Free Running With the Devil by Lorelei James Page B

back and tossed a rainbow-beaded purse over her shoulder—a purse identical to the one Kenna carried—she knew it was her roommate hustling through the biker crowd. But why?
    Kenna’s pulse quickened. What the hell was Shawnee doing in Sturgis? Kenna knew she occasionally helped out a friend in one of the bars, but Shawnee was pretty mum on which one. Besides, Shawnee was supposed to be on a dig in Harding County.
    It didn’t matter. Kenna was relieved to see her. She yelled, “Hey, Shawnee! Wait up!”
    Shawnee stopped and turned. She looked around frantically, her gaze zooming from one unfamiliar face to another. Suspicion had drawn her mouth tight. Not once did that skittish gaze land on Kenna. A look of absolute fear distorted Shawnee’s beautiful features before she slipped on a pair of sunglasses, whirled back around and vanished into the swarm of people.
    Kenna froze in the middle of the sidewalk.
    Shawnee had blown her off. Some best friend.
    Then it hit her. Shawnee wouldn’t have recognized her, all dolled up as biker bitch Kenna. No wonder Shawnee had panicked. Shawnee purposely kept a low profile, given her checkered past—and she was justifiably paranoid around strangers, especially avoiding the types of people with sketchy pasts much like hers.
    Shawnee was probably halfway to Whitewood by now, that girl could run like the wind. So…what did Kenna do now?
    Plan B. Call Marissa.
    A blue pay phone shone in the sun like a beacon. Kenna hustled toward it, digging in the bottom of her purse for change. Shaking fingers punched the number to Marissa’s cell. Please, please pick up.
    “Marissa Cruz,” she said brusquely.
    “Marissa! Thank God. I-I—”
    “Kaye? I mean Kenna? What’s going on? Where are you?”
    Motorcycle engines revved and she raised her voice. “Downtown Sturgis, at a pay phone across from the Circle S. Please. I need to talk to you in person. Is there any way—”
    “Hang on.” Marissa’s words were garbled as she spoke to her companions. “Okay. I’m back. I just finished showing a building at the end of Lazelle Street, about four blocks from you.”
    Relief made Kenna slump against the phone box. “Can you meet me here?”
    “I’m on my way.” She chuckled. “What color is your hair today, chica? So I know who to look for?”
    “I’m wearing the red wig. Oh and I dressed in black.”
    “That ought to be easy to spot,” she said dryly. “Hang tight.” She broke the connection.
    Distracted, Kenna paced. Wondering how the hell she’d ended up in this crazy situation. Stuff like this didn’t happen to her. She’d nearly made the fourth pass past a garbage can crammed with beer bottles and crumpled up food wrappers, when a sharp jerk separated her purse from her shoulder.
    For half a second she froze, watching the black knit cap and leather jacket bobbing and weaving through the crowds with her purse held high above like a trophy.
    In the next instant, Kenna was running after him.
    Anger, fear, adrenaline, whatever it was, she seemed to be gaining on the punk. Pounding the concrete in her stiletto boots sent shock waves up from her heels through her shins, but didn’t slow her down. Keeping her gaze firmly fixed on his head, she bulled her way through the throngs of people.
    Almost. Not quite. Finally close enough. Releasing a primal scream, she tackled him. An all out flying leap that knocked both of them to the hot, sticky pavement. They landed in a tangle of arms and legs.
    Her knees hit first, then her forearms, then her elbows. Her face smacked into a hard thigh, but not before she saw her purse fly from the assailant’s hands and skid a few feet to her left. Despite having the wind knocked out of her, she scrambled sideways and lunged for it.
    Yes! When the straps were firmly in her grasp, she looked over her shoulder.
    The dirty rotten thief had disappeared.
    At least the bastard hadn’t gotten away with her favorite purse. And her wallet. He’d put a