Fury of Desire (7 page)

“I don’t know how.” Hands trembling, J. J. gripped the phone, staring at the thing like an alien object. The second she’d been charged and denied bail, she lost her privileges. All her belongings too… pay-as-you-go cell phone included. “I’ve never texted anyone.”

“Hold on. Here, just…”

Quick as a music note, Ashford pressed a button. A picture of a dog dressed in a pink sweater flashed on the viewer. Another stroke across the screen. One more finger tap, and
the image morphed, prompting J. J. Insert phone number there. Write a message below. Simple. Effective. Heaven to a girl who had never used it before.

“Clear enough?”

“Got it.” Another round of tears flooded her vision. J. J. wiped them away. “Thank you.”

Ashford said “uh-huh” and raised her voice, talking loud enough for Griggs to hear her. As she pretended to talk her through the changing of bandages, explaining her injuries and what needed to happen for her to heal, J. J. got busy: heart thumping, mind whirling, hope rising like a hot air balloon inside her head.

Salvation in each stroke, her finger found the right keys.

Tania… it’s J. J. Am hurt. Need help, but don’t come. Not safe. Griggs here. Call lawyer. Get protective custody. Be smart. Stay safe.
Luv u, sis…

Stress parked on her like a ten-ton truck, she reread the message. One second slid into the next and…

She hit the send button.

The praying started next. Along with all the
what ifs.
What if Griggs found out? What if Ashford got in trouble? What if Tania didn’t receive the message? What if the warden… oh God. Oh shit. Holy hell on a swizzle stick. She hated
what ifs
and all the rotten possibilities each one dragged in its wake. J. J. closed her eyes, physical pain bowing beneath the bend of psychological torment. Someone just shoot her now. Lord knew that would be easier. A quick death, after all, was always preferable to a slow one.

Biting down on a snarl, Wick crossed the threshold and stepped into Gridiron. His body rebelled, tensing up hard as the cloying stench of eau de nightclub closed in around him. The unconscious reaction ramped him into the danger zone, making his night vision spark. Trace energy flared, coming at him from all directions. He smothered a grimace. Jesus, he hated this place. Despised the strobe lights and Gothed-out décor. Couldn’t stand the spine-bending beat of death metal pumping through hidden speakers. Or the shuffle and press of too many bodies in too small a space.

Not that any of the humans ever came near him.

None of them were that stupid. Good thing too. In his current frame of mind, he might snap a few in half just to take the edge off. Most males would’ve made a beeline for the bar. Downed a drink to combat the distaste. Maybe even an entire bottle to soothe the aversion and set sail into oblivion. Not him. He never touched the stuff. Never would either.

Alcohol wasn’t his friend. And tonight? Neither was time.

Rolling his shoulders to loosen the tension, Wick turned left. Upscale VIP section, here he came. Humans scattered like bowling pins, doing what they did best… getting out of his way. The stairs took him up five treads onto a raised section that overlooked the dance floor. He didn’t bother to look. He knew what lay in that direction. Nothing but the sea of drug-fueled humans pretending they knew how to dance.

Strobe lights flashed overhead, scoring the black walls with bright color.

Wick squinted against the glare and slowed, scoping out the lounge, getting a lay of the land, counting the number of humans struggling to talk over the noise pollution. Wick huffed. Surprise, surprise. A full house again tonight… along with more females than he could count. Good pickings for Venom and the other warriors.

Not so hot for him.

Unease ghosted deep, pricking the nape of his neck and… shit. There went his hands again. Every time he walked into the place the fuckers went numb. A reaction to the stress? Probably. An early warning sign to get the hell out. Absolutely. Not that he could at the moment. With Venom riding his ass, he needed to see the nightmare though. The faster he finished, the quicker he’d get what he wanted… out of the club, back into the street and airborne.

He glanced at the door nearest him. The red glow of the Exit sign perched above it bled into the club, burning twin holes in his retinas. An escape hatch, one that led into the alley behind the club. Temptation grabbed hold, cranking his muscles tight. Thirty seconds. Tops. And he’d be gone.

Too bad cowardice wasn’t a condition he ever accepted.

Backing off—staying hungry—wasn’t an option. Not tonight with his boys at his back and a mission in front of him.

Decked out in short skirts and midriff tops, females were everywhere: lounging in plush booths, sitting at the bar, standing in groups, skin exposed and bodies swaying, drinks in hand while ice swirled in glass tumblers. Wick stifled a shiver as the raw scent of hard alcohol overpowered him. Recall sharpened, sending him sideways inside his own head. God, that smell. It never failed to drag him into a past he didn’t want to remember but couldn’t forget.
And as he stood, shitkickers planted and shoulders squared, reality faded into memory.

Into the cruelty of another time and place.

Wick shook his head. Even after all these years, he couldn’t get a handle on it. Couldn’t wrap his brain around the savagery, never mind the abuse. He’d been so young when it started. Too naive to understand what was happening or what it would eventually do to him. Even after eighty years, the horror stayed with him: the collar and cage, the mental whiplash and raw brutality of his captors forcing 40 proof down his throat night after night.

All in the name of entertainment.

Curling his hands into fists, Wick fought the bitter taste of cerebral burn, desperate to douse the psychological flames. But nothing could stem the growing tide of recall. Or the body slam of his physical reaction to the scent of alcohol. Wick knew it. Habit and experience told him so. He tried anyway, combating the sick feeling, swallowing as bitterness rose, making his pulse throb and his heart ache.

Goddamn son of a bitch.

The bastard had locked him in a cage. A fucking
cage
… complete with a steel collar and chains. Why that pissed him off more than anything else, Wick didn’t know. Certainly having the booze forced down his throat at age seven had been worse. He’d been addicted by age ten, a raging alcoholic raring for a fix before each fight. Before his captor dragged him onto a stage, slapped a knife in his hand, and forced him to—

The painful memory bit, making him bleed inside his own mind.

The wail of an electric guitar saved him, cutting through the mental noise.

Wick blinked. A second later, he shoved the past away. He wasn’t there anymore, in that underground place, scared, alone, and vulnerable. Venom had gotten him out, and the bastard who’d owned him was dead. No sense reliving any of it. The best he could do now was move forward, hit hard, and get out quick.

Which meant finding a female for his friend… ASAP.

Turning his attention toward the bar lining the back wall, Wick’s gaze skipped over the crowd. He grimaced. Jesus. What a train wreck. The Gridiron was a straight-up travesty. Nothing but hard surfaces that catered to trying-too-hard patrons. An army of Gothed-out pansies who acted tough but didn’t have a clue what that meant. Give them a second of hardship, challenge the idiots at all, and… yeah. Each and every one would fold like a dirty shirt.

Shaking his head, Wick frowned at the humans.

“Rein it in, buddy.”

Wick glanced left and raised a brow in question.

“The pissed-off expression.” Amusement in his gaze, Mac slapped a big hand to his shoulder. Skin smacked against his leather jacket, the sharp sound drifting up between them. “You keep looking at them like that, and the females’ll run scared. Not the best way to get lucky. A little welcome goes a long way, you know.”

His eyes narrowed, Wick glared at the newest member of the Nightfury pack.

“Just saying.” With a grin, Mac gave him another love tap. The firm slap rocked him forward, forcing him to widen his stance or fall over. “I’ll be at the bar.”

“Stay there,” he said, silent warning in his tone. A necessary thing. Despite his inexperience, Mac was a wild card, one with the smarts and strength to go it alone. Not exactly
what Wick wanted right now. If Mac went commando—not an impossibility considering the mission involved his mate’s sister—he would lose his chance to repay his debt. Which would suck in a major way. He needed the score evened and the monkey off his back. And Jamison? She was the best means to that end. “The female is mine to retrieve, not yours.”

“Got it.” A serious glint in his blue eyes, Mac nodded, backing up word with deed. Brushing shoulders with him, the male moved past him, pointing his boots toward the bar at the back of the lounge. “Have fun, boys. Holler when you’re finished.”

“No doubt of that, lad.” Stopping next to him, Forge threw him a sidelong glance. Anticipation fogged the air around the Scot as he rubbed his hands together. “Time frame?”

“An hour,” Wick said, trying not to cringe. Fifteen minutes suited him better, but God knew that wouldn’t work. His brothers-in-arms would balk, go grim reaper on his ass if he cut the timeline any shorter. None of them, after all, shared his affliction. Tall, short, thin, curvy, high-energy or not, it didn’t matter. Each warrior loved being with a female. Cherished each minute spent with one. Craved the contact and the blast of life-sustaining, orgasmic energy that always followed. Wick knew because he’d seen the way Venom acted around women. Add that to all the chatter at Black Diamond after a night spent carousing and…

Shit, no contest. All enjoyed touching—and being touched in return.

Everyone except him.

The admission cranked Wick tight. Unease prickled through him. Anger came next. Jesus. He was a warrior, for
fuck’s sake. Strong. Able. Lethal in a firefight and feared by his enemies. No way should getting close to the fairer sex set him back a step. But the truth didn’t give a damn about convenience or pride. How he felt—his reaction—was what it
was.
No denying it. And as he fought the chill of dread along with his neurosis, Wick rolled his shoulders. The movement didn’t help. He did it again anyway, forcing himself to pack up the bag of horrors he carried around like luggage.

With a zip, he closed the thing up tight and reiterated the plan. “I want to be at the hospital before midnight.”

“Bloody hell.” Forge scowled at him, protesting the time crunch.

“Later,” Sloan said, a growl in his voice. Dark eyes intense, he put himself in gear and followed Forge into the thick of the club. “Meet you on the roof in sixty.”

“A whole hour.” A half smile on his puss, Venom set up shop alongside him. The DJ rolled another track, synthesizing death metal with an older tune. As the remix got going, thumping through the speakers, his best friend raised a brow. “Generous of you. How come you never give me that much time?”

“Fuck off, Ven,” he murmured, using his favorite verbal fallback. “Come back later, if you want.”

Venom sighed as though resigned to his pissy attitude.

“I’m not leaving Jamison any longer than necessary.”

Surprise lit a spark in his ruby-red gaze. “Jamison, is she? When did that happen?”

Wick smoothed his expression, scrambling to cover up the slip. But it was too late. Venom wasn’t an idiot. His friend had picked up on his tone… on the way he said her name. Super. Just terrific. He’d made a tactical error and let
the cat out of the bag. But even as he tried to stuff it back in, Wick knew he was screwed. Like a dog with a bone, Venom wouldn’t let it go. He’d poke at him until he admitted the truth.

Jamison fascinated him.

Somehow… someway… over the last few hours she’d peaked his interest. More than a little strange, not to mention ridiculous. Curiosity never knocked on his door. He was a simple male who enjoyed a simple life. Fight. Rip apart rogues. Come home at the end of each night. Nothing complicated about it, but as the details of her situation surfaced, taunting him, he couldn’t dismiss her. Or the novel prickling sensation he experienced when he thought about her.

Now a myriad of questions circled, demanding answers.

He wanted to know every single detail. But more than that? He needed to meet the female behind the prison file. The little things made him wonder, and as curiosity burned, his imagination took flight. Such extreme measures. She’d gone the distance, lured a man to his death… done the unthinkable. At least, for a female. Most women wouldn’t have had the guts. Running and hiding seemed a more likely MO.

Jamison, though, ran contrary to the rule. And like it or not, Wick wanted to know why.

“So…” Flexing his hands, Venom cracked his knuckles. The move smacked of impatience. “We getting to it or what?”

Wick nodded. It was now or never. And since
never
wasn’t an option with Venom glued to his six, Wick forced himself to move. Picking up his feet, he strode toward the inevitable. The throb behind his temples picked up the pace, making
Wick’s head ache. He shoved the discomfort aside, his gaze searching the VIP section and…