7th Circle (Hades Book 1)

by Tate James

  For a moment we just glared at one another, then a pair of women in short skirts and high heels came up the stairs, brushing past us with giggles and sly looks, breaking the moment and allowing me to look away.

  With my jaw tight and my spine like steel, I started down the stairs again. I needed to get the fuck out of 7th Circle. Away from Cass. Away from Lucas. And... away from whatever the fuck had Zed acting so strange.

  I could only hope he was still in the bar watching the girls on the other stage, rather than back in my office looking at security feeds.

  Cass shadowed me the whole way out of the club, then across to my car in the reserved space beside my bike.

  He frowned at my vehicle double-up. "Why's Fat Bob still here?" he asked.

  I stifled a sigh, unlocking my Corvette and popping the door open. "Because, Cass, I was too wasted to drive it home the other night. I haven't had a chance to pick it up since, what with my gang being targeted by a ghost."

  Cass knew of Chase—he'd probably even met him at some stage—but he didn't know everything that’d gone down between us in the lead-up to the Timberwolf massacre. Reapers had not been my friends back then, with the exceptions of Archer, Kody, and Steele.

  But he knew enough of the Lockhart family to know why I said I was being targeted by a ghost. Dead men didn't infiltrate gangs, and they didn't plant drugs. And yet, here we were.

  "I'll drive it home for you," he grunted, stepping over to my bike.

  I frowned. "Hell no. Besides, I don't have the key."

  He just held my gaze steady as he bent down and swiftly hot-wired my Harley Davidson Fat Bob motorcycle with nothing more than a utility knife. Bastard.

  "I hate you a little bit," I admitted in a whisper, envious as all hell. Hot-wiring vehicles was a skill I'd never had the patience to learn, but it seemed so incredibly useful.

  The corner of Cass's lips hiked up in a small smile at my comment, and he swung a leg over the seat. "It's not good for it to be outside in the weather, Red, you know that."

  He was way too big for my bike, but somehow, he made it look effortlessly sexy as he caressed the handlebars and waited for me to get into my Corvette. I debated for a couple of moments whether to tell him to fuck off and come back for Fat Bob another day. But he already had it running, and it was bad for it to be outside in the weather. So with a small groan, I slid into my driver’s seat and pulled the door shut.

  He waited while I rolled out of the parking lot first, then followed me back to my apartment building. I opened the underground parking with a clicker on my dash and descended to my parking level. I had a whole level of parking because I owned a whole floor of the building. Some of the other apartments on my floor had been incorporated into my floor space, and some were just empty. I didn't like neighbors.

  Plus, I needed the parking spaces for my multiple cars. If a gang leader only had one mode of transport, were they even successful? Doubtful.

  Cass rolled my Harley to a stop in the vacant space beside me, and I noted that Seph's Camaro was back. Which was a good thing, seeing as she should have been asleep hours ago.

  "Thanks for dropping Bob home," I grudgingly told Cass as I climbed out of my Corvette and locked it. "You can't come upstairs, though." I arched a brow at him, implying that was what he'd been angling towards.

  Despite the number of times Cass had given Seph a safe lift home or kept an eye on her while Zed and I had been away on business, he'd never been inside my apartment. It seemed a bit contradictory that I trusted him to drive with my sister on the back of his bike but not to see our personal space, but it was what it was.

  I, for one, wasn't going to go psychoanalyzing my fucked up damage. That was a job for a very well-paid doctor that I would eventually get around to finding. One day. Probably never. I'd likely get killed before getting a chance to work on my mental health.

  Cass didn't seem offended, though. He just arched a brow at me, a tiny crease in his lips as he walked beside me toward the elevator. The doors slid open a moment later, and we stepped inside. I pressed the button for the ground floor—to let him out—then the level for my apartment as well.

  "What are you going to do about this angel dust problem?" Cass asked in a quiet voice as the elevator closed us in.

  I gave him a sharp look, suspicious. "Whatever I need to do," I replied. "It isn’t the first time someone has challenged my authority, and I'll deal with it the same way I always have."

  He made a low, thoughtful sound, his jaw twitching with tension. "You can't always shoot your problems, Red."

  I scoffed. "Maybe not, but I can damn well try."

  The doors slid open to the ground floor lobby, and I waited for Cass to get out. But... he didn't. Instead, he let the doors close again, then hit the emergency stop button.

  "What do you think you're doing?" I demanded.

  He turned to face me, and I wondered for a moment if he was going to kiss me again. And did I want him to? Yes, so badly yes.

  His gaze trailed over me, no doubt taking in my scarlet lipstick, the hint of cleavage from my half-unbuttoned blouse, my tight pencil skirt and deadly stilettos... then he sighed and ran a hand over his face.

  "What is your fucking problem, Cass?" I demanded, reading disapproval in his body language. "You're only attracted to me when I'm in jeans and sneakers? If that's not the definition of judgmental—"

  "What?" He cut me off, his scowl deep. "What the fuck makes you think—" He cut himself off with a frustrated snarl. "Forget it."

  He smacked his hand against the door release and stomped out into the lobby of my apartment building. For a man of so few words, he sure seemed to be grumbling a hell of a lot of them about me as he walked away. All I managed to catch, though, was infuriating woman, and it weirdly made me smile.

  Cass thought of me as a woman. Not a rival or associate or even as a child. That had to be a step in the right direction, even if our communication sucked big time.

  My phone buzzed with an incoming call as I reached my floor, and I smiled when I saw the caller ID.

  "Hey Demi," I answered, stifling a yawn with my hand. "Bit late for you, isn't it?"

  My aunt just chuckled down the phone. "Don't treat me like I'm a geriatric, Hades, forty-five is the new twenty-one. Didn't you know?"

  I chuckled. "My mistake, party girl. What do you have for me?" The only reason my aunt would call so late at night was if she’d just received the information I’d requested or if she had a mess that needed cleaning up. Hopefully, it was the former.

  "I'm sending over the file on this Lucas kid now," she told me. "Most things seem to check out. The only fabrications were his date of birth and surname; otherwise, he's squeaky clean."

  That genuinely surprised me. "Squeaky clean?" I repeated. "Surely not. He must have some hidden gang affiliation or something. There's no way he's just... normal."

  Demi huffed. "Don't question my researchers; you know they're the best. When I say he's squeaky clean, I mean it. No gang affiliations at all, not even two generations back. His dad was a Marine and died when Lucas was two. His mom used to be a ballet teacher but was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis around six years ago. Lucas was just twelve and on his way to National’s for men's gymnastics but gave it up to look after his mom. Now that he’s back in the school system, he’s a year behind from all the time he lost trying to homeschool himself. I promise you, he's just a hard-working kid doing his best to care for his single mom."

  "Huh." I frowned as I unlocked my apartment. "What about this uncle who paid for his schooling and shit? Anything questionable there?"

  "Nope," Demi replied with a short laugh. "Probably one of the few longtime residents of Shadow Grove who never once stepped foot on the dark side. Hon, he's clean. Aside from taking a job in your club and lying about his age, the boy is an angel. Seriously. You should probably do the world a favor and fire his ass before you corrupt him."

  God dammit.

  Gritting my teeth, I tossed
my keys and bag onto the hall table and made my way to my room.

  "Are you sure?" I asked again. I'd really thought for sure Demi would uncover some deep, dark secret about Lucas—something that would make it easy for me to completely cut him out of my life for good. Or... out of life in general, depending how bad it was.

  "One hundred percent," my aunt replied. "I'm not even going to offer to dig deeper because there is no deeper. He's a choir boy. Quit seeing monsters in every shadow, hon." She and her wife were the only people on the planet that were brave enough to call me hon like that, but I quietly loved it.

  I kicked off my heels and collapsed onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling. "Okay, well... thanks, I guess."

  "Anytime, as always. Stacey asked if you and Seph are coming over for dinner on Friday." We had a monthly family dinner, seeing as Demi, Seph, and I were the last of the Timber bloodline.

  I let out a small groan. "Not me, not this week. There's some shit going down..." I trailed off. Demi was useful as hell and she'd always be a Timber, but since my hostile takeover, she’d no longer been a Timberwolf—by her own choice.

  Demi clicked her tongue. "Heard. I'll see Seph, though?"

  "Probably," I replied with another yawn. "Just... keep your eyes open, okay? Maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea to go visit that winery of yours in Tuscany."

  There was a short pause. "That bad?"

  I breathed out, feeling the panic and uncertainty in my gut. "Yeah."

  "Well, shit."

  I had nothing else to say to that, so I just wished her a good night and ended the call. Then I spent the rest of the night reading and rereading the file she’d sent over on Lucas Wildeboer, eighteen—almost nineteen—year-old dancer, gymnast, and all around normal guy.

  Fuck. Demi was right; I was going to corrupt the hell out of him.

  18

  By some stroke of luck, I managed to navigate the next few days without too much drama. I mean, Lucas still texted me when he knew he shouldn't, but I'd managed to stay strong and not reply.

  I'd also avoided going back to 7th Circle when I knew he would be dancing—I was only so strong—and thanks to having access to his roster, it was easy enough to maintain that avoidance.

  Toward the end of the week, I started to suspect I was being followed, and it pissed me right the fuck off.

  "Zed," I barked as I strode into the training room at Anarchy. It was our newest venue, just over a year old, and converted from an old, abandoned amusement park. Now the big top was the arena for wildly popular cage fights and the fun house was a nightclub that hosted international DJs and performers.

  My second was sparring with one of our upper management, Alexi, and they were both wearing nothing but gloves and shorts. Sweat coated their muscles, and the Timberwolf tattoos sat prominently on their bare skin.

  I pulled up short as I got closer, my breath catching in my throat. When was the last time I'd seen Zed stripped down like this? He was... wow.

  He tapped gloves with Alexi, ending their session, and padded across the mat to where I stood, a curious look on his face.

  "What's up, boss?" he asked, his gaze cautious. It wasn't like me to show up unannounced while he was working out, but the feeling of being tailed was making me all twitchy and short-tempered. I didn't have the patience to leave him a voicemail, knowing his phone was in his bag and wouldn't be checked for another hour.

  Alexi gave me a grin and a small salute from across the training ring, and I gave him a tight nod in response. He was a looker, no doubt, and had made it pretty damn clear he was interested in me as more than just a terrifying boss. But I simply wasn't interested. He struck me as a watered-down version of Cass.

  "I have a tail," I told Zed in a low voice, not wanting Alexi to overhear. He was a valuable employee, but that was as far as my trust in him went.

  Zed gave me a smirk and craned his neck to look at my ass. "Do you? That's new."

  "Fuck you, this isn't funny. Someone has been following me since Tuesday." I folded my arms under my breasts and glared. "And whoever it is, they're good at not being caught."

  Zed's brows flicked up. "So how do you know you're being followed?"

  My eyes narrowed further, and my jaw clenched. "Seriously?"

  He gave a one-shouldered shrug while unstrapping his gloves. "Sorry, forgot who I was talking to for a moment. Alright, gimme ten minutes to shower." He headed across the training room toward the showers, and I frowned after him. The Timberwolf tattoo covering his whole back flexed as he moved, and I found myself weirdly fascinated by it. Zed was acting... strange.

  But then, so was I. My whole vibe had been off all week... but surely that was understandable given the fact that someone was playing at being the ghost of my ex-fiancé.

  "Hey boss," Alexi said, strolling over to me and snapping me out of my trance. Zed had just disappeared inside the locker room anyway, but I needed to blink a couple of times before refocusing on Alexi. He fucking knew it, too, glancing over his shoulder in the direction I'd been staring, then shooting me a sly grin.

  "You got something to say, Alexi?" I asked in a cool don't-fuck-with-me voice.

  He quickly shook his head, his smile slipping. "Uh, no, sir. Nope. Just wanted to ask if you're coming to the fight next month."

  There was a fight at Anarchy every weekend, but I knew Alexi was talking about our main event of the season. There was a lineup of several hyped-up pairings, and Alexi was fighting Archer. He didn't stand a chance, but it'd be a good show. They both fought professionally within the UFC, so it'd draw a hell of a crowd. Great for liquor sales, even better for laundering money on bets.

  "I expect so," I replied with an arched brow. I didn't carry the conversation, and a moment later he awkwardly shifted his weight and scratched the back of his neck.

  "Cool," he murmured after a painfully long pause. "Well, I should..." He jerked a thumb in the direction of the lockers. When I said nothing in response, he gave a tight smile and backed away.

  When he was out of sight, I let out a sigh and ruffled my fingers through my hair, then anxiously tied it up in a high ponytail with the black rubber band on my wrist. I paced the length of the room about sixteen times before Zed emerged in a pair of fresh shorts, sneakers, and a tank top. His short-cropped hair was glistening wet from the shower, and he smelled of soap—hot as hell, if it weren't Zed.

  "Let's go." I whirled on my heel and stalked out of the training gym ahead of him before he could catch me perving like he were a guy I wanted to fuck. Because I didn't. Not anymore, anyway. We'd established the boundaries of our relationship a long-ass time ago, and they didn't include any kind of sexual activity.

  "Where are we going?" Zed asked, hurrying to catch up and walk beside me. The training building was toward the back of the Anarchy complex, so it was a bit of a walk to get back to the parking lot. We'd left the creepy, huge clown face over the main entrance, just cleaned it up a bit and given it a paint job to make it look demonic. I loved it, but I was also one of those sick fucks who wasn’t scared of clowns.

  I blew out a long breath, thinking. "Let's go to Zanzibar. I'm starving."

  "Sounds good to me," Zed agreed, clicking the key fob to his Ferrari. "Meet you there?"

  I nodded. "Hang back, though. See if you can spot anyone."

  He gave a small shrug like that wasn't likely—and it wasn't—but still did as I asked. Sure enough, I didn't get the feeling anyone was following me too closely on the way to Zanzibar—an upmarket lunch spot with plenty of outdoor seating—but that wasn't shocking. If I had been followed to Anarchy, they had to know I'd gone to get Zed. So they’d know to hang back from his car, too.

  So either I was officially paranoid or they knew what they were doing. Both options were equally concerning.

  After we dropped our cars off at the valet, I requested an outdoor table, and the maître 'd showed us to it. Neither Zed nor I spoke until we were seated, then he arched a brow at me.

  "I didn't se
e anyone," he commented, his voice low and quiet.

  I gave a shrug. "They're there. Somewhere."

  Zed stared at me for a long moment, then ran a hand over his damp hair and nodded. "Yeah, I bet. They must be pretty good if you haven't pinpointed them yet." It was an observation, not an expression of doubt. Zed knew not to question my gut. Fuck, I hoped my instincts weren't going as screwy as my mood.

  Our waitress came back and took our lunch orders, then left us in silence for a bit. Zed just sat back in his chair, casual as fuck despite wearing gym clothes in a fancy restaurant. His eyes were glued to my face, unnerving me as my own gaze scanned the street beside us. I'd asked to sit outside in the hopes of spotting someone watching.

  "Stop it," I muttered after a few minutes.

  His lips twitched with a smile. "Stop what?"

  I gave a deadpan glare. "Stop staring at me."

  "You never used to mind." His tone was even, not betraying any emotion at all. I frowned deeper, and he shrugged. "Or maybe you just never used to notice."

  "You're acting so fucking strange at the moment, Zed," I grumbled. "Did the revolving door to your bedroom get stuck or something?"

  Amusement flashed over his face, but he didn't reply. Our waitress arrived with a bottle of sparkling water, and Zed took it from her to open and pour, then handed me a glass.

  "I think someone made it out of the massacre alive," I told him after a sip of water. "It's the only thing that makes sense here, isn't it?"

  He sipped his own water, his blue eyes still fixated on my face. "The only thing that actually makes sense to me," he murmured, "is that Chase made it out alive. But even that makes no sense. We both saw him die. You fired the damn gun yourself."

  My stomach flipped, and I swallowed heavily, reliving the moment I'd looked my fiancé in the eye then fired his Desert Eagle at his head. Yeah. My favorite gun used to belong to Chase. I'd grabbed it in the bloody fight where we'd beaten each other half to death, and it’d seemed like such poetic justice to kill him with his own weapon.

  "I feel like I'm losing my fucking mind, Zed," I whispered, hardly believing I was saying the words out loud. "He's been dead five years, and I'm seeing his ghost in every shadow. What the fuck is wrong with me?"