADDIN TRILOGY

  with Piers Anthony

  Aladdin Relighted

  Aladdin Sins Bad

  Aladdin and the Flying Dutchman

  THE WALKING PLAGUE TRILOGY

  with Elizabeth Basque

  Zombie Patrol

  Zombie Rage

  Zombie Mountain

  THE SPIDER TRILOGY

  with Scott Nicholson and H.T. Night

  Bad Blood

  Spider Web

  Spider Bite

  THE PSI TRILOGY

  with A.K. Alexander

  Hear No Evil

  See No Evil

  Speak No Evil

  THE EVA HEART TRILOGY

  with A.K. Alexander

  The God Game

  The Lucifer Legion

  The Archangel Agenda

  THE DEAD DETECTIVE

  with Kris Carey

  Open Heart

  THE ABNORM CHRONICLES

  with Eve Paludan

  Glimmer

  Easy Rider

  Published by J.R. Rain

  Copyright © 2014 by J.R. Rain

  All rights reserved.

  Ebook Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedication

  To the memory of my father, who became a Knighthorse fan at the end.

  As Knighthorse would say, “Better late than never.”

  Love you, pops.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Easy Rider

  Alternate Ending

  Friends of Jim Knighthorse

  Books by J.R. Rain

  About the Author

  Easy Rider

  Chapter One

  I try to get to work around nine.

  Luckily, I have a very loose definition of try and around. And since I like to think of myself as progressive, I don’t worry about things like time. That’s the beauty of being progressive: I’ll get there eventually.

  At just past ten, I arrived at my building. With a mocha latte in one hand and my keys in the other, I smelled the cigarettes and cheap perfume wafting under my office door into the hallway.

  Before slipping the key in the lock, I tested the handle. Still locked. I looked around me. My pathetic business complex was quiet. There were precisely four cars scattered around the parking lot. One of them was my van. The others might have been the same three cars I’d seen upon leaving my office yesterday.

  Speaking of yesterday, I’d had precisely no clients come in, and had received exactly four calls from Bank of America credit card services. Apparently, I owed them a crap-ton of money. Apparently, they would get it when they got it. They didn’t like that answer, of course, which might have been why they’d called three more times. I was looking forward to more such calls today.

  Yippee!

  My office is in Huntington Beach, but one would never guess it. It was too far away from the addictive, salt-laden ocean breeze. Too far away from the bikini babes. And definitely too far away from a steady stream of walk-in business.

  One might assume that my office was on the wrong side of Huntington Beach, the inland side. It was the side that abutted a little city called Midway City. The side with, of course, the cheaper rent. Cheap or not, I was still two months behind on it.

  Now as I slid the key into the lock and, balancing my mocha latte like a pro, I slipped my hand behind me and pulled out the Mossad’s weapon of choice: a Walther pistol. I wasn’t part of the Mossad. I wasn’t a spy either. I was just a private investigator, and mostly,
I wasn’t even that. Mostly, I was an out-of-work desk jockey.

  Now, as I opened my office door, I was certain someone had broken in...and was waiting for me inside.

  * * *

  My office isn’t big, so there aren’t many places for a man to hide. Or, in this case, a woman.

  It turned out she wasn’t doing a very good job of hiding, either. In fact, she was sprawled on my couch, sound asleep. I relaxed and slipped the gun back behind my back, just inside the waistband of my jeans. I studied the scene of the “crime.” A coffee mug rested on the floor next to her, filled to overflowing with stubbed-out cigarettes. My coffee mug, in fact, which she’d commandeered from the cupboard over the small sink in the far corner of the office. Next to the sink sat an old, but reliable, Mr. Coffee. Or, as I liked to call it, Señor Café, because I liked to think of myself as international and mysterious. Kind of like James Bond, only bigger and tougher.

  Anyway, the coffee mug was a favorite of mine. It also had the UCLA logo emblazoned across the side. I was one of those people who happened to think the UCLA logo should be emblazoned across most things, but I might have been in the minority.

  Who she was, I didn’t know. Why she had broken into my office and, from all appearances, why she had smoked the night away, I didn’t know those answers either. I counted seventeen mostly smoked cigarettes, although one or two had only been smoked about halfway. I shook my head. Wasteful.

  She looked to be about twenty-something. She might have also been cute, if not for the way she was presently drooling on the arm of my couch.

  Speaking of arms, the inside of one of hers was covered with fresh track marks, all puckered and raw. Also on the inside of her arm was a stylized tattoo that said, “Fuck off, pigs.”

  I was impressed by the correct use of the comma.

  There were many such tattoos covering her body. Or, at least, on the parts of her body that I could see. On her ankle there was a skull with a dagger through it. On her wrists were inked two roses, the stems of which dripped blood. Around her neck—yes, around her neck—was a barbed wire tattoo, also dripping blood. Behind both ears, turgid middle fingers flipped the bird.

  Classy.

  As badass as she wanted the world to think she was, all she was now was a gently snoring girl who’d broken into my office, abused one of my prized mugs, and was now staining my couch with her drool and cigarette stink.

  Such is my life.

  I also saw bruising, and not just a little bruising, but a lot. She’d been beaten recently. I suspected there were more such bruises covering other parts of her body that I couldn’t see.

  I might have felt weird about inspecting a sleeping woman so thoroughly; that was, if said sleeping woman hadn’t broken into my office. I looked again at her mouth and saw the possible reason for all the drool...the inside of her lower lip was split. She’d taken a shot to the face. I noticed now how the blood mixed with the drool. Yes, I was going to have to get the couch cleaned. Again.

  Don’t ask.

  How she’d broken into my office was a mystery. The mystery might have been solved if I’d gone through her purse, which was partly spilled open on the floor next to her. Two more unopened packs of cigarettes were visible inside the purse.

  I always liked a woman who was prepared.

  I stood back and considered my options. Call the cops? Probably. Wake her up? Maybe. Check my email? Definitely.

  So, while my unknown office guest slept contentedly, I powered up my computer and checked my email. I checked some sports scores. I checked my Facebook. Lastly, I checked my bank account.

  Depressed, I did some triceps dips along the edge of my desk, as I’m sure most people the world over did. After all, who wouldn’t want nice triceps?

  Next, I did some diamond push-ups. Very few people know what a diamond push-up is. Even fewer know how to do them right. I’m one of the few who probably does them perfectly. Case in point, my hands were brought in together, centered just below my chest, my two index fingers and thumbs forming a perfect diamond. The burn is fabulous on both the triceps and the outer pecs. Since my focus was on the triceps this morning, I did just that: focused the burning in my triceps. I did push-up after push-up, cranking them out quickly, but precisely, over and over. I could do this until the cows came home, or until I got tired of them.

  Or, in this case, until the mystery girl woke up on my couch, which she did now, gasping as she sat up.

  However, I wasn’t quite done with my diamond push-ups. No, no, no. My arms were burning, yes, but not burning enough. And so, I cranked out twenty-five more, knowing that I now had an audience.

  When I was finished, I nodded to the woman who was now sitting up on the couch and watching me, her mouth hanging slightly open—and not because she had been recently beaten up. I think, perhaps, she might have been in awe. At least, I liked to think so.

  “And that,” I said, hopping up to my feet, “is how you do a diamond push-up.”

  “I don’t know how to respond to that,” she said.

  “Few do,” I said. “Now, start talking.”

  Chapter Two

  I leaned a hip against my desk, arms folded over my still-burning chest.

  The girl asked if she could smoke. I told her she couldn’t. She pointed out that she’d smoked a crap-ton the night before, and what difference did it make? I pointed out that if people everywhere followed that line of logic, then the world would descend into anarchy. And if that happened, only the strong would survive...or those who had mastered the diamond push-up. She asked if I had been drinking. I told her I hadn’t had a drink since last Tuesday. She looked skeptical.

  “To sum up,” I said, “the answer is no.”

  “Please.”

  “No.”

  “Pretty please?”

  “There’s nothing pretty about it. Start speaking. What’s your name?”

  “Camry,” she said.

  “Like the car?”

  “Please don’t make any Toyota jokes.”

  “I’m not sure I could if I tried.”

  “Well, good. I’ve heard a few corny ones, trust me.” She pulled her sock-clad feet up on my couch and hugged her knees. Her socks were pristine white. How girls kept their socks so damn white was a mystery to me.

  “Who are you?” I asked again.

  “I told you.”

  “No, you told me your name, which just so happens to be the name of the most reliable car in America.”

  “Is that a joke?”

  “Just an observation. Now, start talking.”

  She looked at me with eyes that weren’t fully awake, or alert, or aware. She might have been a little high. She was cute, in a strung-out kind of way. Dark rings around high cheekbones. Pale skin. Soft muscles hanging loose over a longish frame. She could have been beautiful. But for now, she had to settle for cute with a chaser of ‘what could have been.’

  “I need your help,” she said finally. “But first, I would like some coffee.”

  I looked at her. She looked at me. Neither of us budged until I remembered her bruises and her bloody lip, which now hung in a pout. I sighed, pushed off the desk and headed over to the sink. Once there, I washed the coffee pot, slipped in a new filter, guesstimated the right amount of Folgers, and turned on Señor Café, which sounded more erotic than it should have.

  While we waited, Camry was content to sit quietly on the couch, hugging her knees and looking forlorn. While the coffeemaker came to life, belching and hissing, I leaned against the little counter. A few years ago, I had tried to do incline push-ups against the little counter and had nearly torn the whole thing out of the wall.

  “How did you get inside my office?” I finally asked.

  For an answer, she reached inside her purse and pulled out a curious-looking gun-shaped tool that looked familiar. In fact, I had one in my desk drawer. It was a lock-pick gun.

  “That would do it,” I said, making a mental note to invest in a double-deadbolt for
the door. “So you’re a thief?”

  She looked at me long and hard, although her eyes might have wavered a little. Being high does that. Finally, she nodded. “When I have to be.”

  “For drugs?”

  “Is there another reason?” she asked.

  “For the thrill of it?”

  She shook her head and reached down for her pack of cigarettes, but as she did so, I shook my head and she sighed and dropped the pack back into her purse. “Sometimes, there’s a thrill. Mostly, I’m terrified.”

  “You seemed real terrified,” I said, “when I caught you drooling on my couch.”

  She snorted and wiped the corner of her mouth. “Well, I wasn’t robbing you. I was exhausted. It seemed like, you know, a safe place to crash. Besides, there’s nothing here to rob.”

  “Ouch.”

  Behind me, my computer chimed. An email. It took all of my considerable willpower not to check it.

  “How old are you?” I asked.

  “Twenty-five.”

  “So, why are you here?”

  “I need protection.”

  “From whom?”

  She pushed up the sleeve of her shirt and showed me another tattoo. It was of a logo I was familiar with. Mostly I had seen it on the backs of leather jackets, worn by guys with long beards, long hair and loud motorcycles.

  “From them.”

  Chapter Three

  Next, she asked if I had any food.

  I held up my coffee cup and said, “You’re looking at it.”

  She said, “Don’t be mean,” and started crying, and the next thing I knew I was in the drive-thru at Jack-in-the-Box, ordering her a breakfast croissant and juice, and for me, the entire left side of the menu.