by Holly Rayner
The woman removed Morgan’s sheet and allowed the loose hair clippings to fall to the floor. “That’s the one. And Channie. She’s a great gal. Should be on shift right about now.”
Morgan handed the woman a twenty. “Thank you, ma’am. You’ve been most helpful.”
“Are you sure you don’t want a quick coloring, miss? It would really bring out the little green flecks in your eyes.”
“Not right now, thanks. Another time, maybe,” Morgan said, even though she had no intention of coming back unless she needed more town gossip to help her case.
The woman’s parting smile was friendly, and Morgan waved a hand as she departed and slipped into her car, heading straight to the bright red barn she could easily see from where she was parked. That was one good thing about this sparse location—everything was visible.
Morgan entered the barn through two saloon-style doors, which swung back and forth behind her as she made her way to the bar and took a seat on an old wooden stool.
A young woman with bleached-blond hair approached her right away. “Can I get you somethin’ to drink, miss?”
“Just a Diet Coke, please,” Morgan said, casually examining the woman. She was pretty—and the first person under fifty that she had come across in the small town.
When the woman came back, Morgan caught sight of her name tag: Channie.
Bingo.
“Thank you, Channie,” Morgan said, turning on the charm.
Channie smiled, her teeth straight and blindingly white. “You’re welcome,” she said, clearly evaluating her new customer. After a brief hesitation she said, “We don’t get too many strangers around here. It’s not exactly an exciting vacation destination.”
Morgan grinned. “You mean people aren’t dying to spend a glorious week bathing in lotion, hiding from the winds and enjoying the abundance of tumbleweeds?”
Channie laughed, and Morgan found that she liked the girl, which was saying something.
“It’s not all bad. The people here are pretty decent, once you get to know them.”
Morgan pointedly looked around the bar. At one table, a pair of old men sat playing checkers. At another, two young women were looking at their phones and giggling. That was it.
“I’m sorry, what people?” Morgan asked.
Channie smiled broadly. “They exist. It’s the middle of the day on a weekday; where do you think they are?”
Morgan had to grant her that. Still, the bar seemed unusually empty—though maybe that was just her Houston upbringing surfacing. She was used to having people around her all the time and found it comforting, which was maybe one reason why she felt so uneasy in the middle of nowhere.
When Morgan didn’t offer an answer to her rhetorical question, Channie pressed on, clearly looking for a conversation to pass the time.
“So what did bring you here, miss?”
Morgan pulled out her picture and slid it across the lacquered surface of the bar. She watched Channie’s expression carefully, catching the slight widening of her eyes as she looked at the image before glancing back up at Morgan.
“Who’s this then? Your boyfriend? Ex-boyfriend” Channie asked, unable to mask the slight hint of jealousy in her voice.
Morgan grinned. “Not at all. We’re old friends, actually. When I couldn’t get hold of him I thought I’d look into it,” she lied, not wanting the woman to suspect the truth.
Channie’s expression closed. “Never seen him before in my life. Besides, how would you know to find him all the way out here?”
Sensing that she was about to be rumbled, Morgan decided to tell the truth. “I can see you’re not one to be lied to, Channie, and I’m sorry about that. The truth is, I work for Hassan’s parents. They’re desperate to find him, just sick with worry,” Morgan knit her eyebrows, working to play the sympathy card.
“I…I…” Channie stuttered, looking down at the picture of Hassan.
Morgan placed a reassuring hand on Channie’s, her eyes pleading. “Please, Channie. His parents love him very much. All they want is to know that he’s safe. If you can tell me that, I promise I’ll leave you alone.”
Channie continued to look at the picture, but when she raised her eyes to Morgan, they were full of tears.
“I don’t know if he’s safe or not, if I’m being honest. We were together a few weeks ago, just for a night. He was so…” she gazed off into space, and Morgan could just imagine what she was thinking. Mesmerizing. Charming. Perfect. She’d thought all those things just looking at a picture of him, though she hardly wanted to admit it to herself.
Channie focused back in on Morgan after a moment. “You’re really here to help him? I don’t think he deals with the cleanest of people, but I don’t want to get him in trouble. He’s a good man, miss.”
“Call me Morgan,” she said, her smile reassuring. She could see Channie’s walls crashing down.
The woman leaned in and began to whisper. “A few weeks ago we spent the night together. He was such a gentleman, so kind. He drove me home the next morning on his motorcycle, but I haven’t seen or heard from him since. He did say he was on his way to New Mexico, and he didn’t know when he’d be able to call…”
Channie’s expression was sad. Morgan felt for her then. A young girl out in Nowhere, Texas.
Channie continued after a pause. “He mentioned a friend of his. Daryl Trent, I think his name was? You don’t often forget names here—not enough of them, you see? Said Daryl was just across the border, maybe thirty minutes out from here. It might be worth looking into. Maybe if you find his friend, you’ll find him next.”
Morgan gave Channie’s hand a squeeze. “Thank you, Channie. This is a huge help.”
“Can you do something for me, when you find him?” Channie asked, squeezing Morgan’s hand back before letting it go and moving to wipe down the bar top.
Morgan nodded, waiting for her request.
“Can you tell him ‘thank you’ for me? Thank you and I’m sorry,” Channie said.
Morgan lifted an eyebrow, but Channie’s mouth was firmly shut. She clearly had no intention of explaining more than that.
Nodding one more time, Morgan rose from the bar and threw another twenty next to her still-full glass.
“I will, Channie. Thank you for your help. I will keep you posted,” she said before making her way out of the bar and back to her car.
It was time to go find out just who Daryl Trent was, and what he knew about the mysterious, handsome Sheikh.
SIX
It didn’t take Morgan long to find El Gato Negro, the next closest bar across the border. The building was dilapidated, the flat roof slanting to one side and looking like it could collapse at any moment. A billboard-sized black cat was propped against the building, with an outline of blinking purple neon just flickering on as dusk began to settle.
Ignoring her growling stomach, Morgan locked her car door and headed into the establishment, repressing a cough.
The whole place reeked of cigarette smoke. Round tables full of sketchy-looking men peppered the warehouse-sized room, and in the back she glimpsed a series of pool tables with green lights suspended above them. Even from the front door Morgan could see smoke dancing under the distant light, slinking past into the otherwise shadowy corners.
The place was a dump.
Morgan took a seat at one of the tables and pulled a crusty menu out of the condiment holder. In spite of herself, she thought about ordering some food.
A shadow fell across her menu, and she looked up to see its owner.
A tall man in jeans, a denim shirt and a fringed, leather vest was staring down at her, a hungry expression in his dark-brown, almost black eyes. His hair was past his shoulders, unwashed and unbrushed.
Morgan stared him down for some time until the man shifted his foot and cleared his throat.
“We don’t get a lot of women in here…or strangers, for that matter. Who are you?”
So direct, Morgan thought. How pl
easant of him. She tried not to grimace as the man straightened his belt, like he was trying to put his crotch even closer to her face.
She leaned back in her seat, assuming a posture of nonchalance.
“I’m looking for a man named Daryl Trent. You know him?”
The man’s dark eyes bored into her face, but Morgan met his stare with determination. She wasn’t the type to be cowed by silence or intimidation; she was ready to bust this place up in a moment’s notice if needed.
At the sound of footsteps approaching, Morgan allowed her gaze to dart behind the man’s shoulder, and she held back a gasp.
A huge skinhead had strolled up to the table, and was standing menacingly behind the dark-eyed man, who could clearly feel his presence.
Without hesitation, the first man stepped aside and moved along, not looking back. He slinked back into the shadows of the bar as the skinhead took a seat at Morgan’s table.
He was so large he barely fit in the chair. His blue eyes were cold—colder than any Morgan had ever seen, and she had seen a lot of darkness in the world.
“Now, here I am, minding my own business, playing a game of pool, when I hear my name from the lips of a beautiful woman from across the bar. Isn’t that interesting?” he said, his gaze running up and down Morgan’s body.
Morgan sat up, leaning in. “You’re Daryl Trent, I assume?”
“You assume correctly. Now, how can I help a pretty little thing like you?” he asked, leaning in as well.
It took everything Morgan had not to slap him and run from the bar. Her skin was crawling, shivers of warning slinking up and down her spine. This man was evil, and she wanted to get out of his vicinity as soon as possible. As usual, the best way to do that would be blunt honesty.
“You can tell me where I can find Hassan Al-Khali,” she said.
Daryl shot backward, nearly tipping his chair over as he did. His tattooed face was contorted with rage. “You dare bring up that name to me? Who are you?”
Morgan held firm, her face neutral. “I’m looking for him, and I hear you’re the one to talk to about finding him. I heard you were a friend of his.”
Daryl spit on the already filthy wooden floor. “The Sheikh has no friends here,” he sneered. “The guy’s a snake. I paid him good money to come through on a…deal, shall we say? The bastard took the money and disappeared. He’s marked for me, and me alone. So tell me, what do you know about his whereabouts, ma’am?”
The way he hissed out that last moniker was enough to make Morgan’s knees tremble a little. She didn’t know anything about Daryl Trent, but it was pretty obvious he was willing to do whatever it took to achieve his purpose, whatever that may be.
On the surface, however, she was cool as a cucumber. “A friend of mine was hoping to reunite with him…romantically. You were my only hope of a connection, but it looks like I’ve barked up the wrong tree. Thank you for your time, Mr. Trent,” Morgan said, rising to her feet.
Daryl rose too, grasping her arm.
