“Shove over.” The low growl, spiked with a hint of the Highlands, came through mind-speak, vibrating between Wick’s temples. A second later, the purple-scaled Scot uncloaked, coming in on a fast glide. Smoke swirling in his wake, Forge bared his fangs. “Or better yet, get gone. Not a lot of real estate down there. We cannae land if you wankers donnae move.”
“Do we have to?” Mac grumbled, rotating into a slow flip behind the Scot as he lined up his approach. “I hate the Gridiron. It’s too fucking loud.”
Venom rolled his eyes but shifted, moving from dragon to human form. Wick followed suit, and stomping his feet into his shitkickers, headed for the rooftop door. The staircase made its home behind steel, and a whole bar full of “just-kill-me-now” lay beyond that. But hey, no time like the present. The quicker he got the job done, the sooner he could go on his way. Be all the way across town, kicking ass inside Swedish Medical.
Not here, looking FUBARed in the face.
“Shut your yap, Mac.” Dark-brown scales glimmering, Sloan tucked his horned head, somersaulting in midair to land on the roof edge. Snow-white talons played a game of clickety-click against the building side as the triple scorpion-like stingers tipping the male’s tail glinted in the city glow. “Not all of us have a personal plaything feeding us at home.”
“My mate’s not a plaything,” Mac said, the snarl in his tone undeniable. He flexed a huge blue-gray talon, razor-sharp claws promising aggression. “You say anything like that about Tania again, I’ll rip your face off.”
Wick snorted, boots crunching on stone dust as he crossed the roof. He liked Mac’s style. Easy to do. The male might be new to Dragonkind—and the magical abilities that accompanied the change—but he packed a helluva wallop and didn’t take shit from anyone. Both big pluses… at least in his opinion.
With a chuckle, Forge thumped the newest member of their pack with the side of his spiked tail.
Mac threw the Scot a dirty look.
Sloan bared his teeth, the smile half-amusement, half-challenge. “Bring it on, Irish.”
“Stop mucking around.” Deep voice rolling like thunder, Venom stretched his shoulders. Leather creaked as his biker jacket protested. “I’m hungry, and we got a female in the mix tonight. The sooner we feed and get out of here, the better.”
The statement sobered the group.
And no wonder. Pulling an injured female out of danger would take some doing. Strange, but the idea enlivened Wick. Not for the discomfort he would cause, but for the good he might do… for the peace he would bring Mac and his female. For the debt he would repay. And, yes, for the chance to screw over human authorities and flout their ridiculous laws. He’d read the police report and court transcripts. Jamison had protected herself. And for that she’d been imprisoned, and now mistreated.
Wick’s eyes narrowed. The metal handle settled in his hand, frosting his palm. He cranked the door wide, barely registering the cold. Injustice. It came in so many forms. He was a prime example. His imprisonment—all the agony he’d suffered over the years—didn’t matter anymore. It was ancient history. But Jamison still had a chance, and he would see that she got it. But first, he needed to… to…
His throat went tight. Wick cringed. He forced himself to move forward anyway and descended the stairs. The rank smell of stale alcohol rose, assaulting his senses as his warrior brothers filed in behind him. Multiple boots clanked out a rhythm on steel treads, joining the heavy thump of bass and the high-pitched shriek of a singer’s voice. Darkness descended and swelled, enclosing him inside a prison all his own. His night vision sparked, showing him the way as excitement turned to dread, congealing in the pit of his stomach. But first…
God-awful words. Too bad neither changed the facts. Or lifted the curse of his kind.
A furrow between his brows, Wick paused at the bottom of the staircase. Decision time. Turn right toward the emergency exit, say “fuck it,” and pull a fast flash’n fly. Or go left into the alcohol-fueled oblivion of human frenzy. Shitkickers planted, hands curled into fists, he glanced through the open door into the club. Strobe lights backlit those closest to the entrance, holding male and female bodies in silhouette. Some congregated along the back bar, waiting for their drinks. Others stood intertwining, more interested in sex than the surroundings.
Wick’s heart squeezed, then rebounded, slamming the inside of his chest. Now or never. No easy choice. Especially considering escape lay a few feet away. A couple quick strides, one swift kick, and he’d be outside… in the alley beyond. Deep in the chill, breathing in crisp night air instead of female perfume, the smell of male sweat, and cigarette smoke.
Temptation lit him up. He leaned toward the exit.
A big hand landed on his shoulder.
Clenching his teeth, he glanced left. An uncompromising set of ruby-red eyes met his. Wick shook his head.
Venom tightened his grip. “Let’s go.”
Mouth gone dry, Wick couldn’t answer. He nodded instead and, putting one foot in front of the next, led the way into the last place he wanted to go.
As the back of the bed’s headboard bumped against the wall of her hospital room, J. J. tried not to panic. Fear stuck it to her anyway, punching through to pierce her breastbone. The sharp barbs grabbed hold of her heart, sank deep, and stretched her thin, making it hard to concentrate, never mind control her reaction.
But she needed to. Right now. Before Griggs saw her expression and picked up her distress. The second that happened, she was cooked.
Flambéed with an extra order of screwed on the side.
A consummate manipulator, the slimy good-for-nothing guard would use it against her. Up the ante until nothing but dread remained. Anticipation, after all, was worse than reality. He knew it. So did she. Too bad she couldn’t stop the unease. Or stop her palms from sweating.
Curling her hand in the sheets, she wiped the moisture away as he approached the end of her bed. Handcuffs in hand, he swung the metal shackles around the tip of his finger. The move was pure intimidation, 100 percent wild, wild West, the kind of thing gunslingers did with their six-shooters. Twirl. Flip. Point and shoot. The weasel had it down cold.
Not that Ashford noticed.
The nurse was too busy getting her settled. Humming a god-awful tune, Ashford gave the bed one last jiggle, making sure it sat perpendicular to the wall behind J. J., then bent to lock the wheels. Lovely, wasn’t it… that kind of obliviousness? J. J. wished she possessed a touch of it. Maybe then her heart would stop thumping. Maybe then she could forget the threat, bury her head in the sand, and pretend she was safe for a change.
Maybe then the music would come back.
Her throat so tight she found it hard to breathe, J. J. reached for her fallback. She needed a three-four beat. An up-tempo song. Any melody—a single note—would do, just as long as it blocked out the chaos rebounding between her temples once and for all.
Her gaze riveted to Griggs—and his imminent landing beside her bed—she found the beat on the third try. Rounding the bases like a baseball player at full throttle, the melody came home, sliding in to save her. Acoustic and raw, the guitar thrummed to life. The drums arrived next, snapping imaginary fingers inside her head. B-flat weighed in on the first stroke of piano keys and…
Thank God. The piece was fully formed. Only the lyrics stayed away, letting the refrain lead the way to sanity. J. J. clung to the rhythm, let the music take her, and relaxed into the flow of composition like a sunbather in the noonday sun. Warm on her face. Hot in her soul. Beauty tempered by control and partnered with perfection. And as the symphonic sound melded, her body unlocked, allowing her to release the breath she’d been holding.
As air rushed from her lungs, Ashford grumbled. “Stupid… stubborn… lever.”
A double snick sounded a second before the nurse’s head popped up over the edge of the mattress. As she straightened, she smiled at J. J.
“Did you get it?” J. J. asked, stalling for time, try
ing her damnedest to ignore Griggs.
Ashford brushed her hands together. “Got it. You’re all set… won’t be rolling away on me anytime soon.”
A smug look on his face, the weasel snorted. “Wheels locked or not, I could’ve told you that.”
The nurse gave him a pointed look, and J. J. tensed. Here it came. Any second now, he’d—
The cuffs rapped against the bed rail. Metal clanged, erupting in the quiet, bouncing off pale walls and a bank of bare windows. A violent twist of his hand, and the loop closed, locking the steel ring against the rail. The familiar zzzz of shackles set J. J.’s teeth on edge. The shivers came next, rattling through her bones. The second he reached for her arm, she cringed and, clinging to the thread of acoustic guitar, breathed out. Panicking wouldn’t help. But staying calm, holding firm, standing strong in the face of fear? Those things never failed. Would allow her to think, make a plan, but most of all, beat the weasel at his own game.
Too bad she’d never been much of a player. At least, when it came to poker.
The piano, however? Heck, she could play that puppy all day long. And as she rooted herself in the ascending refrain of a three-four beat, the steel grip on her wrist didn’t seem so bad. Neither did the weight. Or the cold against her skin. Griggs could go to hell… along with his nasty disposition and obvious agenda.
The asshole had one. Guaranteed. Otherwise he wouldn’t have pulled guard duty at the hospital. The question now? How far would he go to keep her quiet? No doubt all the way. She knew it from the look in his eyes. Smug. Victorious. Bastard to the absolute core. And as he squeezed the cuff a notch tighter around her wrist, J. J. gave ground and flinched, shifting sideways on the mattress. The plaster cast dragged at her calf, weighing her leg down and…
God. She hated that he stood so close. Despised the warm rush of his breath and sound of his prison issue boots. And in that moment, J. J. almost made a deal with the devil. She wanted him gone. She needed to get away. Couldn’t stand the cloying scent of his cheap cologne, or the—
“For the love of Pete, Officer.” Tone rift with disapproval, the nurse gestured to the handcuffs. “Is that really necessary?”
“Don’t let her baby blues fool you.” Expression impassive, he hooked his thumbs into the prison issue utility belt. As far as moves went, it was a good one. With his hands locked on the thick leather, he looked the part—poised, authoritative, and intimidating—with an added bonus. The pose drew attention to the gun holstered at his hip. “She’s a stone-cold killer.”
J. J. clenched her teeth to keep from retorting. Nothing good would come from mouthing off. Besides, it wasn’t as if she could call him a liar. She’d done what she’d done. Taken aim and pulled the trigger. And as recall dredged up the past, her regret sank deep. It always did when she remembered that awful day. The memory was a permanent implant. Unshakable. Undeniable. The ghost she carried with her everywhere she went, so…
No. Little sense existed in fighting Griggs. Arguing—stating her case and all the extenuating circumstances—wouldn’t change the facts. J. J. didn’t want them to either. She’d understood the consequences. Had gone in with full knowledge, and regardless of the nagging guilt, couldn’t deny she’d killed a man to save her life, but mostly to protect her sister. J. J.’s ex-boyfriend hadn’t been bluffing. He’d meant every word. Would’ve made good on his threat. Forced her to watch as he put a gun to Tania’s head and pulled the trigger before turning the revolver in her direction. Two dead for the price of one, except…
She hadn’t let it happen. Had countered before he’d gotten his act together.
All of which landed her here… injured and alone in Swedish Medical with Griggs and an angry nurse facing off across her hospital bed. Yet as Ashford dug in, glaring at the weasel, J. J. couldn’t help but be grateful. No one other than Tania ever championed her. It felt good to find a friend, even one as fleeting as a temporary caregiver. The gesture rated as sweet. Brave as well, considering the mean streak Griggs carried around like a club.
“It’s all right, Nurse Ashford,” she murmured, hoping to diffuse the situation. Angering Griggs wasn’t a good idea. Keeping his pride intact amounted to the safer solution. “The cuffs don’t bother me.”
A lie. Boldly said and beautifully delivered. But honestly, she didn’t want the nurse getting into trouble. Not on her account.
Eyeballing her, Ashford pursed her lips. She paused, indecision written all over her face, then—
“Prison protocol, ma’am,” he said, brushing off the unspoken protest.
“I didn’t catch your name, Officer…?”
“Griggs, ma’am.”
“Well, Officer Griggs, find the key and un-protocol her.” A determined look on her face, Ashford stared at him from the opposite side of the bed. J. J.’s gaze ping-ponged, jumping from Griggs to her would-be savior and back again. Oh boy. Not good. The nurse was itching for a fight, one that would get them both bruised in the end. “I need to check and redress her injuries. I can’t do that with the handcuffs in place.”
Blond brows collided over his narrowed eyes.
“You can lock her back up after I’m done, but for now…” The nurse pointed her finger at him in warning.
J. J. swallowed a huff of laughter. God love the woman, she epitomized tough. Toss in stubborn. Add single-minded to the mix and… yup. It was a whole new ball game. One that left the weasel out in left field, trying to catch a line drive without a proper mitt on his hand. She could feel the sting coming. Could practically see him backpedaling in the metaphorical sense, and as the nurse shook her finger at him one more time and turned toward the table next to the bed, J. J. said a silent “thank you.” The weasel might be a first-rate bully, but Ashford topped him, bringing kick-ass to life in a contest of wills.
Excellent for J. J. Not so great for Griggs.
The delay gave her what she needed… time. An extra ten, maybe fifteen, minutes to come up with a game plan. Griggs might be an asshole, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d figure out a way to get what he wanted and exploit her sister. So, first things first. She must protect Tania by warning her. Tell her to stay away until the shift change and Griggs went home for the night.
“You hang in there, J. J.” Reaching out, Ashford patted the back of her free hand before turning to grab a plastic cup off the bedside table. “I’ll get some water for your sore throat and be right back. After that, I’ll get you sorted out, okay?”
One eye on Griggs, J. J. nodded. “Thanks.”
“No sweat, kiddo.” Ample hips swaying, Ashford strode toward the bathroom door. Her hand jostled the cup. The straw rattled, pirouetting around the plastic rim as she glanced over her shoulder. Her gaze locked on Griggs, she arched a manicured brow. “Officer? I don’t hear any keys rattling. The cuffs, if you please.”
Ashford crossed the threshold into the bathroom. A tap got cranked, and the rush of water drifted through the quiet.
“Pain-in-the-ass woman.” Murder in his eyes, Griggs flicked at a button on his belt. The case that held his cuffs flipped open. “Stupid nigger needs to be put in her place.”
The slur drew J. J. tight. Her fingers flexed in the sheet. The racist Podunk. She wanted to hit him for insulting Ashford. Just once. Okay, maybe twice. It would feel so good to crank her fist back and let it fly. A knuckle sandwich would smarten him up. Well, at least that was her running theory. Too bad she never got to test it. Punching a guard ranked as stupid, perhaps even suicidal. And yet, the dream lived on, circling inside her head, bringing a certain amount of satisfaction as she imagined him out cold on the floor.
Minus his two front teeth.
“What are you staring at, Injin?” His lip curled as he sneered at her.
J. J. reined in a sigh, hiding her reaction. Nothing new about that… or the magnitude of his bigotry. He’d taught her well over the last five years. Reacting with outrage didn’t work. It simply stoked his fire, feeding him the power
to hurt her. A card-carrying member of Haters R Us, Griggs never missed a chance to disparage her heritage. Or insult the Cherokee blood in her veins. It made her less human in his opinion. Disgusting? Absolutely. Rage worthy? No question. Sad in this day and age when skin color shouldn’t matter? Without a doubt. But that didn’t stop Griggs from spouting his racist views whenever he thought no one else could hear.
The fact she was half white—with blue eyes and light skin—didn’t matter to him. A half-breed equaled dirty, less than… unworthy of his notice. Too bad the same couldn’t be said for Tania. Griggs dismissal of her sister would’ve solved a lot of problems, ’cause… yeah. Had she and her sister shared the same father, Griggs would never have given Tania a second look.
Never mind become obsessed with her.
“Fucking redskin.” His low tone set off a buzzing inside her head as Griggs planted his hands on the bed-rail. The bar shifted under his weight, jarring the handcuffs. As the steel shackle tugged at J. J.’s wrist, the panic she’d been trying to hold at bay punched through. She shuffled sideways, inchworming beneath the cotton sheet, desperate to maintain separation. It didn’t work. He invaded her space, bringing the stench of cologne with him. The muscles along her abdomen clenched in protest. Pain skittered up her side, tightening its grip on her rib cage, pulling at the stitches. “You think you’re home free or something? Just because that coon nurse has taken a liking to you?”
J. J. drew in a choppy breath. The guy was beyond sick. A real candidate for the nearest mental institution. “I want my phone call.”
“Jesus.” With a huff, he pushed away from his perch. As he straightened, rehooking his thumbs in his belt, he shook his head. “You just don’t get it do you, Injin?”
Fear circled, taking an ugly turn. “I have a right to call my lawyer.”
Fury of Desire (Dragonfury Series #4) Page 4