Free Bad Moon Rising by Katherine Sutcliffe Page A

into the guy’s teeth.
    “He wants to live with you, John. That’s how miserable
he is at home. He said as much to Eric this morning. They got into a fight. I
mean a real fight. Patrick actually took a swing at him.” Her voice grew tight.
“Eric threatened to send him to military school. I’m at a loss as to how to
deal with this.”
    “I can recommend some decent counselors.”
    “Eric would never stand for it. God forbid anyone get
wind his family life is anything but perfect. All he can think about is his
damned political career.”
    The creep reached out and touched Holly’s hair.
    “I think Eric is going to run for the Senate.”
    J.D. frowned. “You knew it was going to happen as soon
as Strong announced his bid for the presidency. Eric would be the logical
candidate to take his seat.”
    “Like I’m going to divorce Eric now.”
    “It would sure as hell shoot the wheels off his image.”
    Holly gently shoved the man’s hand away.
    “John, maybe it would be good for Patrick to come stay
with you awhile.”
    He blinked. “You’re joking, right?”
    “Maybe if he had some time away from whatever pressures
he’s going through right now.”
    “Beverly, I can hardly take care of myself, much less
a sixteen-year-old.”
    “Just for a couple of weeks.”
    Holly slid off the stool, her fixed smile more furious
than friendly.
    “Are you listening to me? For God’s sake, John.” The
man made a grab for her.
    J.D. slid from the booth, plowing into a waitress and
sending her tray full of drinks flying. He crossed the floor in five strides,
twisted his fist into the back of the man’s suit, and wrenched him off his
feet, slinging him aside so he landed ass-first into a horrified woman’s bowl
of scalding jambalaya.
    As the place erupted into a cacophony of screams and
scrambling bodies, J.D. clenched one hand onto the stunned man’s shirt collar
and drew back his fist.
    “Enough,” Holly said as calmly as possible.
Cautiously, she moved closer, putting her hand lightly on his arm. “No problem
here, Damascus. The guy’s drunk and stupid. Let him go.”
    J.D. looked into her eyes.
    “Such chivalrous machismo turns me on, Damascus. But unless you want me to rip off my clothes right here, you’ll back off.
Besides, I don’t have the money to bail your cute butt out of jail.” He looked
at her mouth, curving now in a genuine smile.
    J.D. took a deep breath and released the drunk who
scrambled toward the door. His rush of adrenaline subsided so swiftly he felt
as if every muscle in him had turned to rubber.
    “Who the hell is going to pay for this mess?” the manager
shouted.
    Only then did J.D. remember Beverly. He looked toward
the booth. She was gone.
     
    The apartment where Damascus lived wasn’t im pressive by any means. A
scattering of empty cola and beer cans dotted the furnishings, and half-folded
newspapers were strewn at the base of the futon.
    Holly suspected, sparse as it was, this apartment hadn’t
known a woman’s touch in a long time. But it was a place to crash until Damascus returned from his appointments, and until she could figure a way out of this mess.
    Her car, her clothes, all the money she had saved—
everything was gone. She’d spent many years of her life in New Orleans and knew
the chances of finding her belongings were slim to none. The chop shops would
find little to interest them in the car, but she knew that whatever gang
member had hot-wired the Taurus wasn’t interested in the tires or pitiful
radio. Money and jewelry was what would interest them—anything they could hock
to buy drugs.
    She might have made a few phone calls in the years
past. Put out the word they had hit the wrong cache and her car would
materialize where it had disappeared. Everything would be returned, including a
few hundred dollars extra to repay her for her inconvenience. Back then, she
could have used the same scenario with Melissa. One phone call would tell her
everything she wanted to