Five Weeks (Seven Series #3)

by Dannika Dark

  “What act?”

  Rosie set down her nail file and sipped her drink from a narrow straw. “They’re a hot local band. Jake had them in here once before and the show tripled his income, so he’s been trying to work out a deal to make them regulars. Be real nice to them because Jake wants to seal the deal; they’re a little skittish about signing an exclusive contract. Just keep the drinks moving. Once the girls bust through that door, it’s chaos.”

  “Ah, one of those bands. Girls flinging their panties at the stage?”

  She smothered a laugh. “Right before hurling their drinks in the bathroom. Try to push the expensive appetizers and weak drinks to start so they’ll spend more. If you serve the hard liquor first, they’ll be gone by the second song.”

  “You bet. Do you guys sell anything on the side?”

  She reapplied her lipstick and snapped the mirror shut. “Like what?”

  “Sensor pops?”

  Rosie narrowed her eyes. “I know that it’s become commonplace to pass out candy spiked by Sensors, but Jake doesn’t like that mess in his place. I personally don’t touch that stuff. It gives me the willies to think about feeling someone else’s emotions.”

  Sensors were paranormals who, like Shifters, lived an extended lifespan. While some did investigative work, most earned their money by harvesting emotions and selling them to buyers looking for a thrill. Sometimes they drew in business by imprinting emotions on candy so people could sample their wares. Their customers would experience arousal, elation, anger, an adrenaline rush, and other emotions—except in a subtle and controlled way. Just enough of a taste to decide if they wanted to call the number on the wrapper and schedule a transfer.

  I poked my fork in my salad bowl and took another bite. “It doesn’t cost the bar anything since it’s promotional advertising for the Sensor, and Jake can charge a small fee for each piece of candy. There’s nothing illegal about it.”

  Rosie waved at a gentleman leaving the bar and sighed. “We had an incident two years ago where the distributor didn’t give us what we requested. He wasn’t a professional and put too much into the candy. People went crazy and we had to shut down for two days.”

  “Wow,” I said, chomping on another cucumber. “You don’t have to explain further.”

  “Well, you just don’t hand out anything to a bar full of drunken Shifters. That’s all I’m saying. We had a fight break out, and one guy almost died from a bite to the jugular when he fell unconscious and couldn’t shift.”

  I’d never dealt with a Sensor because I’d heard stories about it leading to sensory addiction. Those with less-than-exciting lives would spend all their money reliving an emotional experience in their life, or one that they purchased. I had good vibes about working in a bar that took pride in their establishment, so I dropped the subject.

  “Where’s your family?” she asked. “Did they move here with you?”

  My stomach knotted and I sipped on my ice water. “We’re estranged. Sibling rivalry and all that. It’s a long and uninteresting story.”

  “Sorry to hear,” she said, her attention already elsewhere. Rosie was a woman who had undoubtedly heard it all. She looked older—maybe in her early forties. In Shifter years, there was no way to tell how old she really was. Everyone aged differently, and sometimes it depended on their animal.

  Suddenly, two hands covered her eyes and a handsome man kissed her on the head. “How’s my Rosie?”

  She giggled like a smitten teenager and reached up to fix her hair. “Denver, stop. I want you to meet the new girl.”

  He stole the chair on my right and gave me a dazzling smile.

  “This is Izzy Monroe.”

  Then his smile waned. “Izzy Monroe?”

  “That’s what they call me,” I said, taking a monster bite of salad.

  He studied my hair and then narrowed his eyes.

  “Izzy, this is Denver. He’s pretty to look at, but don’t let those baby blues fool you. Denver’s all talk.”

  I set down my fork and leaned back, crossing my legs. I caught him looking down at them before he erased his interest.

  “Your name is Izzy.” It wasn’t a question.

  “And you’re Denver. The bartender, right? I saw you come in last night at the end of my shift.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you have to say to me?”

  I stood up and patted his back. “And you’re smokin’ hot, Denver. Can’t wait to start having babies with you.”

  As I walked off, I heard Rosie giggling hysterically. “You really need to work on your game, Denver.”

  ***

  Just after midnight, the band arrived at Howlers. They swaggered through the front door and heads turned, but I kept my attention on the customers. Rosie wasn’t kidding. The scantily clad women showed up in droves, wearing tight-fitting skirts and do-me pumps. Some had hiked their G-strings above their low-cut jeans. I vehemently hated that look. Those were always the girls who swung an attitude my way, made me work extra hard on their table, complained about my service, and never left a tip.

  Someone did a sound check on the mic and tapped it a few times.

  “Denver, two daiquiris and three margaritas,” I called out.

  “Doesn’t anyone just want a man’s drink? A beer? Anything?” he shouted, holding his hands up and staring at the ceiling.

  I laughed and stood on my tiptoes. “In a bar full of women? They want fruity drinks. Suck it up and keep your blender on standby. While I’m waiting, I need another pitcher for table nine, handsome.”

  When I turned around, a napkin floated to the floor. I dipped down to pick it up and after placing it on the bar, came face-to-face with Handlebars.

  Super.

  “That’s quite a move,” he said in a leathery voice. “You’re a real pro. I can tell you’ve been working tables a long time… or maybe a pole.”

  I glanced down at his black jeans where he had been shot.

  “Got a guy who patched me up and prescribed some good painkillers. Turns out your knight in shining armor had bad aim and only grazed my leg. Hurts like a bitch, let me tell you,” he snarled.

  “Don’t start anything in here; you’re in the wrong place for that,” I said sharply. “This is my turf, so you play by my rules. Got it?”

  This guy had no idea what a bar full of Shifters would do to him if he put his hands on me and I screamed. Guys were touchy-feely all the time, but when a girl said no, and especially if she did it while screaming, knuckles flew from all directions.

  “Where’s your boyfriend?” Handlebars pressed.

  I tugged at the ends of my black shorts and gave him a nasty glare. “I have no idea.”

  And if I did, I’d probably turn Hawk over to my new stalker out of spite. I’d tried calling him all day, but it kept going to voice mail.

  Denver handed me a tray and gave Handlebars a good once-over before retreating to a group of rowdy girls trying to snag his attention by polishing the bar with their breasts.

  Jake’s voice sounded over the speakers while I delivered the drinks, and I struggled to hear a woman placing her order.

  “Ladies, gents, it’s my pleasure to present one of the biggest acts in Austin. You’re in for a real treat to see them up close and personal. Put your hands together for…”

  “Rosie!” I shouted, weaving my way toward her. “The woman in blue wants a Zipper. What the hell is that?”

  “…the baddest Breed group in town. Welcome to the stage, Izzy Monroe!”

  I whirled around and my jaw dropped.

  The main lights went out and cheap lighting illuminated the stage. A guy tapped his drumsticks and started the beat.

  “Izzy, did they just say your name?” Rosie yelled over the music.

  I gave her a quizzical look. “What the hell is going on?”

  “I don’t know. Same guys, but a different name. Do you know them?”

  Ho-ly shitola.

  Walking onstage with swagger and truckloads
of sex appeal was a man who could bring a woman to orgasm by merely brushing his lips against the nape of her neck.

  After all, I should know.

  His hair was shorter than I remembered, now cut to the shoulders, and he had dyed it different shades of brown. It obscured his face, and I desperately moved around people to get a better view. All I could see was his tattered shirt, torn jeans, and his signature move of swinging a guitar over his shoulder as he approached the mic.

  “I’m Jericho,” he growled.

  Grown women screamed and rushed the stage.

  My heart hammered in my chest, my mouth as dry as the Sahara, and a roar of tingles moved through my body. At first, they were the good kind that made me feel warm and aroused. Then they spiraled into the kind that made me feel woozy—like I might faint from shock.

  Jericho Sexton Cole.

  Twenty years ago I was destitute, and Jericho had taken me under his wing. He worked as a roadie until I’d convinced him he could sing the hell out of those bands. He took me up on a dare one night and went onstage as Sexton Cole. The name stuck, and was one he lived up to. Those were the best five years of my life, but gradually, Jericho had succumbed to the addictive lifestyle of hard drugs and cold women. It shattered me to remember the last time I’d seen him perform, because he had crawled onto the stage and passed out.

  Damn, he looked as stunning as ever. Even more so now, because I could tell by the way he moved and sang that he was sober.

  Jericho’s raspy bedroom voice filled the room with a seismic tempo that had the hips of every woman in that bar gyrating. He made love to his microphone—body and soul.

  My name. Why did he name his band after me? I couldn’t breathe.

  “I have to get out of here.”

  “Honey, you can’t leave now!” Rosie shrieked, eyes wide with horror. “We’re swamped! Now you shake your little ass and keep the drinks flowing. This is Jake’s big night, and we need to pull in some serious cash. Push the specialties. And just tell Denver you want a Zipper. He knows what it is.”

  Rosie spun around with a tray over her head and vanished into the crowd. I could feel the heat on my back from the burning sensuousness in his hypnotic voice—his words caressing my soul like a distant dream. A man I’d thought was dead after all these years. The first man I’d ever shown my wolf to. At the darkest time in my life, Jericho had been there like a beacon of light. He’d once taken me to the beach in California at midnight and we’d run into the ocean with our clothes on, because that’s how he seized the moment.

  Too much history was rushing back at once. People were shouting orders, and I nodded, moving like a zombie toward the bar.

  Denver leaned forward on his elbows and gave a tight-lipped smile. “Enjoying the band?”

  I ignored him, lost in a nebulous of memories. “I need a Zipper.”

  Denver turned around and began mixing the order. “They change names when their act gets stale and people want a fresh sound,” he yelled over his shoulder. “I know all about you, Izzy Monroe.” He slammed the glass in front of me and pointed his finger. “You’re the bitch who almost killed my brother.”

  When he turned away, I lurched across the bar and grabbed a fistful of his shirt, yanking him back. “What did you just say?”

  “First, I called you a bitch, and I think we both know where I’m coming from.”

  Yeah, I did. Not in the derogatory sense, the way humans used it, but Denver knew I was a wolf.

  “Second, you left my brother to rot in a hotel room from a drug overdose. I was the one who had to pick him up at a human hospital,” he emphasized. “Jericho almost died because of your apathy.”

  “Overdose? What?”

  “I’m a nice guy, Izzy. I get along with everyone. But I don’t forgive anyone who leaves my brother dying on the floor of a run-down, sleazy hotel.”

  I gasped, furious and horrified all at once. What had Jericho told them?

  Before I could speak, someone jerked me around, slapped his hands over my thighs, and threw me over his shoulder. After a few pats to my behind, I heard him say, “Taking my old lady home.”

  I recognized that flat ass. Handlebars.

  “Put me down, you jackass!”

  The music roared and nobody heard me; they were engrossed with the sexual sound of Jericho singing about pain to the wailing cry of a guitar. Darkness blanketed the room. The only exception was the bar area. I looked up and saw Denver leap over the bar, his legs sliding across the surface as he moved out of sight. Jericho’s voice tumbled in my head, which was quickly filling with blood from being upside down.

  I reached beneath my attacker’s shirt and pinched his skin as hard as I could. He shouted in pain and I straightened my back, trying to grab his hair. Handlebars swung me around, using me to block Denver’s punches. When he lost his grip, the singing abruptly stopped. I didn’t know which way was up and I fell backward, striking my head against the edge of the bar. The shouts faded to murmurs, and my eyes closed as tiny pinpricks of light lured me into unconsciousness.

  “Izzy?”

  ***

  Jericho didn’t feel a shred of guilt when he showed up late for their gig at Howlers, because it drew out the suspense. The owner, Jake, didn’t seem to mind and was pleased to have him; most places were. They pulled in serious cash, even with the frequent name changes.

  He walked onstage with a black guitar pick clenched between his teeth. This particular song began with a slow beat, but then midway through, they’d hit the gas and bring down the house with their adrenaline-pumping performance.

  Jericho’s eyes settled on a blonde in the front row working her fingertips around her nipples, twisting them until they poked through her white shirt like bullets. Unable to concentrate on the lyrics, he steered his attention toward the back of the room. He saw nothing but a sea of faces in the dark, except by the bar.

  Some action was going on, and Jericho continued strumming his guitar as the song built momentum. A large man with a long mustache had thrown one of the waitresses over his shoulder, and it looked like things were getting rowdy. Nothing he hadn’t seen before, but the red hair snagged his attention as it swung around.

  Denver slid over the bar and hit the guy in the face. That’s when the girl straightened up and smacked her assailant in the head. Pack instinct kicked in when he saw his brother throwing punches, and Jericho buried the primitive urge to fight by Denver’s side.

  He kept playing, singing into the mic, but suddenly not feeling in the moment. His heart raced unexpectedly, and he didn’t know why.

  Then Jericho saw her face.

  Isabelle Marie Monroe.

  “Fuck,” he said into the mic.

  “Yeah!” a woman shouted. “Fuck me!”

  He lifted the strap off his shoulder and threw the guitar down. Feedback from the amplifier screeched, and those standing near the speakers winced. His band stopped playing for a few beats before picking back up without him.

  Christ. It couldn’t be.

  He leapt off the stage and pushed his way through the crowd—fought his way through.

  Women desperately clung to his shirt, and the men were giving him shoulder bumps.

  By the time he reached the bar, the young woman was sprawled out on her back with one leg bent at the knee. A blanket of wavy red hair surrounded her head like a fiery halo.

  Jericho stood catatonic. It was her.

  “Izzy?” Rosie said, smacking her cheek. “Izzy, wake up.”

  Jericho threw a glance at Denver, who was still fighting the asshat who’d tossed Isabelle around. “You got this?” The two men swung at each other and a Shifter from the sidelines jumped in for the hell of it.

  “In the bag,” Denver shouted between swings.

  Jericho’s eyes were wide with disbelief as he stared at a woman he thought he’d never see again.

  “Izzy, wake up. It’s Rosie,” the waitress continued.

  The band kept playing after Jake made a speec
h to hold the crowd over.

  “She needs to go home,” Rosie insisted. “Even if she shifts, she hit her head pretty hard, and I wouldn’t feel right about making her wait tables.”

  The man with the long mustache stumbled off, quickly leaving the building. Denver leaned over the bar and grabbed a stack of paper napkins, wiping the blood from his nose. “Jackass.”

  “Who was that?” Jericho asked, still looking down at Isabelle.

  Denver knelt down in front of the redhead and wiped his nose again. “A human who walked into the wrong bar to start shit. What’s her address, Rosie? We’ll call a cab.”

  “I don’t know, honey. Jake pays us in cash; you know that. He doesn’t like to be in everyone’s business, and it’s not as if he has to file taxes,” Rosie said with a shake of her head. “He just needs your name and number, and that’s all she wrote. And you can’t put her in a cab while she’s still unconscious!”

  Denver laughed. “Why not? I see people leaving here like that all the time.”

  “Move out of the way,” Jericho said gruffly, kneeling down and cradling the back of her neck. “I said move!”

  Rosie stood up and ushered a few waitresses back to their tables. His bass player took over singing, and it made Jericho cringe to hear him off-key.

  “Why don’t you just leave her unconscious on the floor?” Denver suggested. “Like she did you.”

  Jericho snapped his head around. “Shut the hell up. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re a bag of nuts. Don’t forget who showed up to save your sorry ass.”

  With careful ease, Jericho lifted Isabelle into his arms.

  “Mmm… no,” she mumbled as her eyelids fluttered. “I don’t know what a Zipper is.”

  Man, did she look stunning. She always did, but time and experience had worked a beautiful magic on this girl. Isabelle had amazing lips—the kind that made a guy lose his train of thought. His train jumped the track and derailed when she licked them.

  “That how you like ’em, Mr. Rockstar? Comatose?” a man heckled.

  In a smooth voice, Jericho walked by him and said, “That’s how I got your old lady.”