“Make it quick.” Her head tilted to one side, the nurse listened for the sound of approaching footsteps. When none came, she murmured, “Don’t call. Text him instead.”
“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.