Lost Angeles

by Mantchev, Lisa

  No. Scratch that. Second worst.

  So step into my world,

  Where I’m the dreamer and the dream…

  Lonan, Rebel, and Jude duck into the limo after us, along with four other nameless twerps from PFC and the production assistant from Apocalypse. Given that there’s still room in here for six hookers and a Jacuzzi tub, I’m tempted to send Asher a selfie to show him that my Humvee is bigger than his. Lore doesn’t say anything about the blue LED rope lighting or the champagne mini bottles poking out of approximately fifty cupholders. Instead, she peers out the back window as we pull away from the curb, waving to the fans gathered at the edge of the sidewalk. As the airport fades from sight, she sinks down in her seat, releasing the sigh to end all sighs. Then she turns that half-smile on me, looking pretty poleaxed.

  Whatever world she was lost in before, she’s rooted here with me now.

  Reaching over, I slip a hand under her knees and drag her into my lap. Lore curls an arm around my neck, puts her head down on my shoulder, and exhales into that sweet spot at the side of my neck.

  “That was crazy,” she says softly. “I don’t know how you do it. I was scared shitless for a second.”

  “That’s because you were off wandering inside your own head,” I murmur against her skin. “It’s less hair-raising when you’re braced for it.”

  “I’ll be ready next time,” she assures me.

  Except I’m not entirely sure that’s true. Lore’s got the talent, no doubt, but I get the sense that life’s always going to take her a little by surprise. Even now, she reaches up and touches her fingers to the glass, like she can reach the lights, like she can feel the Strip through the bulletproof pane.

  I’ve got plans for Vegas, and they all start right here, right now, with moments like this one.

  Find the crimson heart of me,

  The beating, bleeding heart

  Of me…

  I press a kiss to her temple to hide the beginning of a frown, because the only thing that can fuck up this weekend would be the ill-timed appearance of everyone’s least favorite sin-eater. But all I say is, “If you think that’s crazy, wait until you see the hotel.”

  Turns out I was right, because Lore’s not ready for that either. Can’t complain, because each new jaw-drop just makes me crave the next one. Plan for the next one. Our luggage gets loaded on a brass cart and whisked away. We head into the lobby and retrieve our key cards and chat with Steve the Owner, who turns up like a main stage conjurer. We exchange a quick handshake and a couple pleasantries while he runs down a few particulars that I pay very close attention to—extra security at all entrances, vetted staff, no access to the suite without passkeys—and then a bunch of crap I pay absolutely zero attention to.

  Blah blah blah dinner reservation at nine.

  Blah blah blah private butler.

  Blah blah blah massage therapists on-call and blood dolls at my disposal. At that point, Steve catches sight of Lore and claps me on the shoulder, suddenly conspiratorial.

  “Shall I send up some clothes? Shoes?”

  I lean against the counter, considering my options. “Anything you got that sparkles, including jewelry. The kind that gets a girl’s panties wet, even when she claims she doesn’t like diamonds.”

  “I can manage that,” he says, taking Lore’s mental measurements until the elevator arrives with a soft bing-bong chime.

  “Going up,” I announce cheerfully. She’s all shy smiles until the doors begin to close and I add, “She’ll be going down later.” The pale flash of a fist shoots toward me, but I catch the punch before Lore lands it and return her hand to her. “Careful there, you almost hit me.”

  “I meant to hit you, you… you…”

  “Dickhead?” I fill in with a grin as the doors open on the penthouse suite. The windows overlooking the Strip are UV shaded, the bags are already getting unpacked by staff, and Rebel and Lonan head off to set up base camp in the en suite office while Jude mans the door. Lore decides she’d rather prowl the digs than knock my block off for the blowjob joke. I keep my fingers crossed that a couture wardrobe and a hundred thousand bucks’ worth of borrowed diamonds arrive soon. Maybe it will help her forget the Benicio situation, for a while at least.

  “So what’s the plan, Stan?” she asks, throwing herself onto a pristine white couch in the living room and peering up at me because I’m the one holding all the cards in this game of strip poker.

  “Dinner, I guess.” Except I don’t want to cover her in war paint and stuff her into a skirt so short that she’s going to be tugging at the hemline all night. I want to keep her here with me, omitting all the bullshit that’s awaiting us downstairs. I shouldn’t be surprised that I’m having a selfish bastard moment in a long string of the very same, but this time, I can’t keep her all to myself. The music has already ruled that out, and I was the one shoving her into the limelight in the first place.

  “Dinner and a ‘show’?” Lore teases, not realizing that I’m feeling weirdly contemplative.

  “If you want a show, all you have to do is ask, sweetheart.” I let my gaze stroll over her until she squirms. “Oh, and get naked.” Striding around a table topped with a stupid-huge floral arrangement, I peer at her, considering the full picture: boyfriend shirt, ballet flats, and…

  God damn you to hell, Levi Strauss.

  “I’m going to burn all your jeans,” I mutter. “I’m sick of wrestling pants off you. I almost miss the days when I could bend a girl over and hike up a petticoat.”

  Lore rolls her eyes. “Charming.”

  “I said almost.” Grabbing her by the ankles so that both her shoes go flying, I jerk Lore’s ass out from underneath her even as she scrabbles at her button and her zipper. “I sort of like it when you wear my pants.”

  “You crazy feminist, you,” she says, playfully sarcastic in a way that I wouldn’t put up with from anyone else.

  When I whip the jeans off, she’s left on white leather in nothing but her shirt and a pair of pink lace panties. Yanking off her top, she throws it at my head. By the time I get it out of the way, she’s armed with a couch cushion, which she also hurls directly at my face with enough strength to knock a human dude on his butt. I swat the thing away before it even has a chance to make impact; two seconds later, I have her back against the furry white carpeting, which is thankfully brand-new. Lore’s got her legs splayed open, her hands roaming everywhere, and then she sinks her pearly whites down on my ear. My own jeans are only half-off as her song ricochets around in my head.

  Fighting for the light in me,

  A tangled, twisted hope

  In me…

  Jerking her panties to the side, I sink my dick into her as far as it will go. Urgent, like I’m racing some kind of internal clock, at least until I’m buried inside her. Then there’s only her. Only her heat lapping around me and her mouth on my chest and her fingernails digging into me. Her breath on my ear. Her words in my head.

  So step into my world,

  Where I’m the dreamer and the dream.

  I’m in her; she returns the favor in spades, so inside of me that I can’t begin to find the boundaries between us anymore. Then I climax so suddenly and so thoroughly that I pull a muscle in my calf. Lore goes still and quiet, clutching me against her and stroking my skin.

  I didn’t give her what I wanted to. Just everything that I had.

  Fuck.

  And I worry my “everything” won’t be enough to keep her safe from the shit that goes bump in the night. The stakes are higher than ever now. I still don’t know how Benicio plays into this whole game, but I know one thing for certain: there are people in this world striking out at everything Caspian Declan loves, only because he loves them. And as Lore gracefully weathers every near-miss brush with death, I get a better picture of the bigger picture.

  Rule Number One has never been so relevant, because I finally understand that she is the link that connects us.

  Dots on dominos.
>
  And I’ll be damned if Lore is the first to fall.

  Her hands roam down my back, fingers flattening in the dip right above my tailbone. “You all right?”

  No. “Yup. Peachy keen, jelly bean.” That bastard was in my house. “Never better.” So close to you that I wouldn’t have been able to stop him if—

  “Maybe we should get up off the floor before one of the PFC boys comes in to see what the ruckus is about.” The scorching heat of a blush works its way across Lore’s chest. “Food? Maybe? Please, food?”

  I pull out of her and kick off my shoes, which disappear under the couch with her Princess Sparkle Toes slippers. Jeans go next, so that I’m striding naked past a lot of uniformed staff when they roll into the room loaded down with clothes. Lore squeaks and reaches for something to cover up her tits even though she still has her bra and panties on.

  “Shower first!” I throw over my shoulder. “Come on, you smell like jet fuel and… other stuff.”

  “Let me guess.” Wry as anything, she pulls herself off the floor and brushes a hand over her butt, dusting at nothing or possibly inspecting a rug burn. “Spunk?”

  “Woman, you have a seriously filthy mouth on you.” I shake my head at her and crook a finger. “I need to wash it out with soap, maybe.”

  The staff busies themselves with the racks and the boxes so that Lore has a chance to locate her shirt and pull it down as far as it will go, which is, admittedly, not far enough for her taste but more than enough for mine. I’m polite in the shower, which means I don’t bend her in half and fuck her the way I want to, to make up for my premature finale on the floor. In short order, she’s flicking through the collection Steve sent up. I park it in a chair and get my hair professionally mussed, back to leather pants and not bothering with a shirt.

  Just like audition day at Scion.

  And I sit there reliving every second since the first one, from Lore’s voice sidling through Scion’s speakers right up to the moment I came in her with my knees digging into the furry hotel carpeting. Realizing my fangs are aching from the mental slideshow, I plow through a pack. The blood’s only a few seconds old, milked from some doll somewhere in the bowels of this very hotel. Three more packs, more than enough for a full feed, and yet my teeth are still tingling when Lore finally emerges.

  Then I have to clamp a mental hand on my dick. At least the leather pants are tight enough to keep everything where it’s supposed to be, because every single thing about Lore’s outfit screams shut up and bite me where it’s not whispering shut up and fuck me. The little black number is strapless, with a sweetheart neckline, a cut-out midsection, and a high-low hem that’s all lacy peepshow at the thigh and gauzy train trailing behind. They’ve painted her up with slashes of eyeshadow and dark liner. The ponytail slung over one bare shoulder is spangled with a spray of glittering diamonds. Then I have to figure in the miles of bare arm, perfect cleavage, tiny waist, wide hips, and leagues of leg, all teetering atop the highest heels imaginable. Lore stands just out of reach, head tilted at an angle that she wears almost better than the dress, eyes glinting with bright blue challenge.

  Bring it on, I dare you.

  “You look ready to put the sin back in Sin City, love.” I know better than to screw up her makeup by kissing her mouth, so I kiss the side of her neck instead. And I continue to kiss it for the duration of the elevator ride down to the lobby. Have to stop when we hit the ground floor because it’s too hard to walk and give her a hickey at the same time. Not that I care, but Rebel and Lonan aren’t fans of the PDA, given the former’s glaring and the latter’s incessant throat-clearing. I’m inclined to punch Lonan in the neck, but seeing as how none of this would be viable if PFC wasn’t here, I’m forced to cut him some slack.

  Amazing what a week, a cool half-million in equipment and overtime, and some sin-eater scrapings can do for technology. The boys are packing the usual UV guns, but the ammunition is a whole different ball game now. Nothing they were able to test in the field, because Jax Trace nixed the idea of taking potentially lethal potshots at the mini-muffin, oddly enough. Still, Asher seemed pretty convinced the new ammo would take out Benicio, or at least put a significant dent in him. There had been a long-winded explanation about the reaction they got in the lab between some chemical cocktail and the psychotropic fuck-juice the sin-eater smeared on all of us, but I don’t give three shits how it works, only that it obliterated the tissue samples they took off Benicio before dumping him at the city morgue.

  Only mostly dead, the bastard.

  I almost want him to put in an appearance, but even he is not that stupid. PFC’s presence is unmistakable, as is the extra security roaming the building. Jude’s upstairs keeping tabs on the surveillance equipment, and while Rebel and Lonan might be in plainclothes, they’re both built like brick shithouses and visibly armed. Rebel must have drawn the long straw, because he heads for the back of the restaurant. Lonan sticks to Lore, even when we end up in a corner booth with a bottle of very expensive booze that no one is drinking. Lonan looks ten kinds of uncomfortable, despite having the two top buttons on his shirt popped open and his sleeves rolled up. Instead of a watch, he’s wearing a set of leather cuffs that might pass for badass if they weren’t decorated with black feathers. Even from here, I’m picking up whiffs of Corvus corax. Guy smells like my goose down pillows.

  Well, before two dead doppelgangers bled on them, anyway.

  When the waitress turns up, I stay quiet, swallowing the urge to order one of everything just because that’s the fastest way of getting rid of someone. I catch Lore flicking a glance at me, like she’s waiting for it to happen, but I keep my mouth shut.

  Standing by for the appetizers, Lonan and Lore sit side-by-side like strangers on a bus, each one feeling out the other, wondering what the other person is thinking. Well, Lonan, maybe. Lore’s pensive expression doesn’t have anything to do with him. The girl takes a stroll inside her own subconscious, gets beaten half to hell, has road rash for days, and walks it off like it’s nothing. But Benicio coming back from the dead has hit her right in the family jewels, so to speak, and every minute she spends not talking is proof she’s sinking another inch deeper into her own mind.

  Reaching out, I deliberately turn over the three glasses that arrived at the table with the liquor. “You two need to loosen up. I’ll take two shots to every one of yours. Last person conscious gets the big bed.”

  “I didn’t know you could drink something that wasn’t blood.” A few short weeks ago, Lore wouldn’t have been able to finish that sentence without flushing pink to the roots, but now she only gives me a very quiet, very deliberate look.

  “Oh, I am a bottomless well of secrets.” I flash the fang-grin, hooking both my elbows up on the booth. I’m not touching her anywhere right now, not even a knee under the table, and I wonder if she feels the loss as keenly as I do. But if I learned anything from Roman Scipio, it was strategy. I might not have his patience or Cas’s ruthlessness, but all of us… every last member of his motley family… knows how to play the game. “So what’s it going to be, love?”

  “I’m not sure this is a very good idea,” she says, still eying me skeptically.

  “You chicken?”

  For an answer, Lore picks up the bottle and pours out three shots, one of them a double. Actually, the one she pours for me is closer to a triple, but the smile she gives me tries for innocent when she hands it over. “Bottoms up?”

  “That’s the plan.” I take it from her.

  “I can’t drink on the job.” Lonan tries to ward off the glass Lore pushes at him. “It wouldn’t be safe, and Asher would have my ass.”

  “Your ass, huh?” I repeat with a finger snap. “I knew he played for the other team. You the top or the bottom?”

  Lonan gives me a considering look and says “both” without missing another beat. There’s a challenge there, one I let fly right by me because frankly I don’t care if he stuffs his dick in someone’s ear as long as he ca
n shoot straight.

  “I should have guessed. You kids today, with your technology and your internet porn and your bisexuality and never knowing if you want to spank or be spanked.”

  “One drink,” he fires back, “if that will shut you the hell up.”

  “Done.” I hold my glass aloft to make a toast. “Here’s to our friend Benny. May hell be full of boring brunettes.”

  I clink the glass against Lore’s and toss the shot back. It burns, worse than Roman’s Scotch. It’s more like lighter fluid, but I’m already reaching for the bottle and refilling our glasses. The second shot hurts more than the first, and Lore winces, putting her glass down with a gasp that reminds me of all the noises she makes in bed. And in the shower.

  And on the carpet.

  I pour us a third, but the appetizers arrive and that puts the game on pause. All the eats are teased, wrapped, stacked, and tortured until they barely resemble food, and I would be hard-pressed to identify a single damn thing on the plates. Lore is into it, but she would eat cardboard if it was wrapped with pastry dough. Smart girl, tucking away some carbohydrates to soak up the liquor snaking through her system. I can tell the alcohol is working its magic because she’s already pink and cute and flustered in a way that’s wholly different from her regular pink and cute and flustered.

  I put another drink in her hand between mouthfuls, and she tosses it back like a pro, right up to the point where she misses the last sip at the bottom and it sprays across her face. Lore gets her eyes shut, at least. Makeup ends up smudged at the corner. Wiping at it with my thumb cleans up the worst of it and leaves her cat-eyed. I lick my finger and smear the other side to match as I take my third double-down.