Olivia laughed. “Like a bunch of girlfriends?”
“Yes,” Rhonda said, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Can you believe it? Turns out they were having an actual pissing contest.”
“What can I say?” A sheepish grin spread across David’s face. “It was a frat brother thing. Whoever peed the longest didn’t have to pay. We were all poor, so this was a big deal.”
“Did I hear someone say anniversary a few minutes ago?” Marco said, coming up from behind. He had a pencil tucked behind his ear and a bar rag hanging over one shoulder.
“Ten years,” David said proudly.
“Holy cow! That calls for a celebration. Olivia, do you remember where I put that bottle of reserve Cab the distributor wanted us to try? She says it’s fantastic.”
“I think it’s down in the cellar,” she replied. “Do you want me to get it?”
“That would be stellar.”
She got a kick out of the way he enunciated his words, as though he’d done voice-over work or been a stage actor. “Hold on. I’ll be right back.”
As she headed down the narrow steps, she thought about how much she liked this place. And who wouldn’t? She got to pour and taste great wine, chat with friendly people, and work for a decent man. The pay and the hours weren’t half bad, either.
Her only hope was that she’d be able to stay awhile this time. It would be a shame if she had to go on the run again.
Chapter Two
To the casual observer at the Apocalypse Tonight Club, Asher looked like he belonged. Two women sat beside him in the high-backed booth, laughing animatedly at jokes that weren’t all that funny. With a pitcher of beer and a collection of empties, he seemed no different from any other guy in the place hoping to score some action tonight.
But on the inside, he was ready to kill.
He scanned the crowd again. New Seattle’s soccer team had just won an important match that qualified them for the World Games, and the city’s residents were well on their way to getting collectively drunk. Young men clustered around the video screens near the bar, singing an off-key version of what he assumed was the team’s theme song. Several females with red-stained lips, black lacy dresses, and spike-heeled boots pulled a businessman out of his seat and hauled him to the dance floor. An unlikely combination, but the man seemed more than eager. An androgynous couple sat at a nearby table, drinking identical purple cocktails in long-stemmed glasses as they looked at the screen of a handheld. Game highlights, he guessed, when they said, “Yes!” in unison and gave each other a subdued high-five.
Normally he enjoyed places like this because it reminded him of the things he liked best about home, even though he didn’t spend much time there anymore. The music, the drinking, the women just as eager as he was for a roll in the sack or the occasional hook-up in the back that wasn’t quite out of sight. But tonight, it made him sick.
When you lose someone you care about, it’s hard to accept that the universe doesn’t notice the huge void. That people don’t look around, confused, wondering what had suddenly gone missing. But no. They still laugh. They still party with their friends. They still watch a black and white ball being kicked up and down a field by grown men and use it as an excuse to get blottered. Like a stone plunked into a moving river, Fallon’s death hadn’t even made a ripple.
And if that person’s death was partially your fault, it made things even worse.
When Toryn had left a few days ago, he’d tried to get Asher to head back with him. “You going after Scar Face isn’t an official mission,” he said. “We need to run it past Rickert first.”
How was tracking down the killer of an Iron Guild warrior not official when they had taken an oath of justice and honor? And if by some screwed-up interpretation it wasn’t sanctioned, well then, too bad. It was a rogue mission already and he wasn’t about to stop.
“By the time I do that,” he’d told Toryn, “the trail will be cold. Besides, Rickert is facing sanctions. Who knows if and when he’ll be put in charge again? Right now, we’re on our own here.”
Their leader had brought an enemy soldier through the portal and lied about it. Even though Rickert had fallen in love with her, her presence had caused all sorts of trouble. He’d been ordered to destroy the Crestenfahl portal and was temporarily banished. He and Neyla planned to open a secret safe house for warriors on this side, but as far as Asher knew, they hadn’t found a suitable location yet.
Asher, however, did have a place to stay and he wasn’t about to wait for justice. Reckless Motor Sports was a legit garage with a not-so-legit chop shop on the side, employing ex-cons, misfits, and losers who hated the army almost as much as he did. He often stayed there when many of his fellow warriors headed back home to Cascadia.
He gripped his glass with white-knuckled fingers. Unfortunately, he’d been here for several hours now and there was still no sign of his target. Fine. He was a patient man. He’d come back night after night if he had to. He owed Fallon that much.
Careful of his hidden weapons, he grabbed the pitcher, refilled his glass, and downed the contents in a couple of gulps. Compared to the ogappa ale he’d grown up on, this stuff was like water.
The redhead on his left ran a manicured finger around the rim of her glass. “You haven’t told us where you’re from.” Her eyes were framed by unrealistically long lashes with tiny rhinestones on the ends, and the careful way she smiled gave him the distinct impression that she was trying hard not to disturb her lipstick. She was attractive, but in a deliberate sort of way.
“Out of town. Just here for a few days on business.” Not wanting to deal with a shitload of questions, he changed the topic back to them, taking care to cover up his accent. “Since you’re from the area, maybe you can recommend a good gym,” he lied. Reckless had a room with a few weights, but it was all he could come up with.
“A gym?” The blonde looked confused.
“You both work out, right? You’re in great shape.” They were. He wasn’t just saying that. It was a lame-ass pick-up line, but his goal was to keep the conversation steered away from him. “I figured you could tell me the location of a good one nearby.”
The women argued whether the best facility was the one near the old Space Needle or the one adjacent to the Elliott Bay High-Occupancy Tunnel, known as the HOT, which joined the mainland and the peninsula. One gym had state-of-the-art aerial rowing machines, while the one near the HOT employed a former mixed martial arts champion as the head fitness trainer. “God, he’s hotter than hell, Monique. I’m serious.”
Asher tried to look engaged in their conversation even though his mind was wandering.
“Look after my sister,” Fallon had said from the cold stone floor. “And tell her…I’m sorry to miss the birth of her wee one.”
It wasn’t as though Fallon hadn’t known the risks. All Iron Guild warriors who came through the portals to fight the enemy here on their own soil knew it was dangerous. They were wanted men with a price on their heads should their cover be blown. Asher had been in charge over here. Which meant he was responsible for any casualties suffered by his men. Fallon was the newest warrior, eager to prove himself…and much too young to die.
They’d won the battle, but at what price? The Crestenfahl portal had been destroyed and his friend was dead.
He absently rubbed a hand over his knee, which hadn’t fully healed yet.
He glanced at the time on the blonde’s glittery cell phone lying face up on the table. Almost midnight. To hell with it, then. The guy wasn’t going to show tonight, either. He plucked a few bills from his wallet and threw them next to the empty glasses. What he needed now was to lose himself inside a soft body or two. He’d come back again tomorrow night.
One of the women gasped.
He frowned. What?
“Were there gold flecks in that beer?” the other one said, a mixture of confusion and awe on her face. “Or is that just an extremely generous tip?”
Shit. He’d pu
t down too much. Way to draw attention to yourself, asshole.
Grabbing one of the bills, he laughed as he stuffed it back in his wallet. He tried tabulating the exact amount he’d thrown down, but came up empty. Numbers and letters often became a jumbled mess in his head, especially when he was under pressure.
“Never been much good at counting.” He hated to admit this weakness to anyone, but better they thought he was stupid than not from their world. He nodded toward the video screens. “Still jacked from the game, I guess. When Crosby scored at the end, I lost it. Partied a little too hard.”
“Me too,” the redhead said. “I totally freaked out and accidentally spilled my drink on the guy next to me. He was so pissed that we ended up leaving and coming over here.”
Thank the Fates he’d been paying enough attention to the game to rattle off that detail. The women seemed to buy the explanation for his screwup. They continued talking about the match and the upcoming championship games, which sounded much more civilized than the Warrior Games back home, where some participants actually died.
“Ready, ladies?” he asked a few minutes later.
The blonde pursed her lips into a pouty frown. “So soon?”
Clearly she wasn’t surprised by his assumption that they were going to be leaving with him. She was expecting to hook up…just maybe not this fast.
“Both of us? Together?” The redhead placed a hand on his thigh and slid it north.
That would be a big fat yes. “Only if you want to.”
He leaned over and kissed her—Monique? Mindy?—then the other one—Cindy? Susan? They scooted a little closer until their breasts were pressed against his biceps.
Although he’d been told their names a few times, he’d forgotten them already. A twinge of guilt lodged in his throat like a dry cracker. He prided himself on always remembering the names of the women he slept with. As an Iron Guild warrior, honor and respect, even in the smallest ways, were not taken lightly.
“And only if you like dogs,” he said, smiling, though he was serious. Conry was his touchstone. If a woman didn’t like dogs, Asher moved on.
“Dogs?” they asked in unison.
“Wherever I go, he goes. But he’s quiet. You’ll never know he’s there.”
Through the window, he could just make out the lanky, wiry-coated animal in the shadows across the street. Although Conry could fend for himself, Asher had picked this precise spot in the club because he could keep an eye on him from here.
Interesting. A woman was with him.
He sat up straighter. He couldn’t make out her face, but she wore a short green dress and cowboy boots. There was a dish of water that hadn’t been there before, and as Conry drank, she stroked his head. Was she talking to him? What was she saying? She stood, turned quickly enough that her skirt twirled up, exposing the backs of her thighs, and went back inside the building.
A smile crept to his lips. He liked it when people were kind to his dog. Especially pretty girls.
“You bring him out clubbing?” Cindy asked, turning to look. “I love dogs.”
The deerhound had retreated into the shadow of the awning, just the tip of his tail showing now. He was looking in the direction the woman had gone and not here, where he knew Asher was.
How strange. Conry wasn’t overly affectionate with people he didn’t know. Most of the time, he stood off to the side, watching and taking in everything. He wasn’t the type of dog who lay at your feet, rolled over to his back, and wanted you to scratch his belly. He had more dignity than that.
Hell, was he wagging his tail?
“I don’t see him,” she said.
He suddenly didn’t want to point him out. What if she wanted to go over there and pet him? Conry would let her, of course, but there was something about the way he was acting with the woman in the cowboy boots that Asher found intriguing. He didn’t want to spoil it.
In fact, now that he thought about it, he wanted to check her out, too. He fired off some lame excuse about forgetting a prior engagement.
“But what about our plans?” Monique asked. She frowned, and he noticed that tiny lines of makeup had gathered in the creases of her face.
“Yeah, I thought we were leaving together,” Cindy chimed in.
“I’m sorry, ladies.” And he really did feel bad. He didn’t like to lead women on. He was a man of his word in and out of the bedroom. For a brief moment, he considered taking them to the dark hallway near the restrooms that he’d spotted earlier. Ten, fifteen minutes tops was all he’d need to satisfy the two of them as well as himself. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d made two women come simultaneously.
There was Conry, wagging his tail again. What was going on?
He stood up. “Another time, ladies. I’ll be here tomorrow night.”
A moment later, he was extracting himself from the booth and making his way through the crowd. Once outside, he took a deep breath. The night air was cool and damp, holding a hint of rain. Compared to the stuffy atmosphere inside, it was invigorating. Instead of whistling to Conry like he normally did, he started across the street, checking out his surroundings as he went.
Movement near the front of the club drew his attention. A dark figure darted from the shadows and crouched near a parked car. Given the way he carried himself, Asher knew he was military.
Shit. Had someone tipped them off? If he were recognized as a warrior of the Iron Guild, they’d come after him, and if captured, he’d meet the same fate as Fallon.
He scanned the streets. Just a few groups of late-night partygoers laughing and staggering down the sidewalks on both sides of the road. There weren’t any Night Patrol units either, which was a little unusual for this part of town. Usually they were everywhere.
The man near the parked car didn’t seem to have noticed him, so Asher crept along the far side of the street to get a closer look. The guy was shrugging a backpack from his shoulders. Unease prickled down Asher’s spine, making the little hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
The guy huddled over the pack for a moment, then turned and ran.
“Holy Fates,” Asher hissed, as the realization hit him.
He ran, his arms and legs pumping.
Boom.
He flew through the air as the front of the club exploded.
Chapter Three
Down in the wine cellar of the Grape and Bean, Olivia struggled to get her bearings straight.
The wooden ladder she’d used to reach the top shelf now lay at an awkward angle over one of the standup tables. Dozens of bottles had fallen from their slots and shattered on the floor. Broken glass and red wine was everywhere. One tall rack that obviously hadn’t been bolted to the wall had tipped over, taking with it several boxes of unopened Reidel wine glasses. The overhead pendant lights were swinging precariously, casting grotesque shadows on the stone walls.
The sound had been deafening. Like a Metro comm-train crashing into the building, only the nearest line was more than a mile away. It had to have been an earthquake. Though she’d only been five years old when the Big One hit, this had to be right up there. She’d done a report in school once about a man pinned under the rubble for almost a week. Recalling the photo on the book cover showing the twisted stairwell that had been his home, she prayed she’d be able to get up the narrow flight of stairs to the tasting room.
“Marco,” she called out, gingerly stepping over a case of wine that now sat between her and the door. “Are you okay?”
She pushed the handle. It didn’t budge. Panic bloomed in her chest, making it hard to breathe. She sucked in a few raspy gulps of air as blood pounded loudly behind her eardrums. The room suddenly shrank to half its size. Claustrophobic. Had something fallen in front of the door on the other side, blocking her in?
“Calm down,” she said aloud. “A freak-out isn’t going to help.” She tried the door again. It still didn’t move. She pounded for a good five or ten minutes, pausing only to yell for Marco. Her fist hurt. H
er voice became hoarse. Each time she stopped, she held her breath, waiting for an answer, but all she could hear was the far-off sound of sirens. Damn these stone walls.
Using her shoulder, she pushed with all her strength, but nothing happened.
Where was he? Where was that couple celebrating their anniversary?
If only she had her cell phone, but it was in the back office.
Hitching up her skirt, she planned to kick at the door with the heel of her cowboy boot, but right before she did, she noticed the frame had shifted near the bottom. Maybe that’s what was jamming the door.
She searched the room for something to use as a crowbar and spotted one of the wrought-iron chairs. Perfect. That just might work. She grabbed the closest one—damn, it was heavy—and shoved the flat metal foot against the frame, trying to wedge it into the crack between the jamb and the door. Now, if she could get the angle right. Using the seat as a lever, she wrenched with all her strength. Not expecting it to work, she was shocked when the wood suddenly gave way. She lost her balance and nearly fell to the floor.
She exited the cellar and darted for the stairs, absently stepping over more broken stemware on her way up. When she got to the top, she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. The plate glass window had shattered and the street outside was a war zone. Several emergency vehicles were parked at crazy angles in the middle of the road, their lights flashing. People were shouting orders. Others were crying. Running.
Despite a light drizzle, a thick layer of smoke and dust hung in the air. The Grape and Bean awning was tattered and hanging by just a corner. It appeared as though all the businesses on both sides of the street had been affected, with the club across the street suffering the most damage. The whole front facade was gone, reduced to rubble.
God, how long had she been stuck down there? On one hand, it had seemed like hours, but in reality, it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. Had Marco and the customers gone outside to see what had happened?
Rogue's Passion Page 2
