Bad Wolf (Wild Men 4)

Then I blink, and she’s gone.

I’m going crazy. Or did someone slip something into my beer earlier? I stumble after her afterimages like a drunk, past the glowing bar and its phosphorescent stools.

It’s the red of her dress, calling me like a flashing light, like a beacon, making my mouth water and my insides tight with need.

“Gigi! Hey!” But I can’t see her anymore, and who would hear me in this din anyway? My voice is lost in the music.

I stumble, my knee twinging, and stop, trying to catch my breath.

What the hell am I doing? Even if she really is here, I should be getting out of the club and heading home, check Seb made it back in one piece.

Heading away from her.

Rubbing a hand over my tired eyes, I straighten and glance one last time the way I thought she went.

Then I turn and limp the other way, toward the exit. That’s what I should have done from the start. Left Sebastian to fend for himself, controlled myself so I wouldn’t go stumbling after a mirage of Gigi, and gone home myself to ice my knee and eat some fucking dinner before hitting the sack.

Clubbing is way overrated.

But my luck sucks balls tonight, cuz I’m not even close to getting out of the club when a commotion and shouts stop me. There’s a jumble of bodies in front of me, blocking my way, and two bouncers pulling the guys apart.

Hell. Another fight?

Just as I’m about to detour and find another way out, punching everyone in my path if need be, I see another familiar figure and stop dead in my tracks.

Christ. This girl has no brain, seriously. And of course that means Gigi probably wasn’t a mirage born of my need to see her, either. She’s here, too. Where Sydney goes, Gigi is close by, and the realization heats my blood like a shot of pure fire.

Only Gigi isn’t anywhere to be seen, and Sydney is in a heated argument with a long-haired, shabbily-dressed guy. I know him, though I can’t recall his name. A junkie and small-time drug dealer Sebastian sometimes hangs out with.

The fuck. I scrub a hand through my close-cropped hair and wish for a smoke. What is she doing, huh? What will it take to teach her a lesson?

Why should I help her until her brain catches up? What is it to me? I’ve got enough shit of my own to deal with.

And Gigi isn’t even here.

Not sure if I’m more disappointed with that, or with myself, I turn around to go, pissed at the world. This is Sydney’s fucking fault for hanging around bad people.

Like you are?

Whatever. I wave the annoying little voice away, like an insect buzzing in my ear. I have my reasons.

What if she has her reasons, too?

Goddammit. She’s a druggie, isn’t it plain as day? Looking for her fix night in and night out, always talking to the dealers. She has to be buying, haggling over the prices, and that’s why she keeps getting into trouble. She’s a hot mess. What else is there to say?

But I’m already turning back, pushing people out of the way to get to her, see if she’s all right, because let’s face it, Gigi will never speak to me again if I let her friend get hurt—and that’s all there is to it, I tell myself firmly.

I’m not a good guy. Sure, I don’t kick puppies for fun, but I also don’t go around playing at being the white knight to random chicks, either.

And sure enough, she’s following after the guy, shouting something at him, until he turns back around and even from here, in the flashing lights of the club, I can see the anger written on his ugly mug.

Fuck. What is she doing, trying to get herself killed? The guy isn’t known for his patience—or lucidity, for that matter, since he’s always either high as a kite, or wallowing in terrible lows. I know the kind.

Like my brother. Living with Sebastian has taught me that.

Hell, I wasn’t wrong. I reach them the moment he goes after her and she steps back, white-faced, obviously realizing her mistake.

Yeah, don’t poke the manic bear.