by Lynne, Donya
The place was packed tonight, so Micah turned his mental abilities on a man who sat at a table midway to the stage. With a thought, he influenced the man to vacate his seat, and he and Malek quickly slid in to take his place. Humans were so easy to manipulate.
The Black Garter's setup was made more for the single observer or small groups than larger ones, and the recessed floor surrounding the main stage held only small tables with no more than two upholstered easy chairs apiece. In the back and along the walls were tables and booths for groups of four or more, but if you wanted close to the action, you came alone or with no more than one other person.
Then, of course, were the VIP rooms for bachelor parties.
However, what many men liked about the Garter were the rooms in back where they could buy a private dance with one of the girls. Micah had used those rooms a time or two, where the rules were a little more lax than out here in the public, but the girls were still treated respectfully.
Micah was in the mood for a private dance tonight. It might help take his mind off Jackson.
"What can I get you boys?"
He looked up into the heavily made up eyes of a blonde with surgically enhanced breasts as she stood between him and Malek, tray in hand. She wore a black, silk teddy.
"Lagavulin on the rocks, please," Malek said with only a cursory perusal of her outfit.
"Same for me." Micah appraised her legs. She did have nice legs. "And can you tell me if Scarlet is dancing tonight?"
She smiled politely and winked. "She sure is, honey. She'll be dancing soon."
Micah stopped her before she could walk away to get their drinks. "I'd like to buy a private dance with her."
Her smile turned upside down in a pouty display of sympathetic refusal. "Scarlet's already booked up tonight, honey, but Sasha's got a couple more openings for privates. How does that sound?"
Micah shook his head, disappointed. "No, thank you. Maybe I'll catch Scarlet next time." Scarlet was the only dancer he wanted to buy a private dance from, and it wasn't because she was the Garter's primary dancer. He was drawn to her…had been ever since the first time he'd seen her dance the night he met Jackson. And despite the bond that had formed with Jackson, Micah had still come back here to see Scarlet dance occasionally. But the couple of times he had tried to buy a private with her, she'd been booked. Looked like he would have to end his days without her special attention.
"I'll take one of those openings with Sasha," Malek said to the waitress, and he turned over his credit card.
Malek wasn't as particular as Micah, but then he only wanted the private performance so he could jack his rocks off when he got home. Not that Micah was criticizing, because he wasn't. This was just how Malek coped with his suffering, and since Malek never criticized Micah about how he handled his own shit, Micah wouldn't disparage Malek for how he handled his.
"Sure thing, honey." She winked and smiled again. "I'll be right back with your drinks."
The dancer on stage ended her performance, and four others took up the smaller spotlight platforms on either side of the main stage and in the back of the room.
"So," Malek said, "What's up with you and Jackson?"
Micah's pulse went from zero to sixty in half a second. If it had been anyone else asking—especially that closeted nosebug Arion—Micah would have told him to fuck off and mind his own business, but this was Malek, who only had Micah's best interests in mind. Micah clamped down his irritation.
"Nothing."
Malek regarded him with a cautious if not curious sidelong glance. "Nothing, huh?"
He never had been able to lie to Malek. With a sigh, he flexed his shoulders and shifted in his chair. "He's going to leave me."
At least Malek had the courtesy to look away. Mating shit wasn't such a pretty topic between them. "I'm sorry, man."
Their waitress returned with their drinks and set them on red cardboard coasters outlined with the lacy image of a black garter. "Your private with Sasha is at two fifteen," she told Malek.
He accepted his receipt. "Thank you."
After she left, Micah leaned forward, elbows on the table as if hugging his drink. He turned toward Malek. "When he leaves, I don't want you or anyone else to see me."
Malek's gaze met his, and a sober moment of understanding passed between them. "You gonna be all right?"
Micah glanced away. He already knew he wouldn't be. When Jackson left him, he would be fucked. As in way fucked. Up shit creek without a paddle. Crossing the River Styx without a token for Charon would be easier. He would be stuck in everlasting purgatory and hell all mixed into one. "Yeah. Sure." He lifted his glass to his lips and sipped. "But I'll be fucked up. You saw how I was with Kat."
"Yeah. I did."
When Micah looked back at Malek, his old friend's expression—along with the thoughts of doubt rolling through his mind—told him he wasn't buying Micah's load of shit. He slumped his shoulders and looked into his liquid amber. "I'm not stupid, Malek," he said softly. "I know I'm in trouble. Big trouble. Jackson…" He closed his eyes and took a heavy breath before continuing. "Mating Jackson has awakened everything I felt for Kat after she died. It's like I'm feeling it all over again." He slowly swirled his drink, making the ice clink the sides of the glass. "And he doesn't love me. He never did. I can hear his thoughts and know there's someone else. I see what they do with one another, but there's nothing I can do to stop him, and yet I can't walk away." He lifted his gaze to Malek's and saw complete and total understanding reflected back at him. Like any other male of their species, Malek knew Micah was between the proverbial rock and a hard place. Micah looked back down into his glass. "It's just a matter of time, Malek." A matter of time before his mental faculties short-circuited and tossed him like a rag doll into suffering so intense he'd be lucky to remember his own name when the end came.
Malek's hand squeezed his shoulder, and Micah looked up into eyes filled with compassion. "Is there anything I can do?" Malek said.
Micah offered him a sad grin and shook his head. "Just make sure no one sees me like that. Keep them away. You stay away, too. I don't want to hurt you or anyone else." He fixed Malek with a serious stare. "I mean it, Malek. Don't you come looking for me. We clear?"
Malek blinked once and let his gaze fall to the table. When he spoke, his voice was soft but resigned. "We're clear."
Breathing more easily, Micah pulled away and leaned back in his chair, drink in hand. "You're the only one I trust with this, Malek. The only one I can count on."
"I know. And I won't let you down."
Micah nodded tightly and kept his gaze averted. "Thank you."
Silence filtered into the space between them, and they pretended to watch the dancers on either side of the stage, but Micah's mind was elsewhere. It was as if an hourglass sat over his soul, counting down to destruction. When he met Jackson and formed the one-sided tether to him, Jackson had been like a clear blue sky after a late summer storm, letting the sunlight shine onto the newly brightened landscape. Now, their relationship was the storm.
Micah glanced out of the corner of his eye toward Malek, who, on the outside, feigned interest with the stripper to the left of the stage, but his mind was a tidal wave of emotion. Malek knew that, in his way, Micah had just said good-bye, and a thousand good memories of the time they had spent together before losing their mates so long ago trained through his thoughts.
Back in the time of King Bain the First, he and Malek had spent countless nights in pubs and inns where they watched females dance and sing for their entertainment, and where they partook of feminine desire and pleasure upstairs in one of the many private bedrooms. That had been where Micah had learned how to be with a woman. Where he had been taught how to touch a female, kiss her, and delight in what she offered. And he had taken his education home to Katarina at the end of that first war.
God, how he'd loved Katarina. But she was gone, and it looked like he would be joining her soon.
The light
s dimmed, and the music faded, bringing Micah's mind back to the Garter as the hard synthesized beats of White Zombie's "More Human than Human" pulsed out of the speakers. A few seconds later, the MC, hidden somewhere off stage said, "Gentlemen…Scarlet." It was all the introduction she needed.
The curtain opened, and Scarlet rested in a curled position, head down, her long black hair—most likely a wig—hung down like drapes to hide her face. She was the sexiest damn creature Micah had seen in forever. That woman could dance. And stretch. And flex. And work a stripper pole like no one's business. Micah went stiff at the thought of her riding up and down his body the way she did that damn pole, which was odd since most mated males didn't get turned on by anyone other than their mate. Then again, Scarlet was a woman worth getting hard over. She never failed to arouse him. As in really arouse him. Heck, maybe the fact that he had first seen her dance on the same night that he had met Jackson had somehow linked him to her. After all, she had been the reason he'd gone in search of relief that night in the first place. He had been lustfully roused by her performance to the point of distraction, and after trying to buy a private dance with her to explore the possibilities between them further, he had come away disappointed, because her schedule had been full. Same as it was tonight and the other times he had come here. He couldn't get here early enough to get on the woman's calendar, so he was relegated always to be part of a crowd instead of an audience of one.
As the first slide of electric guitar screamed from the speakers, Scarlet, dressed in a sexy white jumper, slid up from the floor to her feet as she eased the zipper down on the front of the jumpsuit, and then she flipped her head back, sending her long tresses flying to reveal her face. As usual, she wore a mask, which made her allure even more appealing. What looked like a contraption he might find in his long-abandoned dungeon covered her mouth. It looked like a muzzle, made of solid, black material that resembled plastic. And over her eyes was a thin strip of leather, like a Bat Boy mask. Eyeholes revealed her vivid, green eyes, which seemed to lock to his briefly as she peeled out of her jumpsuit like a sexy kitten.
Damn. Underneath, she wore only a modern, almost tech-looking, black-and-white bikini, accented with white plastic over black spandex that clung in all the right places and left little to the imagination.
Clear, hard plastic stripper shoes that looked like glass, with two-inch platform soles, led up to long, lean legs, and Micah briefly pictured those legs around his hips, her body under his on his bed, her fingers digging into his back as she cried his name. He blinked and shook his head. That image was way too real. Almost like a premonition. What the hell?
Scarlet worked the room like a maestro. Everyone came to the Garter to see her, which was why management usually pushed her show toward the end of the evening to keep the patrons hanging and spending. And tonight was no exception. The room was packed even more now than before. Standing room only.
Scarlet gripped the pole, swung around, upside down, and contorted herself into positions worthy of Cirque du Soleil. God, she was one fucking flexible human being, and Micah's cock twitched as another shot of her getting flexible on him in his bedroom dashed through his mind.
Who knew what to expect from Scarlet? Sometimes her shows were softer, more angelic. Sometimes they were more classical. Then others, like tonight, she was hard and in your face, almost like an angry, bondage queen ready to pull out a whip and draw blood. She leaped off the pole, sank into a power squat, rotated her hips hard, arms strong and flexed, head back as if she were pleasuring herself to orgasm, and then she whipped herself around the pole again, her body all hard angles and strength.
If men here cheered, they would be losing their voices right about now. Because, shit, Scarlet was hotter than Hades, on fire beyond the usual. Maybe it was the heavy-duty beats she cavorted to, because White Zombie provided a raw soundtrack for the extreme moves she was laying down, and Micah sat transfixed, taking in this last bit of enjoyment.
All too soon, the song ended, and Scarlet bowed and left the stage. And for what felt like the first time in almost five minutes, Micah breathed. She had that effect on him, and as he glanced around the room and picked up the vibe of heavy arousal from the crowd, it was clear he wasn't the only one she affected. Possessive jealousy hummed under his skin, and he glared at the other patrons, ready to rip off the heads of anyone who tried to touch her.
What the fuck? Why was he going all mated male medieval all of a sudden? He was already mated—well, half-mated—to unreciprocating Jackson. His reaction to Scarlet didn't make sense.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Malek check his watch. It was almost time for his private dance. "You sticking around?" Malek said.
Micah shook off the odd mated aggression roiling through his nerves…emotions that Scarlet, not Jackson, had evoked. "No, man. I'm going to get out of here." He needed to clear his head, get some fresh air, move, do something. Because his brain was fritzing out.
"You sure?" Malek stood and downed the rest of his drink before setting the empty glass back on the table.
"Yeah, I'm sure." Micah adjusted himself, killed his own drink, and dropped a twenty on the table to cover their bill as he stood.
"Okay." Unspoken promises thickened the air between them. Promises of good-bye and secrecy, as well as protection. Malek would keep his word and not let anyone come for Micah when Jackson left. "You take care, Micah."
"You, too, Malek." He clasped hands with his old friend, and then pulled away and headed for the door as Malek slinked toward the private rooms in back, a shroud of guilt falling over him. The guy still felt like he was cheating on Carmen, and Micah stopped for a moment and stared with compassion after him. Poor Malek. What would happen to him after Micah was gone?
The snow had picked up, coming down in blustery curtains of large, heavy flakes, coating the sidewalks and streets with over an inch of powder. Within minutes, Micah's hair was covered, as were his shoulders.
He didn't mind the cold, so he kept walking. A couple of times, he felt eyes on him, but when he stopped and searched the shadows, he saw no one. It was probably nothing. He'd been feeling watched for weeks now, but no one was ever there when he looked, and if someone really was tailing him, wouldn't he have revealed himself by now? So, yeah, the sense of being watched had to be all in his head, even though his instincts told him otherwise.
He didn't know how long he had been walking—a long time, though—when he lifted his gaze and found himself approaching Berlin, the club where he had met Jackson. That had been a strange night. He'd been in an especially foul mood, kicked off his shift early, stopped by the Garter, drooled over Scarlet, and then found himself here as he searched for someone to ease the ache in his balls when Scarlet had been unavailable. Berlin was known for its gay and lesbian patronage, so why he had ended up here that night was a question he couldn't answer. But he had, and Jackson had made eye contact with him from the dance floor, where he'd been grinding up on some other guy. It had been instant attraction between them. Jackson ended up ditching his dance partner, cozied up to Micah at the bar, and the two of them had ended up in the men's room, with Jackson on his knees in front of him and Micah's hands fisting Jackson's dark brown hair. Micah hadn't intended for it to be anything more than a casual one-nighter, but the rest that happened between them had been history from that moment on.
And now their relationship was history. They fought too much, and unlike others who argued, he and Jackson had stopped making up. There were no more apologies. No more requests for forgiveness. No makeup sex. No sex at all. Jackson's needs were getting satisfied elsewhere. The guy enjoyed fucking too much to have gone celibate altogether, and Micah had already seen in Jack's mind what he was doing and where and with whom he was spending his nights.
Speak of the devil. Micah's heart lurched as if stabbed as Jackson spilled from Berlin's doors in the arms of another male. A human. The one Micah had seen in Jackson's thoughts. The two hesitated then locked into a passiona
te kiss, arms squeezing each other, hands groping body parts that had been meant for Micah. Even from over a block away, the smell of Jackson's arousal stung Micah's nostrils.
His mated male side roared to life, just as it had with Scarlet a little while ago. That was his mate, goddamn it! How dare he find pleasure with another! How dare that human grope what belonged to him! And unlike with his reaction to Scarlet, he would do something about this betrayal, goddammit!
Micah was about to barrel in and strangle the asshole groping Jackson's crotch and sticking his tongue down his throat when a hand closed around his wrist.
"Hey, Mike. What's up?"
Micah spun to find Traceon, that quiet, dark-skinned mixed-blood who always stood off to the side chewing a matchstick during team meetings, standing beside him. His pale green eyes scrutinized him, narrow and shrewd. Trace hadn't missed anything. He knew what Micah was up to.
"What are you doing here?" Micah snapped, yanking his arm away. He looked back up to find that Jackson and his new beau were gone.
"Following a lead." Trace's deep voice held no emotion. No inflection. It was almost monotone. "Where's Malek?"
Micah began walking toward Berlin's front entrance, searching for Jackson. "Who are you, my mother?"
Trace fell into step beside him. "Not since the last time I checked."
Micah regarded him with a sidelong glance. "What are you doing?"
"What do you mean?"
"Are you following me?" He thought about the odd feelings of being watched and wondered if Trace was to blame. The guy did come pre-packaged with special gifts, being that he was a mixed-blood. Maybe one of his gifts included being able to hide in the shadows. No one knew for sure. Trace never talked about himself and kept his life pretty hushed and closed off. And his mind was like a locked box. For all the chatter Micah picked up from everyone else, he never got shit from Trace.