Gritting his teeth, Wick forced one foot in front of the other. His shitkickers thudded against the hard floor. His heart kept time, determined to drill a hole in the center of his chest. The energy he’d swallowed didn’t help, humming in his veins, attacking his body until he felt like a spaghetti noodle instead of sinew and bone. The psychedelic laser show upped the ante, eating through the darkness. Pulse-pulse-flash. Pulse-pulse-flash. Colorful bursts of light set the pattern, making his head ache and his body hurt.
Another few feet. Just a couple more strides and he’d be free. Out the Gridiron’s back door.
A big hand landed on his shoulder.
Wick’s stomach heaved. Swallowing the burn, he twisted, fighting the lockdown.
“Easy.” Deep, rooted in magic, the voice slithered through his mind, cutting beneath the rage of hard-core bass. “It’s just me.”
Reeling inside his own head, Wick blinked. Boston accent. Kick-ass presence. A familiar hand fisted in his leather jacket. Relief streamed through him. Gratefulness came next, so much of it that Wick greeted his buddy with the usual. “Fuck off, Mac.”
“You know you love me, right?” Still gripping his jacket, Mac held him steady, keeping him on his feet. “Need some fresh air?”
“Yeah.”
“I got your six. Let’s go.” Mac pointed toward the Exit sign. Hanging above the door, the thing looked like salvation. Everything he needed wrapped up in a welcoming red glow. “It’s that way.”
Wick swallowed a harsh comeback, ’cause… yeah. The response on the tip of his tongue—the one that went something like, “No shit, Sherlock”—didn’t seem wise. If he lipped off, Mac might eighty-six his ass. Which, under the circumstances, constituted a bad plan. Especially given the fact Mac was straight-up awesome, helping him stay on his feet, manhandling him toward the exit, keeping his yap shut.
Thankfulness times a thousand slid through Wick.
His throat went tight. Thank God for family. His brothers-in-arms might not understand him—might even raze him from time to time—but they cared about him. Were 100 percent solid when it counted.
“Mac…”
“Hold on, man. Keep it together until we get outside. You can puke out there.”
As if on cue, bile sloshed up the back of his throat. Wick forced it back down. Mac gave him a healthy shove, propelling him through the door and into the cramped foyer. Deep in shadow, the stairwell ascended on his right, heading toward the roof. The round handrail followed the rise, keeping time with each tread. Sweat dripped into Wick’s eyes. He wiped it away, and dragging his gaze from the stairs, focused on the exit door. Blood-red paint blisters bubbled on its surface, disrupting the smooth contours.
Five feet away. Now three. Almost there. Just a few more seconds and…
Shitkickers doing double time, Wick stumbled sideways. Mac’s grip on his jacket tightened. As his buddy hauled him upright, he hammered the steel bar locking the door in place with his knee. The portal swung wide and hit the brick wall behind it. The slam-bang echoed, cracking the quiet, rising to meet the night chill. Wick followed suit, bolting into the alleyway.
Cold air blasted him in the face.
His lungs screamed, demanding more oxygen.
He went palms to knees and, doubled over, answered the call. He inhaled hard, sounding like an asthmatic, wheeze after wheeze clawing his chest. A frosty swirl blew into the alleyway, lifting the hem of his jacket. Wick ignored the bluster, dismissing what made most fire dragons shiver in distaste. Contrary to his lava-loving nature, winter didn’t bother him. Not surprising considering his upbringing. Raised in devastation, denial and deprivation had been the norm, not the exception, for him.
Excellent training for a warrior. Disastrous emotional whiplash for an ordinary male.
Forcing his lungs to expand, Wick pushed away from his knees. As he stood upright, his muscles cramped, twisting him into knots. With a silent curse, he stomped his feet, then flexed his hands, working blood back into his extremities. Sensation flooded him, rushing back in, making his fingertips tingle, forcing a full-body shiver.
Fighting the deep freeze, he took another deep breath and tipped his head back. Thick clouds obliterated the sky, smothering the stars, playing keep-away with the moon while the first round of snowflakes swirled.
Lovely. Not a distraction in sight.
Just the mind fuck of weakness without possibility of relief. Party central with the added bonus of embarrassment.
Wick glanced sideways at Mac. Standing behind him, the male stood at the ready, willing to step in and prevent him from face-planting. Again. Jesus, what a mess. Humiliation rose, clinging like a bitch in heat, and Wick wanted to disappear. Fight or flight, an instinctual response to a bad situation. As he fought another tremor, getting good and ghost sounded like a plan, but for one problem.
Mac wouldn’t let him run.
The male practically oozed concern. And knowing what he knew about the ex-cop? Wick read all the signs. His buddy would become his shadow the second he put his feet in gear. No way would Mac let him out of his sight now, so…
Fuck it. Flight just got stroked off the list.
Which left him with one option.
Fight. A good brawl always chilled him out, and hammering Mac… attacking the male who bore witness to his breakdown? Well, now, the course of action tickled his fancy, jumping to the top of his list. Brutal with his fists, Mac would give him what he needed—a load of pissed off wrapped up in a pretty package called lethal. Serious pain. A truckload of distraction. Redemption in the form of pride-elevating exertion.
Mac would hit hard and never apologize.
Perfect with a capital P.
Boots planted on wet pavement in the middle of the alley, he glanced toward the still-open door. Hope expanded, filling Wick with possibility.
Mac’s gaze narrowed in suspicion. “Forget it. Not happening.”
“What’s the matter?” he asked, trying to start a fight. “You chicken?”
“Walk it off, Wick.” A warning on his puss, Mac slammed the door behind him. The clang reverberated, blocking out the club noise. As the lock clicked into place, Wick cursed under his breath. Freaking guy. Trust their resident water dragon to be reasonable when he’d never been before. “I’m not tangling with you.”
Fair enough. No doubt the best move too. Especially since Wick never said quit. Or backed down.
He’d never needed to, preferring his special brand of vicious to taking time-outs. His nature set the parameters. He followed the path, walking the line toward one thing… death. He fought until someone died. Period. No room for negotiation. No talking him off the ledge. Just straight-up killing, which, yeah, made Mac one wicked smart SOB.
He growled, throwing his comrade a pissy look.
Mac didn’t say a word. He scissored his fingers instead, mimicking a walking motion.
Wick dropped another f-bomb, but got with the program. With a quick shift, he pivoted toward the street. Shoulders rolling, footfalls thumping, rage leading the way, he strode toward the sidewalk at the end of the alley. Satisfied with the stomp fest, Mac crossed his arms and, settling in, leaned back against the Gridiron’s side door. Eagle eyes on him, Mac tracked his movement. Wick ignored him, traveling over worn pavement, kicking soda cans out of his way, boot treads cracking half-frozen puddles as he bypassed a row of dumpsters.
Energy shards nicked him, making his skin crawl.
Fighting the rush, Wick upped the pace, treating the alley like his personal racetrack. Up. Down. Round and round, each circuit looping into the next. On the third go-around, something strange happened. His body calmed. His heart rate evened out. The prickle abated, slipping from cold and terrible to heated and smooth. His brows furrowed, Wick slowed, tracking the downgrade in sensation. Taut muscles unfurled, relaxing one rigid thread at a time. The benefits of the feeding took hold, settling into his marrow. Powered up, magic crackled through his veins, making him tingle with renewed warm
th.
His dragon half sighed.
Relief swirled and dread faded, releasing Wick one talon at a time. Huh. Would you look at that? The pacing crap actually worked.
“Better?” Mac pushed away from the wall.
Not trusting his voice, Wick nodded.
“The others are almost done.”
Translation? The sex feast was about to conclude… thank God.
Uncrossing his arms, Mac stretched, working out the kinks. “You got a line on Venom?”
Good question. “Not yet.”
But he really should get on that. Hauling Venom curbside wouldn’t be easy. It never was. His best friend loved female company too much to rush sex. He liked to take his time, teasing maximum pleasure out of his bedmates. The females no doubt appreciated it. But him? Not so much. Especially since it left him standing outside half the time, waiting for Venom to finish up and get his fill.
Not that he ever complained about his buddy’s appetite.
No way. He wasn’t that selfish. The male was rock solid, worthy in ways Wick would never be. And as much as it pained him to admit it, Wick knew he would be dead by now without Venom in his corner. The warrior knew his secret, understood his background, and didn’t care. In spite of his feeding phobia, Venom accepted him anyway. Made sure he fed and stayed healthy, forcing him to do what he couldn’t for himself. No one else would’ve put up with the bullshit or stuck with him for so long.
So… no. Under normal circumstances, he never complained. Or tore his best friend out of a female’s arms. Tonight, though, didn’t qualify as normal. He had a mission to complete, a delicate one named Jamison Jordan Solares.
Shoving his sleeve up, Wick glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes to midnight. Right on schedule. Which meant… chop-chop, time to roust the others and yank Venom’s chain. The sooner it happened, the sooner he’d be in dragon form and airborne. Swedish Medical sat less than five minutes away. And inside it? A female in need of rescue, his ticket to becoming debt-free.
J. J. wanted to sleep but was too afraid to close her eyes. People always got killed when they weren’t looking. Horror movies proved it. Life and fate followed the trend, attacking when least expected. So elementary, my dear Watson. Fear was a natural part of the equation. At least in her book.
Alertness equaled living to see another day.
An excellent strategy, considering Griggs stood just outside her door. In the hallway. Less than twenty feet away. Yakking it up with his fellow officer. Fighting a yawn, J. J. stared at the uniformed pair. The glass that stretched wall-to-wall across the front of her room afforded her an excellent view. Good in some respects. Awful in others. The clear partition allowed her to keep watch while she waited for Griggs to make his move: the inevitable approach, the next vile threat, the feel of his hands wrapped around her throat.
Nausea churned in the pit of her stomach.
The pitch and sway tossed a bad taste into her mouth. J. J. swallowed, telling herself not to be stupid. Griggs wouldn’t try anything with the nursing staff around. She frowned. Would he? Her gaze glued to him, the question circled. His back to her, shoulder blades planted on the glass wall, he laughed. The dog-eared magazine he held jumped in his hand. Big hands. Unkind hands. Owned by a man without conscience or scruples.
Unease turned into dread, heightening her fear.
She shivered. Unable to control it, the quiver rolled into a series of tremors. The handcuff around her wrist rattled against the bed rail. The soft sound cranked her tighter. Oh God. She was trapped. Completely vulnerable.
Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to call for help.
Fingertips gone numb, J. J. curled her free hand in the sheet. Cotton rasped against her palm, grounding her in the ultimate question. What to do… what to do? Dear God in heaven, she didn’t know. With the text message sent, she was out of options. Left to fend for herself, knowing that sooner or later Griggs would try something. His threats weren’t idle, neither was his nastiness, so… uh-huh. It was a no-brainer. The oily guard was slick with an extra helping of smart. If he wanted her dead, she’d end up that way.
Ice-cold. Toes pointed up. Laid out on a slab in the hospital morgue.
Wiping her sweaty palms on the blanket, she ran through alternatives. Death by strangulation. Murder by pillow suffocation. Overdose via whatever drug he could find. All were distinct possibilities with Griggs in the mix. Her heart picked up a beat, then another, rushing blood through her veins. The accompanying thump-thump made her chest ache as she glanced at her IV. Curled at the edges, strips of medical tape held the shunt in place, presenting the perfect delivery system…
For the perfect murder.
Quick. Easy. Diabolical tied up with a neat bow.
Griggs’s methods left no room for doubt. None for error either. He’d make sure of it, leaving the ME to draw one of two conclusions: accidental death or natural causes.
Bad luck for her. Even worse for Tania.
Please, God, let her sister pick up the text message.
Closing her eyes for a moment, J. J. asked for extra reassurance and sent a prayer heavenward. As she bargained with God, pleading for a way out, her heart throbbed so hard an answering ache opened behind her breastbone. A terrible pang trailed in its wake and emotion swelled, spilling through the cracks in her defenses. Tears—the ones she’d fought so hard not to shed—pooled behind her eyelids, and she promised to be a better person, to pray more often, to attend church, if only He would grant her this one favor.
Just one. It wasn’t too much to ask… was it?
Licking the cut on her bottom lip, J. J. glanced toward the bank of windows. Pushed wide, plain curtains framed the skyline. City lights glittered, jewel-like and beautiful, making Seattle look like a postcard picture taken at midnight. Her focus strayed to the digital clock sitting on her bedside table—11:57 P.M. Not bad. A mere three minutes off and a pretty good guess, considering she hadn’t seen the night sky in a while.
In almost five years to be exact.
Lockdown inside the prison always happened before dark. And the narrow window in her cell had never satisfied her love of stargazing. Not that she could indulge in her favorite pastime tonight. Or get distracted by the music rising from that secret place inside her. Soulful and restrained, the melody crooned, tempting her to flesh it out, find the beat, create the lyrics, give it life, and follow her bliss. J. J. shoved temptation aside. Composing a song while admiring the constellations wasn’t going to happen.
Not right now. Perhaps never again if Griggs made his move before—
“Ready for another adventure, Jamison Jordan?”
Touched by a light accent, the rich baritone jabbed at her.
J. J.’s attention snapped toward the door. The sudden movement sent her brain sideways inside her skull. Her eyesight warped, washing out into streaks. She blinked to clear the visual interference. No such luck. The painkillers were mucking with her ability to focus. She tried anyway, squinting hard. A squeak-squawk echoed, laying down an audio track, joining the rumble of male voices in the hall and the soft call of the PA system. A moment later, a man appeared through the blur. Her vision cleared. A dark-blue gaze met hers. J. J. cursed under her breath.
Ah, crap. Not him again.
But despite the ferocity of her denial, her eyes weren’t deceiving her. Goth Guy was back, pushing a wheelchair this time.
“Go away.” She scowled at him, warning him with a look. If he came anywhere near her, she’d smack him. Just wind up and let her fist fly. No way she wanted to go round two with his particular brand of crazy… and get sick again. Too bad her glare didn’t do the trick. Despite the load of nasty she threw in his direction, he kept coming, long legs eating the distance between them. Her eyes narrowed on him. “I mean it. Stay away from me.”
“Now, now…” His nose stud sparkled in the low light. The one piercing his eyebrow took up the cause, flashing in answer. He grinned at her. She glowered back
, more determined than ever to hold the line. The wheelchair wasn’t a good sign. It signaled big trouble, the kind that would see her speeding down a hospital corridor with him in the driver’s seat. Oh, so not advisable. Her stomach couldn’t take the fallout. Ignoring her unmistakable “screw off, buddy,” he abandoned the wheelchair at the end of her bed. “Is that any way to treat an old friend?”
“Friend?” Her gaze landed on the spider tattoo on the side of his neck. Precise black lines spread in a web over his skin, creating a nest for the red spider, which… good God, looked so lifelike it freaked her out a little. “Yeah, right. You almost killed me last time.”
Stopping alongside her, he threw her an amused glance. “Exaggerate much?”
“You made me sick. I puked… nearly popped my stitches because of you.”
“Sure you did,” he murmured, his attention on the IV embedded in the back of her hand. His mouth curved. She went on high alert. Whatever his agenda, it couldn’t be good. He was too intent. Way beyond focused. Fingering the plastic tube connecting her to the cocktail of drugs, saline solution, and antibiotics, he shook his head. “You look fine to me.”
Suspicion took a nasty turn, raising her internal alarm system another notch. Something about him was, well… all wrong. Not that she could put her finger on the reason. Logic didn’t hold sway. Rooted in intuition, her reaction might not make sense, but it was justified.
Shifting with unease, she fisted her free hand. Just in case. She really didn’t want to punch him, but she would… if he made her. “What do you want? Does Ashford know you’re here?”
He ignored the question and, leaning in, examined her IV. Frowning, he studied the jut-out used to inject drugs into the tube. Instinct screamed a warning. He withdrew a syringe from his breast pocket and popped the top off. Air stalled in J. J.’s throat. She shook her head, her voice on temporary lockdown. Oh God. She couldn’t scream, and as her heartbeat ramped into apocalyptic territory, J. J. watched him raise his hand.
Fury of Desire (Dragonfury Series #4) Page 8