Viper (Sons of Sangue)

by Patricia A. Rasey

  Cara sighed, wishing the heated water would wash her worries down the drain, along with her thoughts of Kane Tepes. She didn't need the complications his presence in her life would most certainly cause. The perfect night would include making a batch of hot chocolate, grabbing a novel, and crawling into bed. But she knew nothing would stop her rolling thoughts. Once her head hit the pillow and the lights went out, her mind would replay the case, as well as its possible connection to Kane. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, the man was pretty pleasing to the eye. She chuckled. Pleasing to the eye didn't do him justice. The man was downright sinful.

  Reaching for the shampoo, she lathered her hair, massaging her scalp, then rinsed the soap from the strands. Suds slid down her body and over her breasts. Her nipples tightened, teasing her, aching for a caress … Kane's caress.

  Her eyes flew open.

  Where the hell had that thought come from?

  Maybe Joe had been correct and she did need to get laid. Her imagination had started to take a turn for the dangerous. Since moving back to the small town, Cara hadn't bothered with a relationship. Didn't have time for one. In her experience a relationship took far too much time and energy for very little return. Even in her ten years in Eugene, at college and on the force, she hadn't dated a man for longer than a few months. None of them held her attention long enough to get serious, and most were more interested in getting drunk and going to bars. A piece of ass was just something they did after last call at the bar. No need to add complicated emotions into the equation.

  Cara had little interest in sex when it didn't come in the form of a relationship. Call her old-fashioned. So after a few horrible tries at a relationship—one she refused to acknowledge because it had ended so badly—and a few bumbling mishaps in the sack, Cara swore off men and concentrated on her career. She figured she had a long life ahead of her to worry about family, babies and all that stuff she wasn't likely cut out for anyway.

  Kane's image flitted before her. Not the one from her nightmares, but the man she encountered mere hours ago. He had been dark, brooding and angry. The angry she understood. The S.O. had targeted the Sons of Sangue since the very first dumped body. Each of them had been questioned at length and made to feel guilty … maybe not of the crimes in question, but the Sheriff’s Office knew the OMC were guilty of something. They always were. So they treated them like reprobates. Maybe the S.O. was looking to hang these crimes on someone … anyone, and the Sons of Sangue seemed like a good target. At least that had been the view the Sons had taken. And she couldn't blame them. They didn't have squat for suspects. If Kane was indeed innocent of the homicides, then he no doubt had reason to be furious with her and the Sheriff’s Office.

  And an angry Kane was an intoxicating image.

  With a lathered bath scrunchy, Cara ran the soap down her chest and over her sensitized breasts. Her breath caught, her nipples puckered, and a slow warm ache pooled between her thighs. Her heartbeat thudded heavy against her rib cage as she thought of Kane's large, muscular body. His chiseled frame looked like he lifted weights daily. She'd certainly like to run her hands down the solid ridges of his abs. Leaning back against the cool shower tiles, she allowed her hands to roam farther, heading south over her taut stomach. Lord, she hadn't felt a stirring of lust in years. She hadn't even allowed herself the pleasure of an orgasm. Cara had tried self-pleasure a handful of times, but it always left her unfulfilled and wanting. Her face heated at the thought of allowing herself the guilty pleasure now. Since when had she stopped thinking of Kane as anything but a nightmare?

  His dark looks intrigued her, called to her as her hand drifted lower, wondering what it would feel like to have his hands skim her flesh and slide between her thighs. The ache grew. Her breath drew short.

  The telephone jangled.

  Shit!

  Cara dropped the scrunchy, cursing herself for the notion of even thinking to pleasure herself. She quickly rinsed off, opened the door and grabbed a towel. Served her right. She had no business whatsoever daydreaming about Kane Tepes … even if he was about the sexiest thing to ever land in Pleasant.

  Grabbing the bedroom phone, she paced in front of the opened window. The chilled air cooled her heated skin. And, Lord, did she need cooling off.

  "Hello," she answered on the fourth ring.

  "Hey, Brahnam. What's up?"

  Cara smiled. "What are you calling for at this hour, Hernandez?"

  "This hour? Hell, Brahnam, it's barely eight-thirty. Some of us guys from the office are up to Murphy's for a beer. Why don't you join us?"

  "I appreciate the offer, but I just got out of the shower. I was going to retire early and read."

  "Christ, Brahnam, you're a candidate for sainthood! Now get your cute little fanny up here. I'll have a beer waiting."

  Before she could decline the line went dead, causing her to chuckle.

  Guess her plans for the night just got changed.

  * * *

  His body shook with unrequited desire. The vision in the window had his cock standing at full attention. Lust and hunger pumped through his veins, causing his fangs to lengthen and his eyes to sharpen in the darkened forest behind her house where he stood, hidden by the cover of night and surrounding trees. His animalistic nature demanded he act; his humanity kept his feet glued to the pine needle flooring.

  Not a sound could be heard; not a cricket chirped. They sensed a predator among them, where she had not a clue of the danger that lurked just beyond her view. The air hung heavy with humidity and smelled of oncoming rain. Another scent drifted along the cool night breeze, one he couldn’t quite catch, but nonetheless there. Probably nothing more than a rotting corpse of some critter of the forest.

  His curiosity and desire to seek this woman out proved her to be his weakness, more than he cared to admit. His body demanded nourishment, yet feeding off the detective was completely out of the question. Not if he respected his brothers and his duty to the club as president.

  So why the fuck was he standing here acting like a damned peeping Tom?

  Hands in pocket, he stared up at her window. Because he hadn't wanted a woman with this ferocity in a long time. Getting a piece of ass had never been a problem. Being in the Sons of Sangue, not to mention wearing the president’s patch, had women throwing themselves at him. Any given night, he had his pick of hardbodies. But biker bitches were a way of release to him, nothing more. Kane had no need for an ol' lady. He had tried that once in his hundred-plus-years existence and it hadn't ended well. He had yet to forgive her. Hell, Kane hadn't forgotten or forgiven himself for not arriving in time. She had been banished to Italy, back to her stepfather, and he hadn’t heard from her since.

  Nor did he want to.

  Now here he stood, his libido going into overdrive like some randy teenage boy. Kane knew it had to do with desiring what you couldn’t have. Mixing the MC with the law would be like placing a square peg in a round hole, no chance of the two ever fitting. But like it or not, he definitely wanted the pretty little detective hot, wet and naked, squirming beneath him calling his name during multiple orgasms. Just the mere thought of fucking her turned up the heat of his hunger. His fangs had fully extended and ached with the need to feed.

  Talk about thinking with the wrong head.

  Kane shook off the growing need, turned his back on her as she pulled a light sweater over her head, and fled into the woods. Following her home had been foolhardy, pushing his self-discipline to its limit. Kane had acted on impulse, which was a short hop, skip and a jump from being just plain stupid. When he left the clubhouse, his intentions had been to head for the Blood 'n' Rave to find nourishment stat, which he was still in dire need of. He raced through the forest, the trees and passing brush, nothing but a blur moving at speeds impossible for normal humans. Kane was anything but normal. As he reached the road running south from hers, he came across his bike where he had left it, mounted it, and hit the electric start. The bike rumbled to life. Kane kicked u
p the centerstand and headed for Florence.

  A half hour later, Kane parked his motorcycle, killed the engine and stepped over the seat. He took off his skull cap and placed it on the handlebar and headed for the entrance of the club. Hunger hummed through his veins. Tonight—just about anybody would do. Normally, when it came to feeding, Kane was quite particular. But with blood hunger pulsing through his veins, he wasn't about to turn away any willing candidate. He had a singular goal in mind: find a woman wearing a vial and commence communion.

  * * *

  From his vantage point, hidden by the trees near the side of the house, he watched the detective exit her house and point her key fob at the black Dodge Charger. The headlights illuminated and the yellow caution lamps flashed twice as the driver side door unlocked with a soft click. Moments earlier, Kane Tepes had stood within the woods across the large expanse of lawn toward the rear of the home, watching the young woman as she showered.

  Kane hadn't been aware, that while he spied on the woman, someone watched him. A very dangerous someone. Tsk, tsk, Kane, he thought with a chuckle. Kane's keen senses should have picked up on the fact he wasn't alone and that another of his kind, not to mention a primordial, stood but mere yards away. Kane’s weakness for women made him unaware. The biker had fucked up, handing him his Achilles Heel on a silver platter.

  The female, he had to admit, was stunning even in her plainness. She didn't wear much makeup and her hair she wore unadorned. Her bright blue eyes were rimmed with just a hint of mascara, while a bit of blush accented her cheeks. He could easily understand what Kane saw in this one. The detective was not at all like the last one he drained. As she opened the car door, her cell rang, the light from the car's interior softly highlighting her face. But with his vision he didn’t need the soft glow to see her clearly. Every freckle, every nuance was clearly visible, even from his distance. She rummaged through a small leather purse, pulling out a red BlackBerry.

  Hitting the TALK, she placed it to her ear. Not giving the person on the other end of the phone a chance to utter a word, she said, "Yeah, yeah, I'm on my way."

  A smile lit her cheeks and put a twinkle in her vivid eyes. She might be worth toying with before he drained her like the others.

  "I'm leaving now. Give me fifteen minutes." She paused. "And, Joe? That beer had better still be cold."

  Hitting the OFF, she lowered herself onto the front seat and started the car, pulling on her seatbelt. He watched as the car slowly crawled down the long driveway, then disappeared out of sight.

  Walking from the cover of the trees, he approached the backdoor. Making a fist, he punched through the thin glass of the door as if it were made of rice paper and entered the house. Old wives’ tales, he thought with a chuckle. Vampire or not, he didn’t need an invitation to enter.

  * * *

  Switchback by Celldweller filtered through the speakers as bright blue, red, green, and yellow laser lighting pulsed through the room to the beat of the high energy music. Klayton, the lead singer of the band, was nothing less than a genius. Kane had met the man years ago when he was in a band called Circle of Dust. The band had toured the states, and when landing in Oregon for a tour, they had hired the Sons of Sangue as bodyguards. He and Klayton had become fast friends, keeping in touch over the years. Whenever Celldweller came to Oregon, Klayton hired the Sons to keep violence out of the venues. Tonight, however, the DJ spun the music. Most of the ravers here were considered Darkravers and Gravers, as this crowd was more into the darker side of music and tended toward Gothic styles.

  The patrons stomped and jumped to the beat of the music while others practiced glowstick twirling, their arms fluidly moving to the rhythm in liquid motion. Women … men, they all danced as one, regardless of sexual orientation. The entire scene looked very erotic. Ecstasy ran rampant in the Blood 'n' Rave. X or Disco Biscuits, as they were known here, were easy enough to come by if someone wanted to get charged up for the night. Kane stayed away from the drugs, as it wouldn't do much for his kind anyway. His blood regenerated rapidly and the pharmaceutical wouldn't stay in his body longer than a few minutes.

  Finding a piece of ass in this crowd to slake the itch that started watching Cara shower, wouldn't be a problem. Finding one that interested him would. Her provocative image, running lathered hands down her smooth taut belly, heading for the V of her thighs, had burned itself in his mind. Creamy pale flesh called to him, beckoned him to take her against the smooth shower wall and fuck her like his hundred-plus years would end tomorrow. Hell, his dick stirred just at the thought. Maybe he should appease his raging hormones on the first willing woman who happened by, and the hell with where his true desire lay. Here at the Rave, he bet that wouldn’t take more than thirty seconds.

  Kane shook his head and ignored the young redhead eyeing him up … not even thirty seconds, and headed for the bar. Not only did he need blood, he could use a stiff drink as well. He cut through the crowd with ease, people parting, giving him homage. His MC cut introduced him to the crowd, for those who didn't already know him. The Blood 'n' Rave allowed the Sons’ colors within the establishment, showed them deference. This had been their hangout, their turf, since the nightclub had opened. The owner liked their presence. It kept out the dregs of society, the underbelly—even if there were those who considered the Sons one and the same. To the Rave, the Sons of Sangue were treated like royalty, and there was always an abundance of willing women to slake all their needs, be it sexual or nutritional.

  Cutting a path around the dance floor, Kane headed for the ornate bar, spotting the owner instantly. He stepped to the side of a leather-padded stool, placed one hand on the bar and a booted foot on the foot rail, giving a quick nod to the man he had considered a friend over the past many years.

  "Draven."

  Draven stood just over six foot in bare feet, but tonight he wore a pair of black leather platforms that brought him eye to eye with Kane. He held out his black-fingernail-tipped hand and shook Kane's.

  "Not used to seeing you alone, my dear friend. What's your poison?"

  The Sons rarely traveled by themselves because it was always safer to arrive in numbers, should trouble start. Tonight, Kane didn't need wisecracks from his brothers. He wanted solitude, time to reason with this crazy notion of sliding between the detective’s smooth lean thighs. "Jack, straight up."

  Draven nodded at the bartender who brought them a freshly opened bottle of Jack Daniel's Single Barrel and two vintage lowball glasses, etched in fine gold. He poured them each a half glass. Draven picked them both up, holding one out to Kane.

  Kane took the offering, clinked glasses with the man, then downed a good share of the amber liquid, feeling the burn as it slid down his esophagus.

  "You come to party? I got some sweet shipments that just came in."

  Kane shook his head and wiped his hand down his mouth. Draven knew Kane didn't dabble in drugs, free or otherwise, but it never stopped Draven from offering. Maybe Draven felt he wouldn't be the complete host if he didn't. Kane's answer never changed. "Just here for the women, my friend."

  Draven’s hand indicated the dance floor. "Take your pick."

  He tipped his top hat back a notch as he peered over the blue rimless glasses he wore perched on the end of his nose. Kane wasn't sure if Draven wore them to read or because he thought it made him look more like Gary Oldman from Bram Stocker's Dracula. He wore red contacts to enhance the look and a soul patch beneath his lower lip. The only thing missing was the mustache.

  Kane took another sip from his glass, then turned his back to the bar and leaned against it, his heel now resting on the foot rail. His gaze swept the room, looking for a good candidate, when a lean, dark-haired woman approached the bar. The first thing that caught Kane's attention was the red vial hanging from her neck, marking her as a donor. He had seen her many times before, but usually on the arm of one of his brothers. She wasn't his normal type, but tonight beggars certainly couldn't be choosers.

 
"Can I buy you a drink?" Kane asked.

  Startled, her blue gaze stopped on his. "I'm sorry?"

  Kane pointed at her glass and grinned. "What are you drinking, sweetness?"

  "Tom Collins."

  Kane nodded at the bartender, who quickly brought her a fresh glass. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

  "You didn't," the brunette said, nervously running a hand down her black pleather pants. On her top half she wore a white fur-covered bikini bra, an A-cup at best. "I just didn't expect you to speak to me.” She chuckled. “That was certainly rude of me. What I meant is that I've been coming here for years and you've never once spoken to me before."

  "Maybe it's about time I did." Kane's fingers graced the hollow of her throat where a blood-filled glass vial and red jewel hung from a black, leather cord. "I'm suddenly famished if you're game."

  Her red lips tipped into a wide smile. "Really?" she asked, followed by a nervous giggle. The sound cut straight to his spine, enough to make him want to about-face and find food elsewhere.

  She had to be in her late twenties, making the giggle sound a bit immature. But what did he care? Food was food. "Really," he repeated. "What shall I call you?"

  She looked at him, confusion clouding her eyes. "Call me?"

  Kane resisted the urge to tell her to forget it and move on. "Your name, sweetness."

  "Oh. I'm sorry … my name is Suzi."

  Chapter 4

  Cara walked through the door at Murphy's, thankful the earlier rain had paused for her ride back to town. She had been soaked through before her shower, chilling her to the bone. Truth be told, she wouldn't have agreed to the beer had the weather not cleared.

  An eighty's tune from the band Poison blared on the juke box, already lightening her dark mood. Maybe coming out for a beer was exactly what she needed. She'd never tire of the classic hair band, even if she really wasn't old enough to remember them the first time around. Bret Michael's and his Rock of Love had made sure her generation knew who the rock icon was.