Hell, not like it’d be a hardship.
His cock started to swell behind his fly as he visualized all the sexy persuading he’d lavish on Clarissa, and he rescinded his assessment. Hard definitely described his situation.
Jesus. The end of his shift couldn’t get here soon enough.
A grunt came from Griffin. “Something tells me I don’t want to know what you were thinking about just now.”
He followed the cat shifter’s gaze to his crotch. “If you and Kegan keep fixating on my cock, I’m gonna start wonderin’ what’s up.”
“Besides that”—Griffin jerked his chin in the direction of Logan’s groin—“not a damn thing.”
A flash of movement on the other side of the bar caught Logan’s attention, and he looked over to see Tully giving him the time’s-up signal. “Shit, that’s my cue to get back in the ring. You guys need anything more before I go?”
“Maybe just the dessert menu.” Jemma gave him and Griffin a sheepish look. “Hey, I’m feeding two now. I’m allowed to have molten hot lava cake before dinner.”
He ducked around the corner of the bar to grab a pair of menus. When he glanced up, he noticed a young dude covered in piercings and tattoos slouched at a table across the way, glaring at him with unmistakable malice. A baggy black T-shirt that proclaimed “Fear the Wrath” in spidery red lettering all but dwarfed the kid’s scrawny frame.
Without question, he knew that he’d never seen the punk before, but that didn’t stop the shiver of déjà vu currently skipping down his spine. The uncomfortable sensation giving him the willies, he turned away for a moment to drop the menus off in front of Griffin and Jemma. Almost as if he were compelled by some mysterious force, he veered his gaze back toward the stranger with the angry staring complex.
The kid was gone.
A fresh crop of the heebie-jeebies prickling his skin, he clenched his fist around the edge of the bar. “What the fuck is going on?”
Griffin stopped cuddling Jemma long enough to frown at him. “Huh?”
“That’s the second time this week I swore I saw someone vanish into thin air.”
“You been hitting the whiskey a little too hard?” Griffin’s eyebrows inched upward.
No, but he was damn well considering it with all these hallucinations plaguing him lately.
“Maybe it was a ghost. Or a leprechaun,” Jemma offered.
He couldn’t recall ever seeing any leprechauns who looked like the roadie for some two-bit metal thrasher band. Still, he liked Jemma’s suggestion a lot better than the possibility that his sanity had taken an early checkout.
Thankfully the remainder of his shift passed in a busy blur. Because if he’d spent one more second mulling the existence of angry leprechauns or fantasizing about Clarissa naked and glistening with massage oil, the state of his sanity would no longer have been in question. Nope. It would have been lifeless on the floor, in need of some serious CPR.
Throwing his bar rag in Tully’s general direction, he jogged toward the exit.
He made record time hopping in his truck and cruising home. Clarissa hadn’t shown up yet, which was fortunate, since it allowed him to jump in the shower and scrub off any residual smoke or greasy food smells from the bar that might have decided to attach themselves. Once clean and refreshed, he carefully trimmed his goatee, the task not only ensuring that he didn’t overly resemble his inner wolf, but also kept his scratchiness to a minimum so he wouldn’t unintentionally exfoliate Clarissa’s tender parts.
After slapping on some cologne and tugging on a new pair of jeans, he padded into the living room and sprawled on the couch. His attention drifted to the pillow on the far end, and his brain instantly triggered a memory of Clarissa hugging it for dear life while he drilled into her from behind.
Groaning, he shot to his feet and prowled to the armchair, where he was less likely to fall victim to a series of tantalizing mental images that’d lure him into some solo action. Even if the next several minutes killed him, the only hand that’d be stroking him tonight would be Clarissa’s, by God. He popped on the television and distracted his libido with some channel surfing. A documentary about panthers kept him on track for a while, until the damn creatures started humpin’ like they were starring in their own personal jungle-cat porno.
The universe was out to derail him. He clicked off the TV and tossed the remote aside in disgust. Tapping his fingers on the side of the armchair, he glanced at the clock resting on the upper shelf of the entertainment center. It was past eight thirty. Where the hell was Clarissa?
Shoving from the seat, he journeyed to the front vestibule and stepped outside. The neighborhood was unusually quiet, allowing him to hear the steady roll and shoosh of the Atlantic behind him. He leaned against the doorframe. A breeze rustled past, ruffling across his torso and caressing his nipples. Gritting his teeth at the resultant throb in his groin, he rushed back inside and spent five minutes cursing his luck to hell and back as he frantically searched for his cell phone. He finally located it beneath the bed, where some devilish gremlin had no doubt stashed it to string out his torture.
He tried Clarissa’s cell, but it went directly to voicemail. Feeling like a junkie who was one fix shy of a meltdown, he punched in the number for the coven house. Fiona picked up and kindly informed him that Clarissa had decided to stay a little later at the shop.
Well, wasn’t that fucking thoughtful of her. While he’d been climbing the walls, desperate to have her in his arms, she’d chosen to pull an all-nighter at work.
Or maybe she’d just used that as an excuse not to see him.
The possibility gnawed at the already frayed, vulnerable edges of his psyche. As if that weren’t enough of a kick in the balls, his fucking tattoo started acting up. Damn thing hadn’t given him any grief for the past few days, and now it was back with a vengeance. The inked wire and barbs itched to the point he swore they were physically digging into his skin, twisting and tightening in their unrelenting hold on him. It would have been beyond easy to take it as an omen—him forever snared in Clarissa’s defensive shields, his hope for their future slowly bleeding from his veins.
Thankfully he was too much of a stubborn jackass to sit here and wallow in misery.
Stalking to the dresser, he yanked out the first flannel shirt he came to and jammed his arms through the sleeves. Not bothering to button the shirt, he wrenched on his boots. Palming his keys, he barreled outside once more and jumped into his pickup.
He broke every land record—and a few traffic laws—reaching the city. By the time he slammed on the brakes outside Charmed Moon, the cab of the truck had been overtaken with the smell of burnt rubber from his tires. He leapt from the vehicle and, after kicking his door shut, stormed to the store’s entrance. Catching his reflected image in the shop’s window, he slowed his steps. Jesus. The only thing he was missing to complete the picture of a crazed madman was foam coming from his mouth.
Realizing he stood a good chance of Clarissa fleeing in terror at the sight of him, he dragged in a deep breath and finger-combed his hair. Deciding that’d have to do as far as his appearance went, he tried the front door and found it locked. Setting his jaw, he rapped on the glass.
Two minutes passed and still no Clarissa.
The lights were on, so he damn well knew she was in there. His beast threatening to rattle his cage again, he pounded harder on the door. A shadow fell across the floor near the back hallway, and a moment later Clarissa popped into view. She gaped at him, blinking.