Blood Dance

by Samantha Cayto

  Throwing his arm out to stop Val from advancing, he hissed—another sound that marked his species as different—yet his sudden fury left him heedless of the fact. “I’ve got this.”

  He’d never hated his need for secrecy so much as he did in the few seconds it took him to reach the stage. But for the humans, he could have arrived at his destination in a split second instead of the agonizingly slow pace he forced himself to take. By the time he got to them, Quinn had already pulled so hard to escape that he’d tumbled off the stage. Elbowing other men aside with no thought as to how hard he hit them, Alex raised his arms and caught the boy.

  Quinn landed sprawled in his embrace with a whoosh of breath and a wide-eyed stare. The boy’s slick skin dampened Alex’s Ferragamo shirt. He didn’t care. Human currency had proven to be easy to acquire and his closet was stuffed with clothing. Instead of standing the boy on his feet, Alex tightened his grip as he gazed at the startled face. His nostrils flared at the sweet scent of the human’s blood. It rose past the more cloying fragrance of whatever body spray Quinn had splashed on before taking to the stage. Alex’s cock stiffened, although, in truth, it had never truly subsided from earlier in the day.

  He stared at the slender neck and the rapid pulse at its base. The temptation to dip his head and take a sip was so strong that he almost threw away a thousand years of secrecy to give in to it. His need to protect his men overrode his impulse, as did the reason why Quinn’s heart was beating so fast. Setting the boy down with a sudden tilt of his arms, he gripped his shoulders instead until he was sure Quinn was steady.

  Alex made himself let go and take a step back. He called forth his legendary strength of mind and patience so that he wouldn’t pick the boy up and carry him off to his bed the way his hard dick urged him to.

  “Go in back,” he ordered.

  Licking his lower lip, Quinn shot a look at the enormous steampunk-styled clock hanging over the bar. “I have ten minutes left on my first shift, sir.” His voice was soft and wary.

  The boy’s very vulnerability egged Alex’s fury. He leaned forward. “Your first shift ends now. In fact, all your shifts for the night are over.” He pulled back to put more distance between them. “Go shower. Wash off that glitter and clean that paint off your face.”

  He didn’t mean to sound so harsh and could see the sudden hurt and even fear that leaped into Quinn’s eyes. There was nothing to be done about it, though. His ire was up and he barely held onto his control. There was only one person responsible for it, of course, but he couldn’t address that man until he was sure Quinn was out of harm’s way. Keeping his gaze fixed on the boy, he waited until Quinn had turned and fled toward the dressing room as ordered. His small, taut ass was on full display, except for the bills flapping against it. It seemed as if every male eye tracked those globes until they disappeared down the back hall.

  Val entered his line of vision. “Let me take care of Crowell, boss.”

  Turning, Alex narrowed his eyes. “No fucking way.” He shifted his stance to find where the asshole had scurried off to once Quinn had fallen. Finding the guy, he took a step in that direction, only to have Val plant himself in the way.

  “Come on, Alex. Crowell is an entitled shithead who drinks too much. I’ll get him out and give him a talking to.”

  By way of answer, Alex stood and let his man see his feelings inside his eyes. Unlike humans, their species easily read each other’s emotions. It took only a heartbeat for Val to sigh and step aside.

  “Just don’t kill him,” he pleaded in a low voice. “I hate cleaning up messes.”

  Alex ignored the plea, yet held himself under control enough to not race over and snap Crowell’s neck. He did put on some speed, assuming that everyone had drunk a sufficient amount of alcohol not to notice the inhuman swiftness he used. Crowell stood talking to a few other patrons and didn’t notice Alex until he’d grabbed him by the front of his shirt and hauled him onto his toes.

  “Hey!” The human clawed at Alex’s fist. “What gives, Stelalux? You’re going to rip my shirt.”

  Alex bared his teeth, careful to keep his biting fangs retracted, much as he would have liked to rip the man’s throat out. “I’m escorting you off my premises, Crowell.”

  He didn’t wait for an acknowledgement or even a response before dragging the man toward the nearest door. It was one that led to the public alley, not the front. Alex didn’t care one way or the other. He only wanted the human scum away from his Quinn.

  No. That isn’t right. Away from my club. That’s it.

  The scene he caused attracted quite a bit of attention. Most of the men they passed smirked or even gave the thumbs-up. Crowell wasn’t well-liked. Young and handsome in an obvious way, he flaunted his inherited wealth and connections to the irritation of many of the other members. He was also younger than most of them, having paid Alex’s high membership fees with a kind of ease reserved for men who’d worked hard for years.

  “Jesus Christ, what are you doing?” Crowell sputtered and struggled to free himself from Alex’s punishing grip.

  “Kicking you out of my club.” Now that he had matters well in hand, Alex’s usual sangfroid had returned.

  “What? Why?” Crowell continued to squirm and even dug his heels into the rug. His human muscles were no match for Alex’s. “You can’t be mad over that slut fighting me. Stupid newbie didn’t understand that members have special privileges.”

  “My rules are very clear. My boys are not whores. You know better than to grope one like that without his permission, and you certainly didn’t have it.”

  “That’s not true. He said he’d go into one of the rooms with me then kicked up a fuss when I wouldn’t pay him what he wanted.”

  Alex paused long enough to spit out, “Liar,” before moving again. “Your membership is hereby revoked.”

  “You can’t do that. I’ve paid my dues through the end of the year.”

  Pausing by the door, Alex hauled the man’s face to his own. He could smell the fear and the human’s pulse beat a rapid tattoo. This blood, though, held no interest for him. “I will gladly refund you the entire amount.”

  With that, he popped the bar to the door, threw it open and tossed Crowell out onto his ass. Crowell landed in an undignified heap. He sat, cursing and sputtering. “You son-of-a-bitch. You can’t treat me this way.”

  Alex gave him a brittle smile. “And yet I have.” He turned away.

  “I know the mayor. I’ll get this place closed.”

  Pausing, Alex looked over his shoulder. “Don’t ever show your face around here again, Crowell or you’ll regret it.” His patience at an end, Alex let his eyes briefly turn the deep red they became before his kind went for blood.

  The way the human’s face turned white, Alex knew he’d seen the change. It was a calculated risk, one he’d taken before. Even if Crowell didn’t put it down to a false memory fueled by booze and fear, who would ever believe him? With one last contemptuous glare, he shut the door behind him.

  He cracked his neck and took deep breaths to calm himself as he made his way around the room. Time to reassure his other members that the scene they’d just witnessed wasn’t of any concern to them. It took effort, but he forced a smile to his lips and glad handed everyone not dancing. This was his business. It mattered to him. Of all the things he’d done to make money and pass the time while on Earth, running a nightclub had turned out to be the one that suited him the best. It allowed him to operate at night without humans wondering why, saving his eyes and skin from the heat and light of the too-close sun. He loved the way music thrummed in his blood and how he and his men could be more themselves out in the open and not raise suspicion.

  Here and now, in twenty-first century America, males could find pleasure in each other without fear. The desire for blood could be hidden behind a façade of kink-friendly patrons. He’d finally established a domain in which he could relax more than he’d ever been able to do before and not have to look over hi
s shoulder so much. Those who’d deserted him and his command were a continent away, and so far, they had left him and those still loyal to him alone for more than half a century. If they were making mischief somewhere in the world, he was unaware.

  He loved this city and this club and he’d do anything to keep it his for as long as possible. And, if that meant making stupid small-talk with humans, well, he could do that. It would not disturb his tranquility. But, something else did, and although he wanted to chase after it—him, Quinn—he didn’t. He needed time to cool off, get his baser urges under control. What he’d do after that, who knew?

  One thing was painfully clear, however. A sweet, vulnerable human had already turned his world upside-down.

  * * * *

  “Eat! You’re too skinny, and I’ve never known a boy to turn away a hot fudge brownie sundae.”

  Quinn gave the chef, Emil, a wan smile and dug into his treat with more enthusiasm than he felt. The big man, who looked more like a pro-wrestler with his bulging muscles and man bun, had taken him under his food wing the moment Quinn had slinked into the kitchen after his first shift—his only shift. Embarrassed, demoralized and, to his mortification, a little teary-eyed, Quinn had only intended to grab a piece of fruit or something before heading to what would undoubtedly be his one night sleeping in that wonderful bedroom.

  Emil had tsked at the notion, sat Quinn at a small table and had plied him with a turkey club sandwich, tall glasses of cool milk and now a treat the size of Quinn’s head. He had a feeling the man wasn’t going to let him leave until he’d swallowed every last bite. What the hell? It wasn’t as if he had to worry about his waistline. Not anymore. Not after causing that scene with one of the members. God, Alex was so angry. The memory of those piercing violet eyes boring into him made the ice cream curdle in his stomach.

  And speaking of which—the disturbingly appealing man sauntered in and homed in on him in an instant. At his approach, Quinn had trouble swallowing his mouthful, yet couldn’t stop staring. There was something compelling about his soon-to-be-former boss. He didn’t want to be attracted to the guy but couldn’t help himself. Even when he was wary of him, he still felt that unsettling twinge way down low that stirred his mostly untrained cock. It twitched now as Alex’s eyes pinned him to the spot. Thank God, the table is hiding my reaction.

  Alex shot him what Quinn supposed was intended to be a charming smile. It was more predatory, and still, his dick only got stiffer. Maybe he had more in common with Mackie’s love of being dominated than he thought. He swallowed hard, trying to return the expression.

  Pulling out a chair opposite him, Alex slid his large body onto it with enviable grace. He frowned at Quinn’s bowl before calling out over his shoulder. “How come I never get a brownie sundae, Emil?”

  The big chef strolled over with another bowl and a spoon in one hand and a bottle of amber liquid in the other. He slapped both on the table in front of Alex. “Because it’s disgusting enough that you like vanilla ice cream and bourbon. I’m not adding chocolate into that mix.” With a shake of his head, the guy walked away.

  Alex chuckled, the sound winding its way around every one of Quinn’s nerve endings. The boss man splashed a healthy swig of the liquor over his ice cream and, scooping a big mouthful, hummed in appreciation. “Don’t let me interrupt,” he said, waving his spoon at Quinn. “I expect you haven’t had many treats lately.”

  Quinn shrugged and dug into his dessert once more. They ate in companionable silence, the only sound the clanking of metal against china. The kitchen workers’ activity faded into the background until it seemed as if he and Alex were the only two people in the room—the club, the entire universe, for that matter. The only thing marring the experience was Quinn’s nagging worry.

  The horrible events of the night eventually closed in on him so that he blurted out, “I’m sorry.” Dropping his spoon, he sat back and ran a hand down his face. He was afraid he might start crying.

  Alex dragged his spoon past his lips and cocked his head. “Why are you apologizing?”

  Seriously? This was like being sent to the vice-principal’s office and being forced to confess one’s misbehavior. He couldn’t hold Alex’s gaze, and he felt his cheeks heat. “For…um…upsetting one of the club’s members.” He took a shaky breath. “I’m sorry I fought him off, but he was so grabby that it startled me, and he wouldn’t listen when I told him I didn’t want to do anything more than dance, and…”

  His voice failed him. He’d been babbling. It wasn’t like that was going to help, anyway. At least he had an amazing six hundred and forty dollars’ worth of tips tucked away in his pocket. That was more than he’d had when he’d come in earlier in the day, broke and desperate. It was something, he supposed.

  He rubbed his thumb against a worn spot on his jeans. “Can I please sleep here tonight? I promise to leave first thing in the morning.”

  Alex sighed. “Quinn, look at me.”

  It was hard, but he raised his gaze to do as he’d been told.

  Alex appeared sympathetic. “You have nothing to apologize for. I have strict rules about how the club members treat my employees, especially the go-go boys. That man was way out of line. I’ve banned him from the club.”

  Quinn widened his eyes. “Really?”

  “Yes, really.” Shaking his head, Alex started in on his dessert once more. “And you’re not fired, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said around his mouthful of ice cream.

  “I’m not?” Quinn straightened, half-expecting the man to scoff at his naiveté. “But you were so mad.”

  “At him, not you.”

  “You took me off the floor for the night,” he added in a low voice, because really, why am I arguing with the guy?

  Alex licked the back of his spoon before tossing it into his now-empty bowl. “Because I was worried from the start that dancing tonight would be too soon for you. Once I realized Crowell was not only crossing a line but had gone into sexual assault territory, I decided to pull the plug.” The boss pushed back and stood. “You’re not fired. Until Crowell’s abhorrent behavior, you were doing great. The members obviously loved you. Now grab that bowl and come to bed.” Alex froze and his expression turned almost sheepish. “I mean, I’ll escort you to your room. You can finish your dessert there. And,” he added with a crack of his neck, “there will be no more talk of being fired. You don’t want to quit, do you?” Now he appeared alarmed.

  Quinn’s cheeks got even hotter as he stood. “No, sir. I like it here.” He clutched at his food to give himself something to do and a place to concentrate on other than on Alex.

  “Good. I’m sure you’re going to be an asset to the club.”

  The man walked out without a backward glance, assuming Quinn would follow, which he did, sundae bowl in hand. They rode the elevator to the fourth floor in silence. When the doors slid open, Alex held them with his hand to allow Quinn to step out.

  “Sleep well,” Alex said, eyes averted. “And,” he added with a heavy breath, “I promise that you are safe here. I’ll make sure of it.” He raised his gaze then, and the seriousness Quinn saw there was unnerving. “I won’t let anyone hurt you—ever. Now, go.”

  “Yes, sir,” he replied in a quiet voice. “Thank you,” he added.

  But the doors had already closed.

  Chapter Three

  “Jesus, just when you think you’ve seen it all.”

  Trey tore his gaze away from the bloody scene in front of him and shook his head at his partner. “Come on, Karl. You know saying something like that is like spitting into the wind. I don’t want to tempt fate and have her throw something worse at us tomorrow.”

  He returned his attention to their vic and watched the coroner finish his preliminary examination of the corpse. There was no arguing with Karl’s assessment of their newest case, however. The man lying in the far corner of a public alley looked as though his throat had been ripped out. Strike that. It had been ripped out, and piece
s of flesh and trachea lay next to the head. The victim’s face wore an expression of abject terror. The coffee Trey had gulped on his way over roiled in his stomach.

  “Hey, Almadeo,” he called over to the coroner. “Can we assume that was the cause of death?” He jutted his chin in the direction of the gaping neck.

  Almadeo stood. He’d been at his job for many years before Trey had even left the academy. The man knew what he was doing and usually didn’t offer speculation until he had his body on a slab.

  The guy shook his head. “Hard to say.”

  “Really?” Karl interjected. “’Cause from where I’m standing, it doesn’t seem like something you’d survive happening.”

  Almadeo raised his eyebrows. “Needless to say, I can tell you that if it wasn’t the cause of death, it happened soon thereafter. There’s virtually no blood left in the body.” He studied the dirty ground around the corpse. “Obviously this wasn’t the location of the murder.”

  Trey grimaced, but he’d come to the same conclusion himself. Not enough blood coated the pavement. “So, he must have been killed somewhere else and the body transported here after the fact. But, why?”

  Karl grunted. “And why bring the neck bit with it? I mean, how freaky is the perp?”

  Almadeo stepped around the victim and held out a clear evidence bag. “That I can’t explain, although given the lack of blood left compared to the size of the wound, I’d say the killer made some effort to drain the body.”

  Trey took the offering and studied it. Inside was a wallet, keys, a tin of breath mints and a cloth handkerchief. “What? Like he hung it for a while or something?”

  Almadeo gave him a shuttered look. “Perhaps. I’ll know more after the post-mortem. That’s all I found in his pockets,” he added with a nod toward the bag.