The King (Games We Play Book 2)

by Liz Meldon

  Unable to decide whether she ought to smile or scowl, Delia faced forward and looked down at her flowers, which sat neatly between her knees, and realized she hadn’t had the last word after all.

  CHAPTER 9: White Girl Wasted

  “To Ali and Stefan—”

  “Steven,” someone shouted from the back of the hunter herd. Delia blinked drunkenly at them, eyes closing and opening at different speeds, and then waved them off with a guffawing laugh. Devin’s hands planted firmly on her hips were currently the only things keeping her from falling off the barstool she somehow found herself on. Apparently she was making a toast too. When the hell had that happened?

  “To Ali and Steven,” Delia crooned, holding up her drink—which slopped over the edge of her glass. Over the music, which the bartender had lowered only a fraction at the start of her impromptu speech, she could hear Devin snort. “May y-your love be as everlasting and immortal-ly as the bloodsuckers you stake along the…the way.”

  Not her most eloquent speech, but the roar of approval from the crowd was all her alcohol-saturated brain needed to know she’d got the point across. With everyone throwing back their drinks, toasting to Ali and Steve’s very successful stag and doe night, Delia threw her head back and downed whatever was in her cup. Her face screwed at the bitter taste of vodka mixed with some sort of sugary fizzy drink.

  “I’m surprised you can still taste that,” Devin teased as he helped her down.

  “I shouldn’t get the vodka,” she prattled, handing the glass off to him. Poor guy had been saddled with her for the last hour, but then again, he had made the mistake of telling her she’d had too much to drink already. This was his punishment. “Vodka makes m’tummy all weird.”

  He opened his mouth, but whatever he planned to say was interrupted by a flurry of blonde hair and high heels. Ali shrieked Delia’s name before diving on her, sloppily thanking her for such a wonderful speech. Given that Delia’s heels were no sturdier than Ali’s at that moment, they both tumbled back into the bar, Devin and an equally sober Steve hovering nearby to mitigate the potential damage.

  “Ohmygod, you’re so, so welcome,” Delia cried as they broke apart. She slapped a hand on either side of Ali’s face, then squished her cheeks. “You so beautiful and gonna make such a beautiful bride.”

  “I know, I love my dress,” Ali cried back, shrilly elongating every other word. Behind them, both women missed Steve and Devin exchanged somewhat harrowed looks.

  “Okay, you gon’ mess up m’makeup,” Ali whined when Delia started stretching and smooshing her heavily lipsticked lips together. “Le’s do some shots, girl!”

  Yes. Yes. Shots were just what she needed!

  Squirming around Devin and Steve, Delia made her way over to the portion of the bar that was actually tended. Less than a minute later, the barkeep had a row of shot glasses laid out in a line and Ali had dragged in a few other hunters to partake. Kain jostled Delia’s shoulder as he sidled up beside her, his cheeks pink from the booze and his grin toothier than ever.

  “To fucking Ali and Steve,” Delia toasted again, a glass filled to the brim with a clear acetone-scented liquid and tossing it back. While it burned the whole way down, it made her tummy warm and her mind fuzzy. Suddenly Kain’s arms were around her, lifting and carrying her to the dance floor. With the music back at full volume, the party was officially underway once more. Bodies writhed and swayed on the tiny dancefloor set in front of an equally small stage.

  Ahh, Jimmie’s Place. Delia had puked in the bar’s bathroom more times than she cared to admit, and she had definitely danced on the bar top at least once—thrice, probably—in her Harriswood lifetime.

  All she wanted tonight was fun—tonight, Delia craved it. After ending September with getting her ass kicked by both Claude and League scheduling, she needed a night to let loose. If anything, she needed a night to forget that she wasn’t improving as fast as she wanted with her combat training and that she hadn’t been assigned any additional patrol shifts despite repeatedly volunteering for them.

  Maybe she should take Ali’s advice. Maybe she should ignore the scheduling people. Maybe then they’d remember she existed.

  It was worth a shot.

  Ha. Shot.

  Delia wanted to drink, to get wasted, to live in the moment. She wanted to forget the way Claude touched her when they were alone and how it made her feel. He was always so cautious with her, offering only the smallest caresses outside physical training. And all she’d do was flirt, flirt, flirt because she couldn’t help it—then she’d go home and berate herself because she should have more self-control.

  Six sessions with the vamp king of Harriswood and, surprise surprise, she was a better fighter than when she’d started. Last time, Claude had told her he was proud of her as he tucked her hair behind her ear, letting his hand linger—and Delia was out of the Grimm estate like a shot. All those feelings. All those messy, messy feelings. They were starting to bubble up, threatening to spill out of her, when she knew she ought to swallow them down. Feelings-vomit. Yeah. She had a bad case of it.

  Alcohol was called for. Very much. In her mouth. Right now. Booze.

  Delia threw her hands up when the song called for it, shrieking and laughing and jumping with the hunters around her. It was easy to forget how pointless she thought hunter marriages were in an environment like this, and the drunker she got, the sappier she became.

  By the end of the night she’d probably be sloppily offering to marry Ali and Steve right then and there. It wouldn’t count for anything and she would probably cry, but that was the way her night was headed.

  Hands snaked around her hips as the song changed to something more sexually charged, and she looked down, half-expecting Devin. He’d been her shadow for a while now, but it was Kain who had wrapped himself around her. His hips pressed to her backside, his lips to her neck, and she found herself a little dizzy in his arms. She wanted to jump around. She wanted to throw her head back and screamsing with the others. She didn’t want this slow grinding bullshit. Not with Kain, anyway.

  Delia spun in his arms, throwing them both off balance, then giggled when he caught her. Just as he swooped in for a kiss, she shouted, “I need to pee!” And off she went, making her escape for the bathroom. It was empty—a rarity at a bar, but given the somewhat sad ratio of female hunters to males, it didn’t surprise her. Stumbling over to the sinks, she did a quick scan of her appearance. Little black dress that was hiked way up her thighs—she tugged it down quickly—and too much eye makeup. Still, at least her hair was half decent. She ran her fingers through it, drunken brain approving of the way the waves billowed out. Big hair. Little dress. High heels. Appropriate for the night. Difficult to walk in.

  She swayed back and forth while standing perfectly still, the room sliding in and out of focus if she stared at one spot for too long.

  She didn’t have to pee.

  Her mouth was dry, and as she ducked down to slurp water from the tap, she wondered why she had totally bailed on Kain. Without women from the general public to pick from, Delia tended to be his go-to girl. And sometimes she didn’t mind. Having a confident guy like Kain all over her meant other creeps didn’t try anything funny.

  So why had she run?

  Claude’s bright blues flashed across her mind, and when she closed her eyes, just for a second, she could smell that rich cologne he always wore. The kind that just screamed 100% throw-you-down-and-ravish-you man.

  Straightening up, she wiped her hand across her lips, collecting the excess water droplets, then fluffed her hair again. What was Claude doing tonight? No. No. No Claude.

  With a frown she headed for the door.

  The bathrooms at Jimmie’s were down a hall from the main bar area, the corridor narrow and made more claustrophobic by the dozens and dozens of hunter photos everywhere. She stumbled forward to study them, squinting as her frown morphed into a smile. Her hand bracing herself against the wall, her gaze wandered over t
he familiar faces—some were dead at this point, the job having finally gotten the better of them. But at least they seemed happy in the photos.

  Down the hallway, toward the rear exit, was a stairwell that led upstairs. Delia had never had a reason to use it, but she knew the upper floor was for private groups. Office parties. Meetings. Pub nights for local politicians. If Ali and Steve had been anyone else, the owner would have stuffed everybody into one of those rooms, but because they were hunters and made up the bulk of Jimmie’s Place’s regulars, they had the run of the main floor for a night.

  She was almost at the foot of the stairs, wandering the length of the hall as she admired the photographs, when the sound of feet tromping down the wooden staircase scared her off. Her drunken brain’s first response was to scamper back to the party, but she paused near the bathrooms, the distance giving her the courage to turn around and satisfy her curiosity.

  Something she shouldn’t have done.

  Because if she had just kept going, she could have gone back to her friends and colleagues, drinking and laughing and dancing. Instead, she was stuck staring, mouth slightly open, as Claude Grimm and about ten other men—vamps, given their pallor—headed for the door marked with an Exit sign.

  “Claude?”

  He looked back at the last moment, but was swept outside with the current of those leaving.

  Why was he here?

  Why was he always everywhere?

  She saw him twice weekly at his home and most nights in her dreams—wasn’t that enough?

  Eyes narrowed, Delia stalked off after him. In her mind, she stomped down the hall like a queen, when in reality she was more like a pinball, bouncing between the walls on either side of her until she staggered out the door.

  He was waiting for her, or so she thought, standing near a sleek dark car with tinted windows. Only two men remained with him, the rest dispersing into the night. His black trench coat was back, and she hated how attractive it made him look. Black coat and black pants and a black shirt, probably button-up—how did all black look so damn good on a man?

  The parking lot behind Jimmie’s had never been paved, so her thin heels made her extra wobbly as they sunk into the gravel. Her arms shot out to balance herself when she started to tip forward.

  “Delia.” Claude said her name like she was a mess, and his footsteps crunched across the gravel as he approached. “What are you doing?”

  “What’m I doin’?” She tried her best to distribute her weight evenly between each leg, but somehow her hip still popped out to the left. “What’re you doin’?”

  He ran a hand through his hair. So luscious and thick. So nice. So touchable.

  “What? Delia, are you drunk?”

  “Don’ change the…” Her eyes narrowed as she poked at his chest, only to miss by a mile and hit his arm instead. “The subject. Don’t.”

  He muttered something under his breath as he looked away, then reached out to steady her when she started tipping forward again.

  “’M fine,” she snapped, brushing him off. Only he didn’t let her go, not until she was upright and stable—as much as possible, anyway. When his hands were gone, she wanted them back, craving the warmth against her skin. “Why’re you here? It’sa party for hunters, not you. You can’t be everywhere, y’know? Stop…following me.”

  “Delia, I really don’t have the time or the patience for this charade tonight,” he told her, his words clipped. His hands slid into his pants pockets as he shook his head. “It must be surprising, but I have a life of my own too, one that actually doesn’t involve you.”

  “So just coincid’nce you’re here?” she slurred. Had his skin always looked so smooth? Her hand shot up to caress his cheek, but it only made it to his shoulder, which she gripped. Suddenly standing there wasn’t so difficult anymore. “Unprofessionally of you, Claude Grimm. ’S unprofessional. Stalkerishly… Didja wanna see me in a little dress, ’s that it?”

  “All right, this… This I’ve had enough with.” He snatched her hand as it quested upward for his face, holding her wrist tightly between the two of them. “What is it that you want from me, Delia?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she took some vague note of his associates slinking into the awaiting car. She frowned, not entirely understanding the question. “W-What?”

  “Do you want me or don’t you?” Claude demanded, shaking her hand and bringing her attention back to his face. Why did he look upset? Was he mad at her? She started to teeter to the left, but his grip kept her upright. “Because you make it seem like you do whenever we’re together. Every training session. You make it so painfully clear you’re interested in me, and not me as a vampire or clan leader as I’m sure you’d like me to think. You touch me. Smile and joke with me. You hint back to the night of the masquerade, but the second I show even the slightest reciprocation, I get my knuckles whacked like a naughty child. Suddenly I’m the inappropriate asshole who can never seem to do anything right, who needs to learn his place. I can’t keep doing this with you, Delia. I can’t.”

  She opened and closed her mouth a few times, but no words came. He’d said all the words in the universe, apparently, and her brain went on overdrive trying to process them. All she knew was that he was still holding her by the wrist, still touching her, slowly drawing her in to him.

  And then he was kissing her, hard and fast and firm. She inhaled sharply, her free hand shooting up to push at his chest—only to end up grabbing instead, fisting in the fabric of his shirt. Button-up, just like she’d suspected. Soft. Smooth.

  He pulled away abruptly and left her gasping. Her lips stung, pulsing from the force of his kiss. Suddenly he was looking at her, waiting, and she still didn’t know what to say. What to feel. What to do.

  “I don’t…” She licked her lips. No words. Her drunken mind had drawn a blank. But she wanted to keep kissing him. Delia had wanted to keep kissing him for months now, even if finally admitting it to herself felt like a defeat.

  Claude released her wrist, but rather than letting her arm fall to her side, Delia threw it around his neck and let herself fall—into him, into another kiss. Her other hand cupped his face and slid up into his hair, her lips parting with his. While the first kiss had been hard, simmering on the edge of frustration, this was fluid and easy, like the dams had finally broken.

  Her body arched against his, fitting into a mold that she wished was more familiar. She’d been able to watch him, touch him during their training sessions, but not like this. Not like she wanted.

  Claude mumbled her name against her lips, finally pulling back. Delia lurched after him, trying to reclaim the kiss, but he caught her with an easy smile and a gentle hand.

  “You’re very drunk,” he said, to which she shook her head adamantly and tried to get back to his lips. Both his hands held her a foot away from him, however, and suddenly she was cold.

  “I’mnot,” she managed. Behind him, the parking lot lights seemed hazy. The whole world looked hazy, in fact—the whole world except for Claude. He was clear and pristine, a focal point even as all that booze swirled through her system.

  “I feel drunk just kissing you,” he confided with a soft chuckle, turning them both slowly and walking her toward the car. His arm slid snugly around her waist, and she curved inward, her hand on his chest. “Why don’t I take you home?”

  “You,” she tugged on his shirt, popping a button, “come home with me.”

  He pried her hand off and kissed the top of it, then slipped free to open the car door. Those bright blues met her unfocused greens as he tilted his head to the side, beckoning her to get in. “Ask me again when you’re sober.”

  Her brow furrowed. Ask what again? What were they even talking about? Whose car was this?

  Who cares?

  “You smell nice,” she crooned with a dopey smile, leaning in and inhaling deeply.

  Claude grinned. “Thank you.”

  Someone inside the car snickered.

  “
What the fuck’s this?” came a shout. Delia rounded on the spot and spied Kain blitzing toward them, ten times steadier on his feet than her. Dust flew up from his heels as his boots clomped across the parking lot. She placed a hand back on Claude’s chest as if that would keep him from reacting.

  “Kain—”

  “Are you fuckin’ serious, Delia?” he sneered, grabbing at her arm and attempting to yank her toward him. “Go back inside.”

  Before she so much as stumbled an inch, Claude wrenched Kain’s hand off Delia’s arm and shoved him back. With ease. Her eyes followed Claude’s fingers, mesmerised, while behind them the Irishman staggered and nearly lost his footing.

  “None of that,” Claude warned. Delia’s skin prickled as he placed his hand on her lower back, but in front of Kain it almost felt wrong, like she was breaking some ethical code.

  Maybe she was.

  “Fuck you,” Kain sneered, and Delia had to physically bar him from getting up in Claude’s face as he lunged forward. The vamp behind her, meanwhile, stayed perfectly still. “Who the fuck d’you think you are, anyway? Just because you put your teeth in her don’t make her yours.”

  She might have been stupidly drunk, but even Delia knew the potential repercussions of what he’d said in that moment. Her eyes widened and she tried harder to push him back—unsuccessfully.

  “I don’t think you know—”

  “Who I’m dealing with?” Kain spat, cutting Claude off. Spittle splattered onto Delia’s cheek, but she was too determined to keep Kain from getting split in half by the vamps waiting for Claude in the car to care. “I know exactly who y’are, ya right geebag, and I know exactly what kind of game you’re playing at.”

  “Kain, stop,” she pleaded. “Jus’ go in the inside and—”