Free In a Chord (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) by Beth D. Carter Page B

ass.”
    Keaton had to smile as she all but ran toward her apartment building. But as she went to cross the street, as her foot stepped into the crosswalk, Keaton heard the sudden gun of an engine and the squeal of tire. His head snapped around to see an old dirty yellow Pontiac zooming toward them. The car swerved toward the sidewalk, barreling down onto Momo, who hadn’t really taken notice of the car.
    “Momo!” he screamed, racing toward her. “Watch out!”
    Her head snapped up, eyes widening as she saw the car, frozen like a deer in the headlights.
    Ash reached her first, grabbing her arm and yanking her so hard she went sprawling onto the concrete. The car missed her by inches, never slowing as it sped through the intersection until it turned the corner and disappeared.
    Keaton knelt beside her and turned her over.
    “Tell me what hurts,” Keaton ordered as he looked her over. Her hands were scraped badly. Her knees, both raw and bloody, had taken the brunt of her fall. She was trying not to cry, but big tears were swimming in her eyes. He rose and picked her up into his arms.
    “Just m–my knees,” she stammered, biting her lip.
    “Give me your keys,” Ash said as he checked her pocket. “I’ll open the door to your place, and we can bandage you up. I’ll also call Byron.”
    “Why?” she asked.
    “Because I got the plate number, and we can ask his brother to run it to see who that maniac was.”
     
    * * * *
     
    An hour later there was a knock on Momo’s door. Ash opened it and greeted Byron and his brother, who still was in his uniform. He motioned for them to come in.
    Momo sat at her tiny dinette table, both her knees heavily bandaged up. She held her palms on two ice packs to cool the burning. A glass of water with a straw in it rested next to her hand. Keaton sat with her but rose to shake hands with Byron.
    “This is my brother, Officer Joseph George,” Byron said, introducing him.
    “Thanks for coming by,” Keaton murmured as he shook Joe’s hand. “This is Momo Willows.”
    “Good afternoon, Miss Willows. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
    Each went through the event, stating his or her own perspective of what happened. Momo admitted she hadn’t seen anything, except the car’s grill as it grinned evilly at her.
    “But I got the license plate number,” Ash said, and gave it to Joe.
    “This is good. I can run the number. Anything else?”
    “This isn’t the first incident,” Keaton said.
    “It’s not?” Momo asked, her brow wrinkled in confusion.
    “She was violently ill after our show Saturday night,” Ash confirmed. “It came out of nowhere, and she was upchucking bile all night. She woke up the next morning perfectly fine.”
    “Hmm,” Joe murmured. “Sounds like an emetic. That’s more common then you realize. What did you eat or drink that night?”
    “Nothing,” Momo said.
    “You had water at the bar,” Byron told her. “When we went to talk to Gil Johannson.”
    “You think someone spiked her water?” Keaton asked.
    “Well,” Byron told him, “your fan is the bartender.”
    Keaton blinked, his mouth dropping.
    “Who’s this fan?” Joe asked, writing down the information.
    “We play at The Black Tiger every Saturday night,” Ash replied. “And every time Byron hands Keaton a letter from this fan. It’s been going on for about six months.”
    “I thought it was just a kid, you know?” Keaton explained. “A groupie. I never thought it was the bartender!”
    “What’s her name?”
    “Ramona,” Byron answered. “I don’t know her last name.”
    Joe closed his little book and stood. “I’ll go question her and run these plates. You take care, okay, Ms. Willows?”
    Momo nodded.
    Joe nodded to Keaton and Ash, making sure Momo did not see him, so they followed him to the door.
    “I’ll follow up with you,” Joe told them in a low voice. “But I’m concerned that this is escalating very quickly. If it did start with spiking her