“The Cloven Hoof?” I repeated. I was already out of the booth and fumbling for my keys, but Dani's voice wasn't done yet.
“I'm not telling you this because I want you to come down here—I don't. You've shown zero interest in this case from the start. I'm just calling to say I'm doing this one on my own, and if you find another story you want to follow up, well, that's okay with me. We can part ways for a while. No hard feelings. Okay?” In the background I could hear the bartender asking for her order, and Dani said, “Shirley Temple with an extra cherry, please.” She never drank when she was working. Then the message clicked off, and an automated voice said, “Message recorded nine twenty-five p.m.”
“Shit,” I said dismally. Except for the occasional “hell” or “damn,” I don't usually curse a lot. Getting worked up enough to curse usually means I'm not controlling myself very well. But in this case it was totally warranted. Nebraska Avenue was a bad part of town, almost as bad as the docks—a strip of seedy bars and massage parlors where the rougher element of the city liked to hang out. And Dani had gone there by herself. “Shit” was an understatement.
“Look, Grandpa, I'm sorry, but I have to go.” I reached into my wallet for some money, but he put a hand on my wrist.
“On me, sonny boy. Did I hear you say something about The Cloven Hoof?”
“Yeah.” I was already straightening my tie and shrugging into my jacket. I hadn't bothered to change out of my work clothes when I'd called my grandfather and asked him to meet me for dinner.
“Well, that's a were bar. You know that, right?” He looked concerned.
I groaned. “I knew it was a biker bar—a leather bar. But no, I didn't know it was a were bar too. Dani's down there all by herself trying to dig up a lead.”
Grandpa whistled and shook his head. “Not a good place for a lady to be by herself after dark. But listen, Benji, you can't go down there dressed like that.” He nodded at my rumpled white shirt and black suit jacket. I looked down at myself.
“Why not?”
“It's a rough bunch down at The Cloven Hoof. You have to command respect the minute you walk in, or you'll end up fighting the lot of them. You need to look the part if you want to go down there and claim your lady friend and come back in one piece.” He dropped some bills on the table and slid out of his side of the booth. “Come on, I think I still have my old leather jacket in my car. That's gonna be more the style for The Cloven Hoof.”
“All right,” I said, glancing at my watch. “But we have to hurry. Dani left that message almost half an hour ago, and Nebraska Avenue is halfway across town.”
He chuckled. “You'll make it. Now when you get there, you're gonna have to claim her—show your ownership of her. You know that, right?”
“What?” I followed him out of The Three Coins, trying to wrap my head around what he was saying.
“Sure—there's no unattached females at The Cloven Hoof. There's just the ones who haven't been claimed yet.”
“Look, Grandpa,” I said, “Dani isn't going to be too hot on the idea of being 'claimed' in any way. And as for me owning her…” I shook my head, picturing Dani's face if she got wind of that particular idea. “Well, let's just say she values her independence a lot.”
He gave a short, barking laugh. “Listen to you, Mister Sensitive. By the Goddess, this damn political correctness thing you got goin' has just about ruined your whole generation.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “Let me tell you somethin', sonny boy. If you see another man's hand on her, another male horning in on your territory, you're not gonna be able to help yourself. I'm just gonna give you the protocol. Okay?”
I thought of my instant reaction of rage to the bum who'd tried to talk to her the night before and reluctantly decided he might be right. It was a good thing I had my grandfather to keep me up on things like pack protocol and all the arcane were language and customs, or I would have been walking into the situation blind.
“All right,” I said, “But make it quick.”
“Quick as lightning,” he assured me. “So here's what you do…”
Chapter Seven
Dani
I glanced around at the people inside The Cloven Hoof as I slipped my cell phone back into my purse and waited for my drink to arrive. It looked like a tough crowd with everyone wearing leather and more ink on display than at a tattoo parlor. I noticed there were very few women sitting at the heavy wooden tables—the Hoof's clientele appeared to be mostly men, all of them large and most of them at least partially drunk. You could've cut the testosterone in the air with a knife—if you had a big enough knife that is.
I was glad I had dressed the part, in an outfit I had borrowed from Tara. She'd gone as a dominatrix to a Halloween party the year before, and her costume was perfect for the leather bar, if a little bit snug on me. I looked down and adjusted the shiny, red vinyl, lace-up bustier for the fourth time, trying to get it to cover more skin. Tara was a full size smaller than me in the bra department, and the result was that my cups runneth over, so to speak.
The black leather skirt that went with the top hardly deserved the name since it barely even covered my ass. I perched on the bar stool with my thighs pressed modestly close together, wishing I could cross my legs, and knowing I would flash someone if I did. Three inch, black stiletto heels completed the outfit and made me look every bit as trashy as any other woman in the establishment.
The low grumble of southern rock came over the speakers, but no one was dancing on the tiny, rudimentary dance floor provided at one end of the building. It was just as well, because it looked like it could hold a max of three couples, probably less considering what big bruisers all these guys were. The big, broad-shouldered build that seemed to proliferate reminded me a lot of Ben, although most of these guys were older than my partner, and many were running to fat.
I played with the tiny white cocktail napkin I hoped would soon hold my drink as I thought of my partner. What was going on with him lately? I would much rather have had him here with me, watching my back, but he had made it very clear that he didn't want anything to do with this story, for whatever reason. Well, at least he'd had the good sense not to ask me to drop it just because he didn't want in on it. Ben was good about giving me space to do my own thing when I needed to, which was one of the reasons I'd made the phone call—to let him know we could go our separate ways for a while. Even in the best friendship you sometimes need space. I just wished that Ben hadn't picked this particular time to need some.
I sighed. The weirdness with Ben wasn't the only reason I was feeling blue—the atmosphere of The Cloven Hoof was contributing to my general malaise as well. The whole bar scene brought back unpleasant memories of my marriage to Mitch, but not because he'd been a biker or any kind of an outlaw type. No, Mitchell Jerome Whitford the third had been an attorney who specialized in civil litigation and had never been on a motorcycle in his life that I knew of. He'd had blond pretty-boy looks and a big white smile, paired with a forceful charisma that had attracted me at once when we met in college. Of course, I didn't find out until after we were married that he had no soul.
What brought back the painful memories was the sour scent of beer in the air and the atmosphere of suppressed violence that seemed to hang over the entire bar. It reminded me of the way Mitch had used to get when he was drinking. He'd always start with a beer or seven to get warmed up before he moved on to the hard stuff. During his beer phase, he was a happy guy, as sweet as could be and no trouble at all. It was after the bottle of Jack Daniels came down from the shelf or he'd had a couple belts of Scotch that he started getting mean.
I rubbed my hands over my arms briskly, trying to get rid of the chillbumps that had formed there. There was no point in thinking of my bastard of an ex-husband now. I had work to do—a lead to catch, and maybe a missing girl to find, if it wasn't too late to find her.
Just then the bartender, a big guy wearing a leather jacket with no shirt underneath it, finally came back wit
h my drink.
“Dollar fifty,” he said, plunking it down on the small white cocktail napkin. His biceps bulged with the motion, making the red and green snake tattooed on the right one seem to flex.
“That's not much for a drink,” I said, giving him a flirtatious little smile as I dug in my purse for money.
He shrugged. “No alcohol in it. Just red sugar water and soda.”
I tried not to bristle at his disdainful tone. After all, you catch more flies with honey…
“Well, I was wondering how much you charge for something else I was interested in?” I leaned forward on the bar so that the red bustier bulged in what I hoped was an enticing manner.
The bartender looked interested despite himself. “What are you lookin' for, little lady? And how come you're here alone?”
“Can't a girl come in to a bar for a drink by herself sometimes?” I asked, giving him my best innocent look.
“Not in the Hoof she can't.” He nodded around the smoky bar where all of the women present were obviously there with a man. “Look around. If you're not meeting someone, and you don't know what kinda bar this is, you might want to drink that quick and skedaddle.” He motioned at my bright pink Shirley Temple.
“But I haven't gotten what I came for yet.” I smiled at him, but it was clear he was losing patience.
“Make it quick.” He grabbed a dirty white rag from under the bar and swiped at the cracked wooden surface.
“I need information,” I said, laying a twenty on the bar along with the picture of McKinsey Cullen. “This was a friend of mine—McKinsey Cullen? She disappeared around three months ago, and this is the last place she was seen.”
“How come you're just now askin' around if she went missin' three months ago?” the bartender demanded. Oops—good question.
“I've been out of town,” I said quickly. “I thought she was just missing my phone calls, but when I came back and found out she was gone…well…” I shrugged and tried to look appealingly innocent. “Please, anything you could remember would really help.”
“Sorry, can't help you.” He took my twenty and gave me exactly eighteen-fifty in change. Great, a dead end.
“But…” I said as the bartender turned away. Clearly this had been a bad idea from the start. Maybe I should have offered him fifty. I sighed.
“I might be able to help you with that,” said a voice in my ear. I turned to see a large man in faded jeans and a vest identical to the bartender's smiling at me in a predatory manner. He had eyes the exact color blue as his well-worn jeans, and by his seamed and leathery face, I judged him to be a good fifteen to twenty years older than me. He also had about a hundred pounds on me. The white T-shirt under the vest bulged with muscle just beginning to run to fat, and there was a pack of cigarettes rolled up in one sleeve. The whole look was very Grease, and I felt like the good girl in high school being approached by the boy from the wrong side of the tracks. Then I remembered the way I was dressed. Okay, so maybe I wasn't the good girl after all.
“Have you seen this girl?” I asked, showing him the picture of McKinsey Cullen and trying to sound business-like.
“Ah-ah-ah.” He shook a finger at me. “Didn't I hear you offering to pay for that information just a minute ago?”
“Sure.” I made my voice confident and off-hand. “But you should know I don't have more than fifty on me. She was a personal friend, so I'm financing this investigation on my own.” A little white lie never hurt anyone, and I didn't want him to think I could afford to bankroll his entire night on the town.
“Well, I'm sure we can work something out.” He gave me that predatory grin again, which made me want to squirm in my seat. There's something so undeniably creepy about being sized up like a side of beef by a complete stranger, even if you're dressed to be sized up.
“Fine.” I waved the picture in front of his face again. “How did you know her?”
“She used to come in here pretty regular. In fact, I was here the night Thrash claimed her.”
“Thrash?” I raised an eyebrow at him.
He nodded. “Sure, Thrash Savage. Everybody in the scene knows him.”
“Oh, Thrash.” I nodded back. “Sure. So where is she now?”
He shrugged. “Don't know. She kinda disappeared after he claimed her. I heard he was getting her ready for something special—somethin' to do with Mabon, but nobody ever said what.”
“Um…Mabon?” I raised an eyebrow at him, hoping I wasn't giving myself away.
My new information source frowned. “Hey, are you in the scene or not? I had you pegged for one of those Winterhaven Coven chicks.”
“Oh, sure.” I nodded. “Winterhaven—that's my, uh, coven.”
“So how come you don't know about Mabon?”
“Oh, I know.” I shrugged, trying to look unconcerned. “I was just wondering what McKinsey would have to do with it. I mean, she never mentioned anything about it to me.”
“Well, if she was with Thrash, she was probably gonna be the pack's Mabon queen. In the Great Rite—ya know?” He grinned and took a sip of his drink, which looked to be Scotch, straight up. “She was a good choice for it. I watched Thrash take 'er right there on the floor.” He nodded to the small dance floor on the far side of the room. “That girl could fuck like nobody's business.”
I had just taken a big sip of my Shirley Temple, and I choked on it, spraying the tops of my breasts with the pink liquid. “She, uh…they…?” I coughed again, nodding at what I had assumed was a dance floor.
“Sure. Here, let me help you with that.” He picked up several of the little cocktail napkins and began blotting my chest.
I snatched the napkins away from him. “I can do it myself, thanks.”
He looked at my red face, obviously amused and not a bit deterred. “Ya know, it's that girly drink that's choking you up. Let me get you something real. You like Scotch?”
“No thank you,” I said firmly. “In fact, I have to meet someone.” I dug in my purse and came out with a fifty. “If that's all the information you have, then I have to get going.”
“Not so fast.” He took the fifty from me, wadded it up, and stuffed it back in my purse. “I don't want your money.”
“Then I'll consider what you told me as a gift.” I tried to smile at him. “Thank you very much.” I started to slide off my stool, but he stopped me with a meaty palm on my thigh.
“No gift,” he said. “Nothin's for free in this world.” His voice had dropped into a lower register, almost a growl.
“Take your hand off my leg,” I said, giving him my best fuck off glare.
My information source turned stalker leaned forward and inhaled deeply. He sat back and smiled at me, his hand still on my leg. “No,” he said simply.
“I'm warning you,” I said, trying to sound menacing and unafraid. I had not come unprepared for this kind of thing. I had mace in my purse; it was just a matter of finding it. I put my hand inside it, pretending I was putting away my fifty.
“I don't smell a mating mark on you,” he said, inching his hand up my thigh. I looked down and saw that his fingernails were crusted with some kind of black grime. Yuck.
“I don't know what you're talking about,” I said, still fumbling for the mace. Shit, Ben was always teasing me about having such a huge purse that it was like a black hole. I looked over at the bartender, but he just gave me a bland look and shrugged. Clearly no help from that quarter.
“I'm talking about an unclaimed female—you, girly.” He grinned at me, and his eyes almost seemed to glow in the smoky air. “Why'd you come in here for if you weren't lookin' to be claimed? If you weren't looking for a man?”
The enormity of his misogynistic ego trip left me speechless for a minute. Then his hand inched higher up my thigh, under my skirt, breaking my indignant paralysis. “I told you,” I said, grabbing his hand with my own and attempting to push it off my thigh. “I came here looking for information on McKinsey Cullen. That's all.” I pushed with
all my might on the last word, but I might as well have been trying to move a stone wall. This guy was determined and frighteningly strong.
“You came here for a good fucking,” he growled, leaning in so that I could smell the Scotch fumes on his breath. The odor along with the menace in his voice brought back my ex, Mitch, in all his glory. I tried not to flinch back, but I couldn't help it. “That's the only reason an unclaimed female ever comes in the Hoof, so don't give me any more bullshit, girly.”
“She is not unclaimed.”
The voice behind me was both familiar and strange, if that makes any sense. I turned around slowly to see Ben standing there, two feet behind my bar stool. But it was Ben as I had never seen him before.
Instead of his usual rumpled GQ look of a button-down shirt with a tie pulled adorably askew, my partner was dressed in…leather? I had to do a double take to be sure, but it was true. He was still wearing the black dress slacks he'd had on that day at work, but from the waist up, he looked like something out of a Playgirl wet dream. He wasn't wearing a shirt or tie anymore—in fact, his tanned, muscular chest was bare, showcased by the black leather jacket he wore. I could see his biceps bulging with tension under the animal hide, and his face was grim. His thick, springy black hair was disheveled, as though he'd been running both hands through it, and the fire was burning behind his brown eyes again. If he had been a dog, I would have said his hackles were up.
The man with his hand on my leg looked up at him, obviously sizing Ben up. He didn't remove his hand from my thigh. Instead he sniffed me again and said, “I don't smell a mating mark on her.”
“I don't care what you smell. She's mine.” Ben came to stand directly behind me and put both his hands on my shoulders. His hands felt hot against my chilly bare skin, and I shivered. “So get the fuck away from her.” His voice was a low growl.
I could barely suppress a gasp. Ben almost never swore, and he certainly never dropped F-bombs. What the hell was going on? And what, I wondered for the second time in twenty-four hours, was a “mating mark”?
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