Claws Bared

by Sheryl Nantus

  I nodded, my stomach twisting into knots. “I’m sorry.” My fingers pulled up into fists. “I just don’t—”

  “Don’t be. We knew this wasn’t going to be easy.” He took hold of my bare shoulders and stepped backward, pulling me with him. “Bed. Now. I hear make-up sex is the best.”

  “But we didn’t—”

  He kissed me, silencing any protests. “I didn’t come all this way to fight.” He waggled an eyebrow at me. “I just hope you have the stamina to survive a rather hungry human attack.”

  I urged him on with a flick of my hand. “We Felis are made of strong stuff.” I grinned. “Bring it.”

  He pounced and I realized I’d greatly underestimated the urges of the human male.

  Chapter Eight

  An hour later I lay on my stomach, dozing off as Bran ordered pizza in the nude. He hung up the phone and slapped my bare bottom. “No sleeping. I need some food here.”

  “I ate already,” I mumbled. “Besides, you wore me out.”

  “Good.” He cracked his knuckles, wearing a smug look. “Wouldn’t be doing my job if you weren’t.”

  He sprang away at my weak attempt to slap him. “Don’t be a smart ass.” I rolled onto my back, tugging a sheet along for the ride. “We need a plan.”

  Bran hovered just out of range, working on putting his underwear and jeans back on. “I thought I improvised quite well.”

  “Not that.” I returned his satisfied smirk. “What to do with this investigation.”

  “You could always throw me out.” He tugged his pants over his hips, giving a little hop to one side. “Have a big fight, let me go investigate on my own.”

  “Too cliché. They’d see through that in a second. It’s a small town and everyone notices new people showing up. Two of us in two days and they’ll know we’re together, even before you came back here.” I shook my head. “I don’t want to put you out there without protection. The Pride knows you’re with me and you know about the Felis. Anything happens to you they have to answer to me. And Jess.”

  Bran raised an eyebrow. “Jess?”

  “Consider it honorary membership status, same as I have.” I reached over and wrestled with my own clothing, loath to get dressed. “Screw with you, screw with me.”

  The lonely eyebrow joined the other, rising as high as they could go on Bran’s forehead.

  I winced. “Bad choice of words.”

  Bran put a finger to his lips, silencing me.

  The knock on the door came a second later.

  It was the young kit who had signed me in the night I arrived. Bran took the pizza, tipped him generously and sent him on his way.

  “Think he overheard much?”

  Bran looked at me. “Who cares?” He sniffed the box. “Ooh.”

  I sat at the small table and brought him over with a crook of my finger. “Don’t be a pig. I did some work too.”

  “Really?” He sat opposite me and flipped the lid up, inhaling deeply. “I remember a lot of moaning and groaning. Is that what we’re calling work now?”

  I slapped his hand as he reached for the largest slice. “Don’t make me regret not having claws.”

  “Your fingernails do just as well. Time to clip those, by the way.” He scowled but allowed me to snatch the gooey triangle, the cheese strings stretching across the table as I maneuvered the edge into my mouth.

  We ate in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the relative peace.

  I knew it wouldn’t last.

  “Did you enjoy it?” Bran pulled another slice apart.

  The casual tone should have been a warning for me to pay closer attention.

  My eyes widened. “Weren’t you just mentioning the moaning?”

  “Not that,” Bran replied. “I meant the run.”

  “Oh.” I felt my cheeks burn but chose to ignore it, focusing on the thick pepperoni slice trying to escape by sliding off. “It was okay.”

  “You seemed pretty happy.” The words sounded almost painful. “Being with your own kind and all that.”

  I rolled my shoulders back, feeling the muscles twitch. “I hadn’t had one like that for a while. It was amazing.”

  “Hmm.” The disgruntled note matched his expression.

  “I wasn’t talking about the run.”

  His eyes sparked with pride before he frowned. “I’m not sure if that’s an insult or a compliment on my past performances.”

  I licked the sauce off my fingers. “While you figure that out, finish getting dressed. We’re going out.”

  Bran chewed on the doughy crust. “Where?”

  I grinned.

  He went pale. “No.”

  “Mount up, cowboy. Time to go where few men ever go.”

  “A day spa?”

  “You’ll hang out with street kids in Toronto but you’re afraid of going to a club?”

  “It’s not my type of club.” His eyes narrowed. “Is it yours? Should I be tracking where you go while I’m out of town?”

  “If I do I promise you it’s because of a case. And I’ll take the Fifth on everything else,” I mumbled through a mouthful of pepperoni.

  “You’re not American.”

  “Not the point.” I snatched up a tissue and wiped my greasy fingers. “Just don’t say I never take you interesting places.”

  Bran pouted. “I thought I took you enough interesting places tonight.” He let out an exaggerated sigh as I pushed the last slice toward him. “Oh, the things I do for love.”

  * * *

  Within the hour we parked in front of the Cat’s Meow. The small memorial to Mike Hansa was long gone, the flashing neon lights bouncing off the hoods of over two dozen cars. Flashy red convertibles mixed with battered trucks; tan SUVs rubbing bumpers with BMWs.

  Bran stepped out from the passenger side. He scratched his chest, his short nails skipping over the light blue shirt. “I can wait in the car, you know. Or even go back to the hotel. Someone could steal my rental car. I should be there to watch it.”

  “Now you want to be the submissive.” I grabbed his coat sleeve. “Not going to happen.” I spotted the green pickup truck moving into the parking lot, lights off and cruising into an empty spot. “Maybe you’ll learn something.” A fast spin and we were facing in the opposite direction. “Expand your repertoire, as it were.”

  Bran followed me in, cursing under his breath.

  He hadn’t seen the truck.

  The inside of the club was loud and vibrant, a long bar at the side filled with excited women clapping their hands and hooting as a pair of male dancers shook and shimmied their way across a platform at the front of the converted warehouse. Swirling neon lights washed over the crowd while the women jumped and danced to the thumping rhythms of the loud music.

  “I fit right in,” Bran shouted in my ear as we approached the bar. “I can wait in the car, you know. No use giving these fellows unfair competition.” He gave a sly wink to a pair of women nearby who giggled and dove deeper into their margaritas.

  “No.” I pointed a finger at a door beside the stage. “I want you to talk to the performers. You’re a reporter. Find out what they thought of Mike Hansa.”

  “What’s my cover story?” he shot back.

  “Same as mine—making sure there’s no upcoming paternity suit. I’d think these fellows would appreciate keeping their lineage clean of any surprises.” I pulled him into an empty space at the far end of the bar, abandoned due to the distance from the dancers.

  The bartender strolled over. She didn’t raise an eyebrow at seeing Bran and gave me a quick once-over. She slapped down two cardboard coasters and gave us a welcoming smile. “What can I get you?”

  My nostrils twitched. Felis.

  “I’m investigating Mike Hansa’s death.” I nodded toward the stage. “Who’s the manager?”

  She blinked once, twice. “Sophia Martin. She’s in the back.”

  “I’d like to talk to her.” I nudged Bran away with my hip. “My friend here is
going to chat to with fellows in the meantime.”

  I didn’t ask permission.

  Her eyes raked over Bran, a smile on her lips. The challenge was there if I wanted to act on it.

  I did.

  I reached over and pressed down on her hand, intentionally targeting the thin bones on the back of her hand. I didn’t have to say anything.

  She winced. “Okay, okay. Let me call her and tell her you’re coming.” Her free hand went to an old-style black rotary phone sitting next to a set of bottles.

  The dial spun under her finger as Bran slipped away, wearing a smug grin. I made a mental note to discuss Felis challenges with him later.

  Last thing I needed was some woman moving in on Bran.

  Last thing I needed was Trace moving in on me.

  I turned and watched the muscled blond man on stage swivel his hips, punctuating every few rotations with an outward thrust, he and his partner doing a caveman theme.

  I’d never seen a rabbit pelt used to cover, well, so much.

  The women screamed and roared, dollar bills held high.

  He moved to the edge of the platform, just close enough for eager fingers to reach out and tuck paper into a sweaty fur band.

  I didn’t need to use my Felis skills to feel the arousal in the air. He could have any of these women, any of them with a twitch of his finger. The thick musk peeling off his naked, wet skin told me he was as turned on as the women and enjoying their attention.

  “Sophia wants me to bring you back right away.” The bartender led me to a small door at the end of the bar. She paused, her hand on the doorknob. “Sorry ’bout that earlier. Didn’t know he was taken.”

  “And now you know.” I swept by her.

  The office was a converted storeroom bereft of windows and good taste. Every inch of the wall was covered with flyers for the Cat’s Meow, a virtual chorus line of half-naked men staring and smiling wherever you looked.

  A metal folding chair sat in front of the matching desk, office surplus. Whatever extra money she’d been making from the club didn’t go into redecorating. Her long red hair was pulled up into a bun so tight you could bounce a quarter off her head.

  Sophia Martin didn’t get up from behind her desk, watching me approach her with narrow, suspicious eyes. She looked exactly like she did in the flyer photograph, give or take ten pounds.

  She drew a deep drag on a cigarette and blew smoke in my direction. She had to have ten years on me, maybe twenty depending on how you counted the age rings around her eyes. Her fingernails were short and jagged from nervous chewing, one digit scabbed over with fresh blood. She popped it into her mouth and sucked as she juggled the cigarette to the other side.

  “Before we start...” She tapped the papers to her left. “I got all my paperwork up to date. Local taxes, state taxes, business licenses, whatever you want to see.”

  “Not why I’m here.” I shook my head, helping myself to the lone chair. A thousand eyes watched my every move. “Rebecca Desjardin. Private investigator. Insurance company wanted me to run the numbers on Hansa before closing the file and paying out to the family.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she studied me. “Yeah. Right.” The tip of her cigarette burned bright orange as she inhaled. “He had good insurance?”

  “Better than most.” I didn’t flinch under her stare. She had nothing on Jess.

  She leaned back in the chair. “Town council’s been bitching for months about making it mandatory to lock up the garbage bin; keep the animals from digging in the trash. I told them I’d put locks on the fucker when they put the law in. I don’t have time to worry about losing keys and all that shit. I was a damned idiot and I feel like shit ’bout it.” She stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and lit another. “I’m thinking about putting a bounty out on that bear.”

  Sophia paused, waiting for a response.

  I shrugged. “Wouldn’t hurt. Don’t know about the laws down here but if you’d feel better doing it...”

  “Damned hunters should be out there looking for the fucking bear.” Sophia took a deep drag on the death stick. “Damned animals,” she repeated. “I’ll start it at two hundred dollars. That’ll get ’em out.” A glint came into her eyes. “Insurance company want to get in on it?”

  “No,” I said. “But thanks for asking.”

  “I bought the locks today.” She glanced down to one side. “Better late than never.” There was regret in her voice, honest remorse at Hansa’s death. Whether it was from losing a good dancer or a good human being I couldn’t tell.

  Another white cloud of smoke drifted into my face. “I understand you weren’t welcomed by the town when you opened up the club, even though you’re way out here in the wild.” I tried not to cough.

  “We jumped through the hoops, filled out the paperwork to get our business license. Every three months we get recertified by the town council.” She leaned forward, the oversized purple blouse barely able to hold in her ample breasts. “I don’t like that but I tolerate it. I could get a lawyer to scream and file papers but I don’t. I don’t because I want the public, via their elected representatives, to have a say.”

  “How democratic.”

  She laughed. “Everyone hates us until they make money. The hotels, the restaurants—they all make money off my business, off the customers we pull into the area. Then they all love us.” Her bright red lips split apart in a smile. “Especially when tax time rolls around and we pay our fat share.”

  “Wouldn’t a dead stripper put a damper on all this fun?”

  “For a day or two.” She studied my face for a minute before continuing. “Miss Desjardin, I grew up in this town. I saw the mills shut down and the unemployment rate rocket. I saw most of my generation move away to try and get jobs, move anywhere for a chance at a good life. My father worked in a mill and retired a broken man with nothing but a ghost of a pension despite being a loyal union worker for decades.” The fresh cigarette bobbled on her lips. “When I got the chance to open this place up I jumped at it. Better than busting my hump at some dollar store for minimum wage.” She leaned back and plucked the cigarette out with two fingers, waving it in the air as she wrote invisible numbers. “Believe it or not I went to college for business administration. I can show you my diploma if you’d like.”

  “I’m good.” I looked at the man-paper surrounding us. “Who put the money up to start this show?”

  “Consortium out of Philly.” She sucked on the filter. “They’ve got their fingers in all the local pies. Casinos, clubs, whatever makes them money. Don’t worry, they’re clean, they’re clean. Honest men looking to make honest profits.”

  I put up my hand, stopping her. “I’m not working for anyone but the family.”

  That much was true.

  “Anyone have a grudge against Hansa? Unpaid debts, anything?”

  “He was a straight player. Never hit on the staff and never begged free drinks. Never cried for an advance on his next paycheck. Not that he ever needed it; these boys make enough on tips.” She shook her head. “Hansa was a nice guy but he’s easily replaced. Look at the ladies out there tonight. They can’t tell one from the other. As long as they’ve got tight buns and a good smile, that’s all they want.”

  “All wrapped up in a sweet little package with a bow attached.”

  She looked at me. “I’m not going to apologize for what I do, Miss Desjardin. I know Cassie Prosser and the mayor aren’t happy with me being here, but I’m providing employment and paying taxes, which is more than they can say for their own efforts to revitalize the area.”

  “Hey, I’m not looking to close you down. I just want the truth.”

  Sophia tilted her head to one side and sighed. “Truth is rarer than true love these days, sister. But good luck with that.”

  I got to my feet. “I’d like to send someone to talk with the men. Just to make sure there’s not going to be any surprise paternity suits for the family to deal within a few
months. His family’s got enough to deal with; they don’t need any legal beagles racing around to make money.”

  “You mean that cutie you sent back there before you stepped in?” She shifted her chair to the left and waved at the line of tiny screens that appeared. “I got security cameras for a reason.” The cigarette bounced around her lips. “No problem as long as they hit the stage on time.” Her eyes drifted to a bottom screen where Bran was talking to a pair of dancers.

  “Don’t suppose you have one out back by the garbage bin.” I tried to sound casual while my blood pressure shot into the danger zone. If she had a recording of a Felis attacking and killing Hansa...

  “Nope,” she said. “Never figured I’d have to worry ’bout getting my crap stolen. Just paid to get one installed today. If that bear comes back I want to get him on tape so they can make sure they kill the right bastard.”

  I tried not to let out a sigh of relief. The last thing I needed was more complications.

  She let out a giggle as she watched Bran slide from one screen to the next. “I can slip your boy into the schedule if he’s looking for the whole experience. Be nice to have some fresh blood on stage.” One edge of her mouth went up into a smile, holding the cigarette in place. “Like to see his moves.”

  “I’ll let him know.” I slipped my business card onto the desk. “I’m staying at the Super 6 if you think of anything.”

  Her long slender fingers traced my name, running over the embossed letters. The bloodied index finger drew the card toward her as she licked her ruby lips and nodded.

  The blinding noise swamped my senses as I came out beside the bar. A fog machine was running full blast, sending wave after wave of white smoke across the stage and flowing down onto the dance floor. The current dancer wore a cape and a pair of fake fangs—and not much else.

  The blood-red banana hammock gyrated toward the front line of women, homing in on the waving dollar bills.