Shaking his head, Wick frowned at the humans.
“Rein it in, buddy.”
Wick glanced left and raised a brow in question.
“The pissed-off expression.” Amusement in his gaze, Mac slapped a big hand to his shoulder. Skin smacked against his leather jacket, the sharp sound drifting up between them. “You keep looking at them like that, and the females’ll run scared. Not the best way to get lucky. A little welcome goes a long way, you know.”
His eyes narrowed, Wick glared at the newest member of the Nightfury pack.
“Just saying.” With a grin, Mac gave him another love tap. The firm slap rocked him forward, forcing him to widen his stance or fall over. “I’ll be at the bar.”
“Stay there,” he said, silent warning in his tone. A necessary thing. Despite his inexperience, Mac was a wild card, one with the smarts and strength to go it alone. Not exactly what Wick wanted right now. If Mac went commando—not an impossibility considering the mission involved his mate’s sister—he would lose his chance to repay his debt. Which would suck in a major way. He needed the score evened and the monkey off his back. And Jamison? She was the best means to that end. “The female is mine to retrieve, not yours.”
“Got it.” A serious glint in his blue eyes, Mac nodded, backing up word with deed. Brushing shoulders with him, the male moved past him, pointing his boots toward the bar at the back of the lounge. “Have fun, boys. Holler when you’re finished.”
“No doubt of that, lad.” Stopping next to him, Forge threw him a sidelong glance. Anticipation fogged the air around the Scot as he rubbed his hands together. “Time frame?”
“An hour,” Wick said, trying not to cringe. Fifteen minutes suited him better, but God knew that wouldn’t work. His brothers-in-arms would balk, go grim reaper on his ass if he cut the timeline any shorter. None of them, after all, shared his affliction. Tall, short, thin, curvy, high-energy or not, it didn’t matter. Each warrior loved being with a female. Cherished each minute spent with one. Craved the contact and the blast of life-sustaining, orgasmic energy that always followed. Wick knew because he’d seen the way Venom acted around women. Add that to all the chatter at Black Diamond after a night spent carousing and…
Shit, no contest. All enjoyed touching—and being touched in return.
Everyone except him.
The admission cranked Wick tight. Unease prickled through him. Anger came next. Jesus. He was a warrior, for fuck’s sake. Strong. Able. Lethal in a firefight and feared by his enemies. No way should getting close to the fairer sex set him back a step. But the truth didn’t give a damn about convenience or pride. How he felt—his reaction—was what it was. No denying it. And as he fought the chill of dread along with his neurosis, Wick rolled his shoulders. The movement didn’t help. He did it again anyway, forcing himself to pack up the bag of horrors he carried around like luggage.
With a zip, he closed the thing up tight and reiterated the plan. “I want to be at the hospital before midnight.”
“Bloody hell.” Forge scowled at him, protesting the time crunch.
“Later,” Sloan said, a growl in his voice. Dark eyes intense, he put himself in gear and followed Forge into the thick of the club. “Meet you on the roof in sixty.”
“A whole hour.” A half smile on his puss, Venom set up shop alongside him. The DJ rolled another track, synthesizing death metal with an older tune. As the remix got going, thumping through the speakers, his best friend raised a brow. “Generous of you. How come you never give me that much time?”
“Fuck off, Ven,” he murmured, using his favorite verbal fallback. “Come back later, if you want.”
Venom sighed as though resigned to his pissy attitude.
“I’m not leaving Jamison any longer than necessary.”
Surprise lit a spark in his ruby-red gaze. “Jamison, is she? When did that happen?”
Wick smoothed his expression, scrambling to cover up the slip. But it was too late. Venom wasn’t an idiot. His friend had picked up on his tone… on the way he said her name. Super. Just terrific. He’d made a tactical error and let the cat out of the bag. But even as he tried to stuff it back in, Wick knew he was screwed. Like a dog with a bone, Venom wouldn’t let it go. He’d poke at him until he admitted the truth.
Jamison fascinated him.
Somehow… someway… over the last few hours she’d peaked his interest. More than a little strange, not to mention ridiculous. Curiosity never knocked on his door. He was a simple male who enjoyed a simple life. Fight. Rip apart rogues. Come home at the end of each night. Nothing complicated about it, but as the details of her situation surfaced, taunting him, he couldn’t dismiss her. Or the novel prickling sensation he experienced when he thought about her.
Now a myriad of questions circled, demanding answers.
He wanted to know every single detail. But more than that? He needed to meet the female behind the prison file. The little things made him wonder, and as curiosity burned, his imagination took flight. Such extreme measures. She’d gone the distance, lured a man to his death… done the unthinkable. At least, for a female. Most women wouldn’t have had the guts. Running and hiding seemed a more likely MO.
Jamison, though, ran contrary to the rule. And like it or not, Wick wanted to know why.
“So…” Flexing his hands, Venom cracked his knuckles. The move smacked of impatience. “We getting to it or what?”
Wick nodded. It was now or never. And since never wasn’t an option with Venom glued to his six, Wick forced himself to move. Picking up his feet, he strode toward the inevitable. The throb behind his temples picked up the pace, making Wick’s head ache. He shoved the discomfort aside, his gaze searching the VIP section and…
Bingo. Mac at three o’clock.
Cloaked by magic, invisible to human eyes, Mac stood in the shadows near the end of the bar, shoulder blades pressed to the wall, eyes moving over the crowd, and a pained look on his face. Wick could relate. He didn’t want to be here either, but necessity was a motherfucker and finding a female he could stomach, an absolute must.
Dragging his attention away from his comrade, Wick scanned the back bar. High-backed chairs lined its length, elevating those seated into visual inference. A wide-faced mirror winked beyond them, colorful bottles reflecting in the dim light. Acute dragon senses picking up trace energy, he assessed each human. Nah, no decent candidates there. He needed a female with strong energy, powerful enough to feed both him and Venom at the same time.
He skimmed over a corner booth.
His gaze snapped right back. Hmm, that looked promising. Or rather, she did. Perfect. Dark-skinned and pretty. She was right up Venom’s alley. His friend preferred African American females and… yeah. She fit the bill with her dark eyes and silky shoulder-length hair. The barely there white dress didn’t hurt either. The fabric clung to her skin, accentuating her breasts and the healthy glow of vitality.
Wick’s mouth curved. Excellent. No way Venom would be able to resist her.
Pausing mid-stride, Wick glanced over his shoulder.
Venom tipped his chin. “Decide yet?”
“Back corner booth.”
“Goddamn… get a load of her.” Venom’s words rasped beneath a throb of hard-core bass. Wick heard it just the same, registering the interest in his friend’s sudden shift. Jackpot. They had liftoff. Venom glanced his way. Simmering ruby-red eyes met his. “You ever gonna pick a female you’re attracted to?”
He shrugged, avoiding the question. The answer to which was… no chance in hell. It wasn’t that he didn’t like females. He got off on a long pair of legs as much as the next male, but a big divide lay between looking and touching. The first he did a lot, studying the opposite sex, appreciating a female for what she was: beautiful and soft, arousing with all that smooth skin on display. Contact, though—anything hands-on—he avoided like a face full of acid.