Bad Wolf (Wild Men 4)

“Well…” He glances again between me and Sydney, a crease forming between his brows, as if he’s debating whether to talk or not.

“Well, what?” Sydney asks.

“I thought I saw him recently, the other night in fact, so it’s sort of a funny coincidence that you mentioned him.”

“Where did you see him?”

“At a bar near campus, The Tight End.”

“Yeah?” I lean forward again, in spite of myself, forgetting all pretenses. “What was he doing?”

“He works there,” Merc says. “He’s the bartender.”

Chapter Six

Jarett

“You know, you can leave earlier today,” Suzie tells me as I wipe down the counter. “I’ll close up, and anyway it’s dead in here. Go on, study for your exams, or catch up on some sleep. I can’t look at you stumbling about like a frigging zombie any longer.”

“Don’t worry,” I say automatically. She’s right, I haven’t been sleeping. Bad dreams. Bad memories. “I’ve got this.”

She frowns at me. “Jarett…”

Suzie thinks I’m a college student. I lied to her—about this, about everything. The bar is close to the campus, as is my apartment, so it made good sense to take this job when I saw it advertised. It’s a twenty-minute walk from my apartment.

Well, the apartment I share with Sebastian—when he’s not sleeping around or is passed out in some back alley with a needle in his arm and I have to go looking for him.

I glance back at her. “I’m fine.”

“You’re fine, my ass. Those professors overwork you. There should be a committee looking into this.”

That makes me grin, cuz it’s sort of cute, but I don’t get it… Is she really upset, or playing a game? I mean, why should she give a damn? She barely knows me.

“What were you studying again?”

“Psychology,” I say without missing a beat, repeating my standard lie. “And sports.”

“Right, right. I knew that. Is this where you tell me to lie down on your sofa and tell you what troubles me?”

“You want to lie down on my sofa?” I wink at her.

She blushes furiously, a splash of red on her cheeks and nose. “Um, I dunno.”

Turning back to wiping the counter, I chuckle quietly to myself. Never thought she had a crush on me.

Then again, I rarely thought I stood a chance with chicks. It’s all in the mind, right? One of my foster dads used to say that. Of course, his point was that not only pain was in the mind, but also that nobody would believe me if I told them how he hit me when he was drunk.

Not that chicks don’t look at me. They do. An awful lot, these past few years. And whenever I catch one of them staring at me, I always wonder if she’s really looking at me, or someone inside her head.

Someone who looks like me, but isn’t me. Someone fucking nice. Someone good.

Not that I don’t fuck them if they let me. I’m not stupid. If they open their pretty legs for me, let me finger them, fill them up, dip my cock in their hot pussies, who am I to question them? It’s pleasure, quick and sharp, and then gone again.

Not that I have fucked any, recently.

I never feel anything. Am I supposed to feel anything? It’s like smoking—a taste of bitterness, a moment of bliss, then all that’s left is the yellow stains on your fingers.

I’ve always thought that something inside me is broken—but if it is, it’s too late for me to find out what it was, and wouldn’t miss it if I knew. You can’t miss something you’ve never had, right?