Just the mind fuck of weakness without possibility of relief. Party central with the added bonus of embarrassment.
Wick glanced sideways at Mac. Standing behind him, the male stood at the ready, willing to step in and prevent him from face-planting. Again. Jesus, what a mess. Humiliation rose, clinging like a bitch in heat, and Wick wanted to disappear. Fight or flight, an instinctual response to a bad situation. As he fought another tremor, getting good and ghost sounded like a plan, but for one problem.
Mac wouldn’t let him run.
The male practically oozed concern. And knowing what he knew about the ex-cop? Wick read all the signs. His buddy would become his shadow the second he put his feet in gear. No way would Mac let him out of his sight now, so…
Fuck it. Flight just got stroked off the list.
Which left him with one option.
Fight. A good brawl always chilled him out, and hammering Mac… attacking the male who bore witness to his breakdown? Well, now, the course of action tickled his fancy, jumping to the top of his list. Brutal with his fists, Mac would give him what he needed—a load of pissed off wrapped up in a pretty package called lethal. Serious pain. A truckload of distraction. Redemption in the form of pride-elevating exertion.
Mac would hit hard and never apologize.
Perfect with a capital P.
Boots planted on wet pavement in the middle of the alley, he glanced toward the still-open door. Hope expanded, filling Wick with possibility.
Mac’s gaze narrowed in suspicion. “Forget it. Not happening.”
“What’s the matter?” he asked, trying to start a fight. “You chicken?”
“Walk it off, Wick.” A warning on his puss, Mac slammed the door behind him. The clang reverberated, blocking out the club noise. As the lock clicked into place, Wick cursed under his breath. Freaking guy. Trust their resident water dragon to be reasonable when he’d never been before. “I’m not tangling with you.”
Fair enough. No doubt the best move too. Especially since Wick never said quit. Or backed down.
He’d never needed to, preferring his special brand of vicious to taking time-outs. His nature set the parameters. He followed the path, walking the line toward one thing… death. He fought until someone died. Period. No room for negotiation. No talking him off the ledge. Just straight-up killing, which, yeah, made Mac one wicked smart SOB.
He growled, throwing his comrade a pissy look.
Mac didn’t say a word. He scissored his fingers instead, mimicking a walking motion.
Wick dropped another f-bomb, but got with the program. With a quick shift, he pivoted toward the street. Shoulders rolling, footfalls thumping, rage leading the way, he strode toward the sidewalk at the end of the alley. Satisfied with the stomp fest, Mac crossed his arms and, settling in, leaned back against the Gridiron’s side door. Eagle eyes on him, Mac tracked his movement. Wick ignored him, traveling over worn pavement, kicking soda cans out of his way, boot treads cracking half-frozen puddles as he bypassed a row of dumpsters.
Energy shards nicked him, making his skin crawl.
Fighting the rush, Wick upped the pace, treating the alley like his personal racetrack. Up. Down. Round and round, each circuit looping into the next. On the third go-around, something strange happened. His body calmed. His heart rate evened out. The prickle abated, slipping from cold and terrible to heated and smooth. His brows furrowed, Wick slowed, tracking the downgrade in sensation. Taut muscles unfurled, relaxing one rigid thread at a time. The benefits of the feeding took hold, settling into his marrow. Powered up, magic crackled through his veins, making him tingle with renewed warmth.
His dragon half sighed.
Relief swirled and dread faded, releasing Wick one talon at a time. Huh. Would you look at that? The pacing crap actually worked.
“Better?” Mac pushed away from the wall.
Not trusting his voice, Wick nodded.
“The others are almost done.”
Translation? The sex feast was about to conclude… thank God.
Uncrossing his arms, Mac stretched, working out the kinks. “You got a line on Venom?”
Good question. “Not yet.”
But he really should get on that. Hauling Venom curbside wouldn’t be easy. It never was. His best friend loved female company too much to rush sex. He liked to take his time, teasing maximum pleasure out of his bedmates. The females no doubt appreciated it. But him? Not so much. Especially since it left him standing outside half the time, waiting for Venom to finish up and get his fill.
Not that he ever complained about his buddy’s appetite.
No way. He wasn’t that selfish. The male was rock solid, worthy in ways Wick would never be. And as much as it pained him to admit it, Wick knew he would be dead by now without Venom in his corner. The warrior knew his secret, understood his background, and didn’t care. In spite of his feeding phobia, Venom accepted him anyway. Made sure he fed and stayed healthy, forcing him to do what he couldn’t for himself. No one else would’ve put up with the bullshit or stuck with him for so long.
So… no. Under normal circumstances, he never complained. Or tore his best friend out of a female’s arms. Tonight, though, didn’t qualify as normal. He had a mission to complete, a delicate one named Jamison Jordan Solares.
Shoving his sleeve up, Wick glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes to midnight. Right on schedule. Which meant… chop-chop, time to roust the others and yank Venom’s chain. The sooner it happened, the sooner he’d be in dragon form and airborne. Swedish Medical sat less than five minutes away. And inside it? A female in need of rescue, his ticket to becoming debt-free.
J. J. wanted to sleep but was too afraid to close her eyes. People always got killed when they weren’t looking. Horror movies proved it. Life and fate followed the trend, attacking when least expected. So elementary, my dear Watson. Fear was a natural part of the equation. At least in her book.
Alertness equaled living to see another day.
An excellent strategy, considering Griggs stood just outside her door. In the hallway. Less than twenty feet away. Yakking it up with his fellow officer. Fighting a yawn, J. J. stared at the uniformed pair. The glass that stretched wall-to-wall across the front of her room afforded her an excellent view. Good in some respects. Awful in others. The clear partition allowed her to keep watch while she waited for Griggs to make his move: the inevitable approach, the next vile threat, the feel of his hands wrapped around her throat.
Nausea churned in the pit of her stomach.
The pitch and sway tossed a bad taste into her mouth. J. J. swallowed, telling herself not to be stupid. Griggs wouldn’t try anything with the nursing staff around. She frowned. Would he? Her gaze glued to him, the question circled. His back to her, shoulder blades planted on the glass wall, he laughed. The dog-eared magazine he held jumped in his hand. Big hands. Unkind hands. Owned by a man without conscience or scruples.
Unease turned into dread, heightening her fear.
She shivered. Unable to control it, the quiver rolled into a series of tremors. The handcuff around her wrist rattled against the bed rail. The soft sound cranked her tighter. Oh God. She was trapped. Completely vulnerable.
Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to call for help.
Fingertips gone numb, J. J. curled her free hand in the sheet. Cotton rasped against her palm, grounding her in the ultimate question. What to do… what to do? Dear God in heaven, she didn’t know. With the text message sent, she was out of options. Left to fend for herself, knowing that sooner or later Griggs would try something. His threats weren’t idle, neither was his nastiness, so… uh-huh. It was a no-brainer. The oily guard was slick with an extra helping of smart. If he wanted her dead, she’d end up that way.