"Stay the hell out of my room. "
"Are you willing to bet her eternity on your anger? Are you really that arrogant?"
Tohr glared over his shoulder. . . except the son of a bitch was gone: There was nothing but air on the bench where the angel had been. And it was hard to argue with that.
"Whatever. Fucking whack-job. "
Chapter Twelve
When Xhex walked into the Iron Mask, she felt like she was stepping back in time. For years, she had worked in clubs like this, weeding through desperate people like this, keeping her eyes peeled for trouble. . . like this little knot of tension that had formed up ahead.
Directly in front of her, two guys were squaring off, a pair of Goth bulls all but pawing at the ground with their New Rocks. Just to the side, a chick with black-and-white hair, glittery cleavage, and a dumb-ass getup involving buckled straps of black leather was looking pretty damn satisfied with herself.
Xhex wanted to slap her upside the head and send her packing just for that attitude alone.
The real problem, however, was not this bonehead with the breasticles, but the two pieces of meat who were about to go Dana White on each other. The concern was not so much what they did to each other's noses or jawlines; it was the other two hundred people who were basically behaving. Male bodies flying backward in twelve different directions could knock a lot of bystanders on their asses, and who needed that?
She was about to step in when she reminded herself that this wasn't her job anymore. She was no longer responsible for these asshats and their libidos and their jealousies, their drug dealing and doing, their sexual exploits -
Annnnnnd here was Trez "Latimer," taking care of it anyway.
The humans in the crowd saw the Moor as simply one of them, just bigger and more aggressive. She knew the truth, however. That Shadow was far more dangerous than any of the Homo sapiens could have guessed. If he'd wanted to, he could have ripped their throats out in the blink of an eye. . . then thrown the carcasses on a spit over a fire, basted them for a couple of hours, and had them for dinner with an ear of corn and a bag of chips.
Shadows had a unique way of disposing of their enemies.
Tums, anyone?
As Trez's bulk made an impression, the dynamic onstage changed instantly: Dipshit chippie took one look at him and appeared to forget the names of the two guys she'd whipped up into a tizzy. Meanwhile, the pair of boozing bozos cooled off a little, stepping back and reevaluating their situation.
Good plan - they were one second away from having it forcibly reevaluated for them.
Trez's eyes met Xhex's for a heartbeat, and then he focused on his three patrons. As the female tried to sidle up to him, flashing her eyes and her breast tissue, she made all the impression of a strip steak to a vegetarian: Trez was vaguely disgusted.
Over the din of the music, Xhex only caught a few words here and there, but she could have guessed the script well enough: Don't be an ass. Take it outside. First and only warning before you're persona non grata.
At the end of it, Trez practically had to peel the harpy off him with a crowbar - somehow, she'd grafted herself onto his arm.
Shaking her off with a, "You can't be serious," he stepped up. "Hey. "
That slow, sexy smile of his was the problem, of course. And the deep voice didn't help. Or that body.
"Hey. " She had to smile back. "Female problems again?"
"Always. " He glanced around. "Where's ya man?"
"Not here. "
"Ahhhhh. " Pause. "How you?"
"I don't know, Trez. I don't know why I'm here. I just. . . "
Reaching out, he put a heavy arm around her shoulders and drew her up against him. God, he smelled the same, a combination of Gucci Pour Homme and something that was altogether him.
"Come on, girlie," he murmured. "Back to my office. "
"Don't call me 'girlie. ' "
"Okay. How 'bout 'buttercup. ' "