“Concert?” I asked, frowning. Then the rest of her words hit me. “Wait. He’s that Johnson Beaver? The singer?”
“Looked more like a drug dealer,” Quinn said.
I agreed loudly, hoping they might overhear. “I didn’t even see them enter the bar! Didn’t Nate have a run in with him at a concert?”
Othello met my eyes very intently, holding up two fingers. “Firstly, we aren’t allowed to talk about that alleged event. Secondly, it doesn’t matter.” Othello growled. “The Reds, remember?”
“Oh…” I said sheepishly. “Did you, hiccup, find them?” I asked.
She took the lead, calling over her shoulder. “Stay close or I will blame this all on you two.”
Quinn muttered something about putting Beaver on the endangered species list where he could remain safe, but she did shoot me a conspiratorial grin when Othello wasn’t looking. I found myself grinning right back.
I realized, in hindsight, that I had acted unusually courageous. Well, fearless. Reckless. But the lights here were bright and pretty, the sounds like a piano solo designed just for me, and I felt light on my feet, no longer burdened with stress. I couldn’t really remember the last time I’d been drunk, now that I thought about it.
I’d been missing out on life.
I was no longer a wobbly mess, and I’d kind of found my stride. Maybe the brief adrenaline rush with the security had sobered me up a little. Or redirected my focus. I also realized that whether intentional or not, Quinn and I had bonded. Friendship forged in a near bar fight.
Stranger things…
Chapter 7 — Quinn MacKenna, Vegas
You know when you meet someone you’re determined not to like, but then you find out you have a singular crazy, obscure thing in common that could potentially bind you together as friends forever? Well, that was Callie and I after we stood up to our newfound acquaintances—the punk ass hipsters and their hired muscle. At least until we found the Reds in a hidden pocket of the Bellagio compound and realized we had one other mutual acquaintance whose legendary charm was highly debatable: Dorian fucking Gray.
“I’m not surprised, but I am appalled,” Callie said between the bout of hiccups she’d picked up on our mad dash chasing after Othello. She was staring up at the graffiti which marred the nearest wall. A ten-foot mural of Dorian Gray, so pretty it almost hurt, had been rendered lovingly along this side of the alley, revealing far too much of his anatomy for my liking, but stopping mercifully short of gratuitousness. Below one of his nipples hung a blocky sign with two words branded into the wood: Rassle Tassel. Massive double doors took up space beneath and were manned by two beefy bouncers dressed only in leather chaps. Classy. Super classy.
“So you think this is one of Dorian’s clubs?” Othello asked, looking skeptical.
“I mean…” Callie replied, waving a vague hand at the mural as if that was all that needed to be said.
She was right. It was a tasteless display, but definitely consistent with Dorian’s gaudy style. Of course, I was determined not to like it; the last time I’d seen the bastard he’d been producing a fight-to-the-death, no-holds-barred tournament on a lawn in upstate New York. And yours truly had been on the fight card. “Fuck that guy,” I said. “Next time I see him, I’m goin’ to shove me foot up his ass and see how he likes it.”
Callie snorted, then covered her mouth, then snorted again. “I think he’d like it a lot.”
Othello was nodding as if that made perfect sense.
I frowned, then realized what she was saying. “Oh, gross. I didn’t mean that literally.”
“Still, it’s true,” Callie grinned.
“Come on,” Othello said, wearing her sobriety like a shawl; she’d been casually bumping into us whenever we threatened to wobble off like a mother duck pecking at her chicks. I’d allowed it only because I was pretty sure I’d have careened into strangers, otherwise, and I hated strangers on principle. Occupational hazard, you might say.
Callie trudged after her as she headed towards the door, and I followed. The bouncers took one look at us—Othello with her sexy librarian look, me in my skin-tight leathers, and Callie in her form-fitting street clothes—and parted without a word, pulling the double doors open as they went. Noise burst from within, shockingly loud, a combination of country music and catcalls. One voice, however, rose above the din. A recognizable voice, though deeper and fiercer than I thought could possibly emerge from her pale, dainty throat.
“We are the mudpackers!” Sonia roared. She wore a red leather bondage outfit that reminded me a lot of Leeloo’s initial getup in Fifth Element. It trapped and hid the parts of her that needed to be trapped and hidden, but little else. Of course, she was also covered in a film of mud that oozed along her skin. Dirt caked her arms and legs, even her hair. She looked like a cross between a science fiction dominatrix and a Neanderthal.
“The mud-slingers!” Aria corrected in a primal roar of her own, wearing a nearly identical outfit, although her straps ran diagonal rather than horizontal. She thrust her fist into the air triumphantly and suffered a wardrobe malfunction she didn’t seem to notice.
The crowd went wild.
Othello, Callie, and I looked at each other. I couldn’t read their expressions. Horror, maybe? Shock? Amusement? Either way, we were going in. We stepped through the double doors and waded into a crowd of spectators. Most were dressed country in various forms of denim and flannel, but a few wore significantly less—men in ragged jean shorts that hugged their groins and women in skimpy bikinis. All were covered in mud. A few looked battered, maybe even a little dazed.
Othello got there first. “Girls! What are you doing?!”
Aria spotted us and ran over. Well, I say ran. In reality, she marched over, yanking her legs free from the mud pit in which she and Sonia stood. Each step revealed parts of her to the crowd that sent salacious jeers throughout the club. “We’re tournament champions!” Aria crowed.
“You’re flashin’ the crowd,” I commented, nodding towards a group of men and women who’d dropped into squats to get a better angle. I sneered at their shamelessness; if anyone ogled me like that, I’d have to beat them all to a pulp on principle.
“Please, they aren’t seeing anything they wouldn’t see if we were in bathing suits.” Aria grinned and twerked a little for them, propping herself up on the rails that formed the boundary of the pit.
Othello snatched the girl by the arm. “If your mother finds out about this—” she began.
Aria pulled back and put her hands on her hips. “They don’t allow people to take pictures here. She won’t find out. Unless we tell her.” Her eyes narrowed. Sonia, who’d been busy rubbing herself down with more mud, finally came to join the conversation.
“We can’t leave until someone spanks us,” she said.
“Does what now?” I asked, eyebrows raised.
“Spanks us,” Sonia replied, adamantly. “You know, until we lose.”
I sighed. Trust the two redheads who’d tried to kidnap me in the middle of the night to become mudwrestling champions in a bar in Vegas run by Dorian Gray. Was this real life? I shook my head. “Who are ye fightin’ next?” I asked.
“They have beaten all challengers,” a man said, to our right. He was conspicuously dressed in a frock coat, complete with tails and white gloves. He looked like he belonged in a mansion in Europe, proffering a tray of tea and biscuits, not hosting at a Vegas nightclub.
“And who are you?” Callie asked, looking suspicious.
“I’m a representative of Mr. Gray. He sent me to speak with you on his behalf. He said, and I quote, ‘Well, darlings, I really wish I could be there, but a promise is a promise. I’m glad you took my advice, Callie. Hopefully these will be to your liking.’”
The man offered two piles of clothing to each of us. If you could call the leather outfits clothing. One was a green so vibrant it looked like St. Patrick himself had painted it, while the other glittered silver. At best, I’d say—
combined—they’d cover maybe a quarter of my body.
And, even then, not entirely the quarter I’d have chosen.
I glanced over at Callie. “Seriously? D’ye plan this whole t’ing with Dorian from the get-go?”
Callie raised her hands in surrender. “I swear this was not my idea. Is not my idea.” She glared at the messenger. “You can tell Dorian that—”
“I’m sorry,” he interrupted. “The message was one-way, only. I’m afraid Mr. Gray is indisposed, at the moment.” He draped the mounds of leather on the rail, the various straps and buckles swinging. “If you wish to challenge our young champions, we’d be honored to help. These are two of the newest pieces of Mr. Gray’s Fetush Clothing Line. They are incredibly rare and highly sought after, if I must say so myself.”
“This is Hell,” I replied, rubbing my forehead. “I’ve drank too much, died, and gone to Hell.”
Callie shook her head. “Hell is way worse than this. But I’m still not wearing those.”
The messenger dipped his head. “As you like. But if the ladies wish to challenge, it might be wise to have another outfit on hand.” He eyed our current attire critically, as if wondering how it would hold up in the mud. Sadly, his point was valid; we’d end up caked in dirt for the rest of the night at this rate, and I hadn’t packed a change of clothes.
Callie and I exchanged glances.
“No way,” she said.
“I say we go in there and drag ‘em out,” I said. “Or I can shoot ‘em? Just a flesh wound?”
The Reds snorted, drawing our attention back to them. “I think they’re scared of us,” Aria said, flashing her teeth.
Sonia nodded. “They know we’ll spank them.”
Callie and I exchanged glances once more.
“Fuck it,” I said.
“We’re in,” Callie said.
Chapter 8 — Callie Penrose, Vegas
Since there were no changing rooms, and the line to the bathrooms was—as usual in a bar full of women—infinitely long, Quinn and I backed into a corner near a broken down rodeo bull which wouldn’t be fixed anytime soon. The head was completely detached from what looked like a swipe of massive claws. Quinn turned herself into a tall, skinny wall while I changed into my new outfit, my blush matching the shade of her hair. Since she was lean and thin, it didn’t afford me much protection, but in the end, I realized I may as well have gone in nude for all the cover the outfit provided.
Finished dressing, I glanced down, stumbling slightly from the effects of the alcohol. I was essentially wearing silver tinsel, like the kind you put on a Christmas tree.
And it fucking fit perfectly. Dorian was going to pay for this. Then again…
I briefly imagined a certain someone catching an eyeful of me right now and my blush instantly turned purple, my cheeks on fire. The alcohol was definitely impairing my judgment for me to entertain that errant thought.
Still, I kind of wished at least someone had brought a camera. For posterity. They could have taken the picture at an angle so as not to reveal too much of my assets. Glancing down at my attire, I realized there was no appropriate angle that could make me look like anything remotely PG.
Quinn didn’t bother hiding her outburst of laughter when I tapped her on the shoulder to let her know I was finished. I glared in her general direction, having a hard time focusing accurately. “Your turn, Lucky Charms,” I deadpanned.
That shut Quinn up.
But she handled it like a champ. I made like a swaying tree, trying to block Quinn’s pale skin from prying eyeballs. I caught a quick glimpse of old scars and ridiculously toned muscle. She wasn’t as curvy as me, but she was banging in her own way.
“Excuse me?” Quinn demanded, when I mentioned it without thinking.
My eyes widened. “Just a compliment,” I murmured, cursing myself for having spoken out loud. She finally got ready and tapped me on the shoulder. I glanced back at her, my jaws dropping as I struggled against my grin. “Jesus…”
“I would leave him out of this. I’d rather not be smited in this outfit,” Quinn joked. She gave me an appraising once over before checking herself out, turning this way and that. “I wish I had your curves. I’m afraid this t’ing will fall off if I’m not careful.”
I giggle snorted at the comment. “Whatever,” I said, smiling in spite of myself. “You look great. Like a stripper on St. Patrick’s Day.” I flicked the emerald tassel hanging from the leather where her nipple would be and burst out laughing. “Rassle Tassel. I get it now,” I managed between giggles. It was just so damned ridiculous.
Surprisingly, she didn’t deck me. She let out a resigned sigh, but her lips did curve into a faint smile. “Might as well give ‘em a good show.”
“Agreed. Let’s go teach these girls a lesson,” I said, storming off towards the ring. I took several breaths—not too deep, obviously—and shoved my clothes into Othello’s hands, ignoring the look on her face while simultaneously interrupting whatever she had been about to say.
Before she could recover, Quinn did the same.
Without hesitation, I hopped over the wall leading to the ring, landing in the wide mud-pit. The mud was warm and squelched beneath my feet and between my toes. Quinn landed beside me, her lip curling up instinctively as globs of mud splattered her legs.
The Reds catcalled us from across the ring like sexy mud golems. Sonia shook her shoulders, her breasts wobbling back and forth in Quinn’s direction, and Aria turned to twerk her ass at me.
I shot a look at Quinn over my shoulder. “I’m feelin‘ like letting off some steam from the bar. I didn’t get to play with those boys. This is going to end badly for them. I promise.”
“Fuckin’ right it is,” Quinn snarled through bared teeth.
Without any warning, the bell rang, and the match began. Apparently, it was a winner-take-all match. I didn’t care. It was better than standing around ninety-five percent naked while Quinn fought Sonia. I sprinted at Aria—or more of a drunken forward fall, really—but I threw down a ball of ice in front of her to slow her down. She was a shifter, after all, and would outclass me in the physical strength department. I might be a better fighter, but she could easily handle anything I threw at her outside of magic.
Aria reared back from my magic, knowing she would slip and fall face-first into the mud if she didn’t—which was exactly what I had hoped for. I dove, tackling her at full speed. I heard her grunt as my shoulders slammed into her muddy flesh, and I rode her to the ground where we splashed into a great puddle of mud, rolling and slipping for a good ten feet.
I’m pretty sure I lost my hair-clip in the tumble, but I soon realized I was cackling as the mud covered my bare skin. I gripped Aria by the hair and shoved her down into a puddle. “Mudsling this!” I hooted, waiting until she tapped out by slapping one of her hands into the mud.
I threw my hands up to the screams of the crowd. That’s when she lurched to her feet, sending me cartwheeling to the side where I slipped, slid, and rolled through what seemed like never-ending mud. I clawed at the slick filth, embedding it under my fingernails, but I didn’t care so long as I could get back up. I climbed to my feet to see her spitting out mud and wiping scoops of it from her eyes. She stared at me, breasts heaving, an odd look on her face. Then she curtsied, lost her balance, and fell on her ass. I burst out laughing and walked up to offer her a hand.
She was laughing as she stared up at me. “Even covered in mud, you look like fucking Xena the Warrior Princess,” she said, grinning. She clasped hands with me, but right as I was preparing to pull her up, my feet slipped and I fell down right beside her.
I wiped the mud from my face, giggling at her as the crowd roared.
“Happy fucking birthday,” I said, slapping a handful of mud onto her back. I wondered if Quinn had been victorious. I doubted it, considering she was up against a shifter dragon. Unless she had a few tricks up her corset.
Chapter 9 — Quinn MacKenna, Vegas
I d
idn’t have time to watch Callie’s fight with Aria, though I think I’d have thoroughly enjoyed watching the older woman put the young upstart in her place. But the match wasn’t tag team, it was a free-for-all; the instant the bell rang, Sonia started stalking me, wading through the mud with surprising quickness, as though it were water and not something much thicker. I lowered my stance, arms out wide for balance, feeling absolutely ridiculous in the skimpy, green leather corset with emerald tassels and boy shorts, both of which were tied together loose enough to expose an uncomfortable amount of skin. Ordinarily, I’d have gladly waded in and knocked her silly—if only to get out of the outfit—but I didn’t want the girl spending her birthday in the hospital. This was a wrestling match, pure and simple, which meant I had to rely on my grappling skills, my reach, and my luck.
Of course, I had one other advantage: Sonia’s overconfidence. Ever since I’d seen her exposed eye and the forked tongue, I’d suspected she was something other than human. Some form of reptile shifter. Which meant the mud was probably her element. What she didn’t know—that I had the innate ability to negate all forms of magic, including the perks of being a shapeshifter—was about to hurt her. Well, I was about to hurt her. But you know what I mean.
Sonia came at me, pressing her shoulder into my stomach as if she might tackle me to the ground. I was already braced for the impact, however, and didn’t fall. Sonia, still determined to take me down, began plowing forward, putting her legs into it. I laughed a little, struck by the idea that Sonia was acting like a toddler trying to take down a full-grown adult. Sonia must have heard my laughter because fell back, panting, her chest heaving with exertion.
“What are you?” she asked. “There’s no way you should have been able to stop me.”
Last Call: A TempleVerse Anthology Book 1 (TempleVerse Anthologies) Page 4