“A simple solution.” Tucked into a discreet spot beneath the bar, is a small computer tablet. Enrique touches the screen to wake it. “Sex on the Beach, you say?”
I nod.
He types it in, then reads the recipe there on the screen. “Vodka, Chambord, cranberry juice and pineapple juice in these quantities here. There are several variations as well. See?”
I gape. Isn’t that cheating?
“Make one.” Antonio reaches around my shoulder, pulls down a shaker and sets it on the bar.
Fine.
I sigh and turn to the bar back. “Which vodka?” I stare at the dozen choices.
“Use the Fourteener.” Enrique hands down the organic Rocky Mountain brand. “It’s the best.”
“Measure with the jigger.” Antonio hands me a double-cupped stainless steel tool.
“You don’t,” I say.
“I’ve been doing this since high school.”
“It’s illegal for minors to serve alcohol.”
“Shh.” Antonio winks at me, then, proceeds to instruct me. Ice. Jiggers of this and that followed by the juices.
“Anything with juice gets a shake.” He places the top on the container.
A Native wolf seated at the bar grins. “Yeah. Shake it baby.”
I smile back at him. He looks Francisco’s age.
I put the shaker beside my head as I’ve seen bartenders do in movies, and shake, being sure to get my chest involved.
Eyes on my breasts, both Enrique and Antonio’s jaws drop as does every set of male eyes seated at the bar — even some spectators from the tables. Bartending might work out after all. I can’t go to them, I’ll draw them to me.
“Don’t.” Enrique’s smile fades, anger flashes in his eyes.
I stop immediately.
“Hey. We were enjoying that,” a Norse wolf at the end of the bar says. On Enrique’s growled glare, the man quickly vacates his stool in favor of a table.
“I’m a Doll, Enrique. Aren’t I supposed to flirt with customers?”
He blinks, considering it. With a snarl as an answer, he spins on his heels and leaves the bar, stalks through the lounge to the hall.
I turn to the other Cruz. “What did I do wrong, Antonio?”
“Nothing,” he murmurs.
For the next five hours, I pour, shake and stir drinks, and learn how to properly draft beer from the taps.
“We’re out of Fourteener.” I pour the rest into a simple vodka tonic.
“In the storeroom.” Antonio cocks his head at a door on the left.
Whoa. I stand at the threshold of the room amazed. Other than a liquor store, I’ve never seen so much alcohol in one place — shelves and shelves, rows and rows. I quickly figure out that it’s organized by spirit name rather than brand. Vodka is in the rear of the room by what looks like a delivery door.
I find the vodka section. Great. What I want is on a top shelf. I grab a step stool leaning on the end cap of the shelf. Reaching for the box of Fourteener, I feel a sharp stab to my left calf.
What the hell? I look down. Someone in black — completely, even a black ski mask, has jammed a syringe deep into my leg. On instinct, I kick. The needle bends inside me when the person falls back against the neighboring shelf.
Shit. That hurts. I yank it out and hurry down the step stool just as the attacker gets to their knees.
A quick kick to the abs sends them down, again. I spin for the door, but a hand grips my ankle, tripping me. Down on the ground, I ratchet my legs like a bicycle. I keep as calm as I can despite my panic and use Krav Maga with precision. It’s working. I’m beating them. The attacker doubles over and grunts when I kick between their legs, but not like they’re severely hurt. This person is definitely not a man.
I get up, intending to head for the door, again. Oh. But my limbs feel heavy and my eyesight gets blurry. The attacker takes advantage, throws me against the vodka shelf. I remember to do the ball break to keep from hitting my head.
They wrap their hands around my neck. I grip their hands with one of mine. The person has on rings, lot’s of rings, big rings.
U, do the U. I raise my arm, twist sideways, and use my elbow to break the bitch’s hold. Then, elbow her nose hard enough to bring her down.
“That’s gonna leave a mark.” It’s a man’s voice. I heard it before. Who is it? He grabs me from behind.
Darkness threatens to take me. I can’t keep my head from bobbing. My arms and legs are jelly.
“Night night, little witch,” the man murmurs in my ear. “When you wake, you’ll be the soft witch you were meant to be.”
I slump against the him. The last blurry thing I see as my lids drift shut is the box of Fourteener toppling and smashing to the concrete floor.
chapter thirty-eight
“YOU CALL THIS clean?” I throw the spotty beer glass into the dishwater under the bar.
“Christ, Ben. Who the hell pissed in your cassoulet tonight?” Foster, my brother and business partner, scrubs the glass and places it on the drying grid.
Shavone Gentil. She didn’t just piss in it, she figuratively hurled the cast iron casserole against my gut.
“Fuck off.” I put three beers on the bar for the waitress.
Drake hurries toward us, dodging gyrating, half naked customers on the dance floor. His body language says something’s up.
Fuck me.
I pour another house draft. Cheap fuckers. Maybe we should raise the price on beer.
“Boss.” Drake gets close enough to shout over the blaring music. “There’s a new sub in the medical playroom I don’t recognize. Did either of you sign up a little blonde?”
“I didn’t.” Little blonde? Shavone? My cock twitches with the wishful thought. No way. My mind knows she wouldn’t come within ten miles of this part of the Kitten Club. My roiling gut bets that something’s wrong, though.
“Me, either,” Foster says. “You’re in a mood. Want me to take this one?”
“No, I will.” I wipe my hands on a towel and go check on the new girl. Can’t be too diligent. Teenagers have been trying to sneak in over the summer. And if it’s Shavone — I can’t even finish the thought.
“She’s wearing one of our dotted green wristbands.” Drake shoves back a long strand of his curly blond hair.
The Kitten Club’s proprietary dotted green wristband means she’s new to the kink community and a sub in training here at the club. Solid green is for doms in-training. We use yellow for people who claim experience, but didn’t get it here. Blue is for intermediate, and black for seasoned players we trust. In all colors, dotted signifies subs and solid doms.
“Who’s her dom?”
“Don’t know. There’s about four or five of ‘em hovering around her, waiting for a shot.”
“What?”
Drake laughs. “She’s a beauty, slender, creamy flawless skin.”
The gnaw in my stomach grows. I raise an eyebrow at him.
“If I weren’t working tonight, I’d be in line myself,” he chuckles. “They said they found her naked, bound, blindfolded and gagged. Like a wet dream.”
“Could be a training scene,” I say. Patience is where some doms start with a newbie.
I sniff, try to find Shavone’s essence. Can’t scent shit down here with all the perfume, cologne and body odors. Add the smell of alcohol and I want to gag at the stench of it all. Maybe I should give Foster my share of the club and take my sorry ass back to Texas.
We round the corner to the playrooms. All it takes is a glimpse of one foot through the voyeur window. It is Shavone! Tied to an exam table, her legs spread wide by the stirrups.
What the fuck is she thinking? Anger mixed with an acute arousal brings my wolf near the surface. Did she do this for us? As an apology? Could Nash have been wrong about her and Cruz?
“Touch her and die,” I growl at the salivating doms. One, a female Norse wolf, is crouched between her legs sniffing and drooling over her pussy. “Get the fuck a
way from her,” my beast demands.
Drake herds the doms out. “You know her, boss?”
I nod. “Pull the curtain.” He yanks the blackout fabric across the window.
I lean down to whisper to her. “What are you doing, Shavone? You don’t need to do this.” I take off the gag and blindfold.
Her pupils are huge, the irises just a sliver around them — and the eyes are glazed. Smudges of dark makeup ring her eyes, giant tears roll down her cheeks now that the blindfold is gone.
Jesus. Fucking. Christ. “What did you take?” Panic grips my chest.
Those crazy looking eyes dart around in a frenzy. I hurry to untie her hands. Drake releases her legs.
“What did you take, kitten?” I say again and sniff her breath. It’s not alcohol or smoke or cocaine.
“No, no, no, no,” she pants in quick little spurts, slurring even the one syllable. “Sh — sh” — more liquid flows from her eyes — “Shot,” she finally gets out. My fingers scan her left and right arms.
“La — la” — her lips twist in struggle — “log.”
“Log?”
“I think she means leg,” Drake says.
Shavone blinks and tries to nod. She shakes — with fear, with whatever is coursing through her veins. Who knows which, or both. There’s a big bruise on her left calf.
“I’ll get Lionel.” Drake runs off.
Just outside the playroom is a closet with blankets. I go to get one and hear a thump inside of the room. “Shav.” I hurry back.
She’s rolled from the table, crawling for the door.
“Oh, kitten.” I unfurl the blanket; move to put it around her.
“No, no, no, no” she gasps in whispers. Not able to stand, she curls tight, hugs her knees, shakes and trembles.
“Don’t. Touch. Me.” She whispers each word one at a time, but I sense she wants to scream. “Hurts.”
Gently, I lay the blanket over her. Her voice comes back in the highest, most hair-raising scream I’ve ever heard or ever want to hear, again.
“Jesus.” Lionel, an EMT in the real world, appears. “What happened?”
“Don’t know yet.” I squat on the balls of my feet.
Shavone inches like a worm, keeping her knees to her chest, she uses her feet to push herself, inch by inch, to the door. Even in this condition, she’s trying to run, trying to escape danger. Her instincts are good.
“We are safe from harm. We are safe from harm.” She whispers.
Her eyes get huge when I reach out for her.
“It’s me. It’s Ben. Look at me, kitten. I’m not going to hurt you. You know that. I’m just going to pick you up and carry you somewhere safe.” Slowly, like I’m approaching a wild, skittish animal, I reach for her, again.
Shav balls tighter together. “Don’t touch meeeeeeeee!” She shrieks, screams it over and over.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Shavone.” God, what the fuck happened to her? How did she get here?
“Let me help you.” I hold out a hand hoping she takes it. She doesn’t.
Narrowing her eyes, she pants out some chant. Tongue depressors, stethoscopes and other medical equipment flies through the room. We deflect it all with our arms. Then, the table moves, pushing Lionel and me against the wall.
Lionel easily holds back the stainless steel table.
Whether from screaming and lack of oxygen, the shock of being here naked or the drug, she passes out. The equipment falls to the floor. I quickly scoop her up. She’s as limp as a rag doll.
With Lionel following us, I take her to a private room, gently lay her on the bed.
Lionel pulls up her eyelids, flashes a light in her pupils. “She’s drugged.”
“No, shit.” I grab him by the collar, ready to pummel him to a pulp. “Drugged with what?”
“What the fuck?” Foster shows up in the doorway. He pushes me away from Lionel. “Who is she?” Foster asks.
“Shavone,” I murmur. My kitten.
“The Shavone?” His eyebrows go up.
“C’mon, man! Now is not the time for introductions, alright. I want to know what she’s on, how she got here and why,” I say through clenched teeth. I need to know who to kill, because I am going to kill someone over this.
“We’ll figure that out. First let’s make sure she’s okay physically.” Foster turns to Lionel. “Any ideas what she’s on?”
“Naw. Not at this point.” Lionel shrugs.
“Benzo or ruffie? She mumbled that it hurts when I touched her.” Jesus. I want to kill someone now.
“Could be. She could have been coming out of it when you got to her.”
My wolf breaks free and pounds the wall with both fists.
“Ben! Get a fucking grip!” Forest yells. “What she needs more than anything right now is you focused and alert.”
Drake knocks on the door. He hesitates a second when he sees my wolf. “Boss. We found this.”
He hands me an envelop. I open it. A feather falls out — a Native calling card.
The French should take better care of their Soft witch, the note says.
The Natives did this? Drugged her, brought her here and set her up to be raped in my club?
My jaw drops. Wolves protect witches. They don’t do shit like this.
Cruz. If he didn’t do it, he had to have allowed it. He’s their fucking Prime. I’m going to kill him, snap his neck with my bare fucking hands.
Finishing his exam, Lionel pulls the blanket back over her body. “Her blood pressure is normal. Response to stimuli is normal.” He looks at me. “I have no idea what it is. Can I take a blood sample? Get it analyzed?”
“Do it.”
While he gets the supplies to draw blood, I ask a question I dread the answer to. I didn’t see damage, but I’m not an expert.
“Was she raped?” I whisper.
Foster sucks in a breath.
Lionel smiles with this answer. “No. No recent trauma to her pubic or anal areas at all.”
Relief floods me. I hear Foster sigh in relief, too.
Shavone opens her eyes just as Lionel comes close to her with the needle. She screeches and writhes.
“Hold her down.” Foster and I each grab an arm. Drake reaches for her legs. Howling like a ninja, Shavone kicks both feet straight up, connects solidly right between his legs.
“Fuck,” he groans and the giant Norse collapses to the floor.
Foster actually laughs. “That a girl. I like you already, Shavone.”
“Stop, kitten.” I brush the hair away from her face. “This is Lionel.” I urge him to come closer so she can see his face. He moves, cautiously. “He’s a medical professional.”
“We want to take a blood sample, Miss Gentil.” Lionel smiles at her. “Don’t you want to know what drug they used?”
“See” — she licks her dry lips — “see syringe.” Her voice, while still breathy and slurry, is a little more understandable this time. He shows it to her.
“See. It’s empty,” he says.
Her arms relax and she’s gives a small nod.
When Lionel is done, I move to gather Shavone in my arms. “I’m taking her to the hospital.”
“We’ll lose our license, Ben. That’ll be the end of the Kitten Club. Sunk in a month and we’ll be broke.”
Shavone’s eyes move from Foster to me. “No, hospital,” she whispers.
“Shav, you need a doctor.” Fuck the Kitten Club.
She tries to yell through her slurring words. “Home. Please, Ben. Please.”
What do I do?
“Lionel?”
“I’m going to look in your eyes, Miss Gentil.” He flashes a light in her pupils and the pupils contract some, but not as much as they should. “It should be okay. Lots of fluids and keep her warm. Wake her every thirty minutes.” He glances at her. “But you have to pee in a cup for me before you leave. Rohypnol is most detectable in urine.”
She nods and glances at me with pleading eyes. How the fuc
k can I say no?
I take her into the attached bathroom and sit her on the stool. She slouches barely able to stay upright much less hold the cup. “Here, kitten.” I put the plastic cup between her legs. “Pee, Shav.” She tries and I wait. “Pee or I’m taking you to the ER.” I growl.
Finally, she tinkles. “Good girl.” I set the cup aside and wipe her. “Hang on to my leg while I wash my hands.” She can’t, so she just leans on me.
Hands dry, I wrap her in the blanket.
Foster’s on the phone when I open the door. “She seems okay considering.” Foster taps the screen. “You’re on speaker, Nash.”
“You got her, Ben?”
“Yeah, I’m taking her home.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, I’ve been going out of my mind. Cruz called accusing me of kidnapping her.”
“Oh, that’s rich. The fucking Natives left a calling card.” Shav shivers in my arms. “Listen. I got to get her home and warm. Meet me at the mansion.”
Foster helps me get her to my Mustang. He tilts the passenger seat all the way back. I lay her down, tuck the blanket around her and then the seatbelt. Shutting the door, I round the hood.
Foster grips my shoulder. “You calm enough to drive?”
I nod. “Get the pack on this. I want to know who did it. And call me the second Lionel knows what it is.”
“Done,” he says. “Take care of your lady.”
My lady.
Yeah, some kind of fucking knight I am. I shouldn’t have abandoned her like I did. Should’ve taken her rejection like the wolf I am, taken it in stride. But, no. My beast and I tucked tail and hid from her. Left the witch I’m assigned to protect vulnerable. In frustration, I pound on the steering wheel.
Shavone moans. “So cold.”
“Hannah, turn on passenger heat, full.”
Shav’s head lolls to the side, a hand falls out from under the blanket. She opens her eyes a slit. “Ben?”
“Yeah, kitten. I’m here. You’re safe.” Softly, I stroke her fingers with mine. With a weak grip, she closes her hand over them.
She’s all that matters. Her safety. I will make sure no motherfucker has the chance to hurt her again. She might not be my mate, doesn’t mean I don’t love the girl.
Soft Shatter (Wolven Moon Book 1) Page 30