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Though porta-potties were not her first choice for a bathroom, too many people were lined up at the raceway restrooms. Outside the entrance to the track, she located the line of orange plastic boxes. They’d been put at a reasonable distance from the food vendors, and at least were roomy and clean. Portable sinks with soap and paper towels were set up outside them.
After she took care of that, she walked up a hill where people sat out on blankets watching the races. Though being outside the bleacher area meant a portion of the track view was obstructed by them, the far side curves were visible. She zoomed in and acquired some good shots of the racers coming around them.
She imagined blurring their movement into multi-colored streaks, working taglines for a product into the impressions of air flow. She typed a note and appended it to the pic, then saved it in her pending design file.
As she headed down the slope and back toward the entrance to the track, she noted a group of bikers clustered beneath a section of the bleachers. They had their motorcycles with them, though there’d been yellow tape there before, specifically prohibiting parking in those areas.
All the riders were men, except for a woman in a thong, tank top and leathers, leaning against the back of one bike. Though as Tiger had said, this was a more family-oriented event, Skye had seen a few blatantly sexual outfits like this woman’s at the pavilions in town.
It didn’t put her off. When she’d researched the bigger rallies online, she’d recognized a comfort with sexual displays similar to that in a BDSM environment. And just like it, various sizesand ages embraced those displays. However, this girl was in her early twenties, with an eye-catching figure and long dark hair.
The large man straddling the bike had one leg stretched out, a hand hooked in his jeans pocket, the other clasping a beer. He wore a black leather cut, but she couldn’t see what MC affiliation patch was on the back of it.
She’d seen plenty of them these past two days, ranging from the whimsical to the badass. Brian’s was the Old Mud Dogs, a Texas MC group mostly in his age and interest group.
Two additional men leaned against their bikes, while a third sat on a crate. From the nonverbal cues of their conversation, she thought the man on the bike was the leader of the group, unofficially or officially.
The Harley he rode was beautiful, a deep red enhanced by the gleaming silver of the engine and wheel spokes. His powerful body was angled so that the shadows and light sculpted the planes of his face, enhancing the depth of his eyes. All of that, coupled to the attractive woman in provocative clothing, her glance periodically moving his way in an obviousI’m hismanner, presented story elements that could catch attention and draw interest.
A custom jewelry shop had recently become a client, and they wanted to approach a more eclectic clientele. Based on the preliminary information Cyn had given her, Skye could see the possibilities in this material. She’d rework the identifying features, using the rest to mock up some concepts.
She’d taken several pictures when one of the bikers leaning against his ride noticed her. After he said something to the large man straddling the bike, he twisted around, shooting a look her way. When he spoke, the one on the cooler and the man who’d first noticed her headed her way.
No problem. It wasn’t the first time she’d had to explain what she was doing and why, and assure someone she was using design elements, not actual identities, in her work.
Yet as they advanced, she experienced a trickle of unease. Their expressions were neither friendly nor unfriendly, and the dispassion gave them the look of hunters.
She thought of dashing for the track entrance, but she was only standing a few feet from it. People on the bleacher ends flanking it could look down and see her.
If they weren’t too distracted by the race.
But she just didn’t like the idea of retreating without explaining how she intended to use the material. That would be unprofessional. She could handle this. She started typing as they drew closer, and engaged the audio. Helen Mirren was always a good choice. Her voice carried, and a British accent tended to catch attention. “Hello. I work for—”
A roar from the crowd swallowed the sound, and one of the men plucked the phone from her grasp, capturing her wrist with the other. His hold on the phone disappeared the screen and muted the audio.
“Why are you taking our picture?”
Being grabbed startled her, but when she tried to yank free, he anticipated her resistance. He moved further into her personal space, tossing her phone to his buddy, and gripped her hair.
The shock of it told her too late she should have run. This was a man used to resistance and violence. She was in trouble.
He smelled of beer and sweat, but his gaze was flat, faculties fully intact. Golden-blond hair was tied back from his bearded face, and he had remarkably attractive gray eyes, no matter that they looked chillingly cold. While not as large as the man on the bike, he was far bigger than Skye. The other man had a shaved head like the Iraq vet and a tattoo of a tower of skulls on hisforearm. So did the one holding her, along with “Ride or Die,” ink around his biceps.
His meaty hand was digging her ID bracelet into her wrist, concealing it. She tried to sign with one hand, knowing he wouldn’t understand, but at least he might comprehend she couldn’t speak to him.
Instead, he interpreted the motion as her flailing, so he gave her a quick shake to settle her down. It was rough enough to snap her teeth together and leave no doubt how easy it would be to snap other parts of her. “Answer the fucking question. You don’t look like a biker’s bitch.”
His apathetic expression told her it wasn’t personal. She had the harrowing thought that his job was to hurt anyone the large man on the bike told him he wanted hurt. The dead eyes told her he was long past getting into a moral quandary over it.
In only a few seconds, they’d pulled her further under the bleachers. The third man had moved to block the view from the vending and bathroom foot traffic. His posture clearly said, “not your business and keep moving.”
Though Skye wasn’t as much into the self-defense stuff and going to the MMA gym as the others, Cyn had made sure she knew the basics. But she hadn’t practiced them as much as she should have. And she’d done exactly what Cyn had told her never to do. Second guess herself, rather than risking embarrassment with an overreaction. Like bolting and blowing her panic whistle. Which was back in the tent.
If she survived this, Cyn would kick her ass.
Cyn had also told her controlling her fear was more important than anything else, but Skye had never been at someone’s mercy like this, someone ready to hurt her. Panic fought to take control, because she couldn’t communicate. She couldn’t call out for help.
But someone had heard her anyway.
