Bite: A Shifters of Theria Novel (13 page)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

PUBLIC ACTS OF INFECTION

Once we finish our drinks, we waste no time. As Mel slips into the crowd to locate the deepest pockets, Freddie motions me to follow him to the bar. I step up next to Freddie. His hand slips onto my lower back and then slithers down, onto my ass.

In case I’m not uncomfortable enough, he gives my ass a solid squeeze. That added touch was just to get my blood boiling. “Relax,” he says into my ear. Apparently, he can feel my tension through my butt cheek. It takes all of my discipline not to slap his hand away.

It takes all of my discipline to slide my hand around his back, and to hide my nausea from the bar patrons. I grab onto his side. His body runs hot.

Freddie begins to lead me towards the same bartender from the other night—the bartender that served him the hot coffee. “Not him—let’s go to the other side,” I whisper to Freddie. You idiot, my brain screams as soon as the words escape my lips. That bartender could have been my out.

With his hand still firmly on my ass, Freddie guides me to the other end of the bar. He waves down the bartender and orders six shots—three each. The mere thought of pounding down three shots makes me tipsy.

“I’m a lightweight,” I say into Freddie’s ear.

He looks me up and down with his grinning face. “Arguable.” Prick. He’s certainly got a knack for picking fights. Hopefully, the ice-cream cone-shaped man has more fight in him than his questionable proportions let on.

The first shot burns everything it touches—my lips, my tongue, my cheeks, my throat, and my stomach. The second shot goes further, burning every part of my body, mostly my pride. The third shot numbs everything, including my sensibilities.

The club becomes a blur. The volume in the bar rises and falls in seemingly random waves. Moments of clarity are spread thin between long periods of increasingly autonomic subconscious. As the alcohol seeps deeper into my body, my moments clarity become shorter and fewer.

Clarity: Freddie orders another round of shots. The lump in my stomach crawls up into my throat. My arm is still around Freddie’s back. My hand is still clenched onto his side. I won’t drink anymore. I can’t.

Clarity: there is an empty shot glass in my hand, and another on the bar in front of me. Freddie has his arm around me. My hand is on his thigh. I pull it away quickly, before he gets any ideas. Freddie roars with laughter, chatting with a large group of drinkers next to him. “You were saying?” the bartender says to me, with an empty glass in his hand. He’s got a beautifully defined chin, and a handsome layer of stubble. His brow furls as he awaits an answer to his question. “Well?” he asks. I have no idea what I was saying.

Clarity: there is a glass on the bar in front of me, empty, save for the layer of white foam that coats its inner-surface. The lights in the dark bar are bright and the volume is ear-splitting. “Get a fuckin’ room!” someone shouts nearby, followed by a roar of laughter.

My hand is firmly clutched around a long, hard…

I pull my hand away, along with my lips, which were just locked with Freddie’s. A hand behind my head—its fingers nestled in my hair—stops me from getting too far away. Freddie is looking into my eyes, grinning. The small part of me that retains a small amount of clarity wants to smash my empty glass over Freddie’s head.

The rest of me wants to carry on—wants to press my face against his and stick my tongue into his mouth. You’ve lost your mind, Olivia.

The bar-goers look away swiftly as I scan their faces. They laugh amongst one another at my expense. My quick periods and long lapses of clarity now blend into a helpless awareness. I’m a prisoner trapped inside my own body, forced to watch every humiliating action and decision made by my drunken intuition—or lack thereof. And there is plenty of humiliation to watch.

“If you’re not going to order anything, go and get a room, for Christ sakes,” the bartender says.

“C’mon,” says Freddie as he helps me to my feet, and leads me across the bar, taking his half-finished beer with him. The smell of the beer teases my gag reflex. I’ve been a regular at the club beneath the Holiday Inn for years, and never have I seen one of the back rooms. This is the first time.

The room he takes me to was once a laundry room. I don’t know why I ever expected anything more of the makeshift brothel. The water hook-ups still protrude out from the cement walls, as does the limp, aluminum pipe that once belonged to an industrial dryer. Floor to ceiling shelves cover two of the room’s walls, all holding up nothing but a few years worth of dust. The room’s only features are an old, retired hotel mattress, and the big, stainless steel sink that Freddie now pours his beer into.

As I fall onto the old mattress, Freddie turns one of the rusted nobs of the sink and, after a moment of grumbling and coughing, water begins to spew out from the tap. He fills his glass and says, “Drink this.”

When you’re drunk, your body rejects water like poison. Amazingly, in my drunken trance, I manage to sit up and drink the whole glass. Unfortunately, in my drunken trance, I grab Freddie and pull him down onto the bed. I roll over him, straddling his lap and planting my hands against his chest. His muscles are hard and tense.

“You’re a frisky drunk,” he says, taking the opportunity to feel the length of my body, landing his hands on my breasts.

“And you’re a pig—whether you’re drunk or not.” I seem to have regained control of my mouth, but my body is still in the alcohol’s power. I begin to grind myself against the bulge between his legs.

He laughs, then says, “You’re a fuckin’ lunatic.” Despite the insult, he continues to fondle my chest.

“Go fuck yourself.” His bulge grows harder with every beat of the heart I’m not convinced he has.

“You’re already a step ahead of me.”

I run my fingers down his chest, down his abs, across his pelvis… I bite my lip as my silenced sensibility fights for control of my hand—and loses. Slipping under the waistline of his pants, I grab onto his stiff member. His chest expands and releases as he takes a deep breath in.

“As badly as you want it, darlin’, we don’t have time for this right now.”

I slide my fingers up and down the length of his manhood, eliciting another deep exhalation from the tattooed fighter. His head sinks back into the lumpy pillow and his eyes close. “We really don’t have time.”

“I can’t imagine you last more than a minute or two,” I say, tightening my grip, feeling the rhythm of his pulse.

My spinning brain begins to slow, and the haze lifts from my eyes. I’m slowly regaining control of myself—control enough to let go of his cock—not enough to refrain from pulling his shirt over his head and falling onto his warm, hard body.

“Olivia,” Freddie says between kissing. “I’m serious. We need to go.”

I plant my forehead against his. “You aren’t serious. You’re full of shit. You’re always full of shit.”

His arm is just long enough to reach down the length of my back, where his hand slips and nestles between my legs. His fingers begin to rub up and down, around in circles, and so on. A flush of weakness makes its way from my toes to my head.

In a single, swift motion, Freddie rolls over me. He straightens out his back and reaches down for his belt.

The wolf’s paw tattoo on his arm catches my eye and my sensibilities come rushing back to me. What am I doing? I can suddenly feel every rusted spring in the old mattress, and I can smell nothing but Freddie’s cheap cologne, and a hint of the perfume of the last poor girl he slept with. This morning, Freddie had me locked up and handcuffed in a windowless prison, and now I’m about to reward him with
sex?

I push him off of me before he can pull his pants down.

“What are you doin’?” he asks with the tilted expression of a sad, confused dog.

“We don’t have much time—like you said,” I say, smiling.

He sits up and says, “Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?”

He mutters something under his breath; a combination of expletives and, “Fuckin’ cock tease.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

EASY MONEY

Freddie disappears into the crowded bar, seeking out the moustachioed man. I consider making a run for the exit, but Mel is one step ahead of me, lingering next to the only door in and out of the underground joint.

He winks as our eyes meet.

Ugh.

He thinks Freddie and I went all the way. I’m sure that’s what Freddie will tell him once we part ways.

The expert shit-disturber that he is, it doesn’t take Freddie long to accomplish the first part of his mission. Mere minutes after returning from the backroom brothel, the fight-night host takes the microphone and announces the newest fight of the night—Freddie’s fight.

The announcement is met with an expected roar and applause from the drunken criminals and their love for senseless violence. The announcement is also met with a scoff and eye-roll from the burly man, who still sits alone at the bar.

“You’ve got fifteen minutes to place your bets!” the host announces as the bar staff take to the floor to collect the money of the many eager gamblers. Freddie disappears into the back, and his opponent takes a seat at the bar for a final drink.

Still standing next to the door, Mel nods at me—a subtle reminder that it’s time to fulfil the second part of my role in the gypsies’ scheme. As I go to place my bets, I begin to hatch a scheme of my own.

“Four hundred territs,” I tell the bet-taker. “On the guy with the moustache.”

He looks around swiftly and steps up closer to me. “Keep your voice down,” he says, taking the handful of golden coins I pass him.

The second bet-taker has the same reaction as the first, demanding I keep my voice low. Most of the bar-goers ignore my strange bet. Others listen to the transaction curiously before dismissing my wager to their own misunderstanding.

But a few of the wealthier drinkers perk up at the mention of ‘territs,’ and, as Freddie predicted, my gamble sparks a torrent of curious whispers and likeminded bets.

When I say, “Four hundred territs,” aloud to the third bet-taker, half a dozen nearby heads turn my way.

“On who?” the bet-taker asks, stepping in closer to me.

The owl-like onlookers wait eagerly for my answer. Among the curious is the burly loner at the bar.

“The big guy,” I say, passing off the last of my territs. As I walk away, the nearby men all stand up and scurry towards the bet-taker—all but the burly man at the bar, who keeps his curious gaze locked on me.

With my assigned duties complete, Mel nods at me again, then slips away to carry out his task. I could run, but I have a better idea. I take the only empty seat at the bar, next to the short, bald drug dealer, Lawrence.

“Hi Lawrence,” I say, not looking over, in case Mel is still watching me.

“Sorry, Liv. That spot’s taken,” he says, looking over, and up at me.

“I’m buying,” I say.

His brow sinks down and his eyes narrow. He hesitates. “Since when are you buying?”

Olivia’s Survival Guide, tip #316: Always know where to find the local drug dealer. Good drug dealers are, among other things, directories to the underworld. They know everyone worth knowing—thugs, high-rollers, and dirty cops. They know all the places to go, and all the places to avoid. Drug dealers aren’t always smart; but they’re never dumb enough to rat you out. Drug dealers are also good for another thing: buying drugs.

I wave down the bartender.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asks.

“Vodka—a shot.”

“Straight?”

“Please.”

The bartender pours the shot and places it down. “Five bucks,” he says.

“Thanks. Just put it on my tab.”

Before I can grab the shot, he moves it out of my reach. “We’re not doing tabs, tonight. I’m going to need cash.”

I dig through my pockets, but I have no money—not even a handful of change. Lawrence curiously watches my hands move from pocket to pocket. “Can I pay you back later?”

“I give you a pass, then I have to give everyone a pass.” The bartender looks down the bar at a waving customer—one of many. “Fight starts in five minutes. I’ll come back then, and we’ll work something out.”

“No—c’mon. I need it now,” I say. “I’ll pay you back, I promise.”

He sighs. “Just hold on for five minutes,” the bartender says.

“Here,” says Lawrence, holding out a five dollar bill. “It’s on me.”

The bartender takes the bill and hands me the shot. “Enjoy,” he says, before jogging down to the other end of the bar to help the other customers.

“So, you’re looking to buy, but you don’t have any money?” Lawrence asks.

“I’ll pay you back later—I promise.”

“And what are you going to pay me back for, exactly? Hmm?” Lawrence leans to his side and lifts up an old, black knapsack. He begins to unzip the bag, still looking up at me with a raised brow.

“A gram of K,” I say quietly.

“In five years, you’ve never bought a thing from me, and now you want a gram of K? Ketamine’s one hell of a drug—nothing to fuck around with, Liv A gram of K will really fuck you up—hell, it would probably knock someone three times your size out cold.”

“That’s the idea.” The moustachioed man is nearly finished his beer. His friend stands behind him, massaging his shoulders, priming him for the fight.

Lawrence sits up straight and throws a glance down the bar to see what I’m looking at. When he looks back at me, his expression drops. He shakes his head slowly. “You’re playing with fire, Liv—going to piss off a lot of people. You’re not taking me down with you. Get out of here. I don’t want any part of this.”

“You’re a big gambling man, aren’t you, Lawrence?” I say. “Got money on the fight?” The crowd around the bar begins to thin out as the crowd around the cage grows. I’m running out of time.

“Not this fight. I don’t bet on fixed fights, and this fight’s had fixed written all over it since you walked in here with that gypsy. I saw you placing a bet with the bookie. And with a crowd like this, I imagine you’ll go home with a fancy chunk of change. A chunk big enough to turn a few heads, too. You aren’t getting the K, Liv.”

The fight night host emerges from the back room. He stops to adjust his hair before starting towards the small podium next to the cage.

“Want to make a bet?”

“I want you to get out of here before people think I’m part of you’re little scheme.” Lawrence shakes his head and looks away from me, zipping his knapsack back up.

“I’m willing to bet that you get a minimum of five years for dealing drugs to a minor.”

Lawrence’s eyes widen and he darts his head from side to side. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“There’s a good chance that the sheet of acid in Peter Irons’s bedroom has your prints all over it. You know Peter Irons, right? Lanky, bug-eyed kid? I wonder if the acid is still there? He had a couple of friends over for his sixteenth birthday, just a few days ago. They looked pretty high, but I doubt they got through a whole sheet. That’s a lot of acid, isn’t it? And your acid is strong stuff, no?”

“Are you blackmailing me?” Lawrence says through his teeth.

“Am I blackmailing you? No—just betting.” I still don’t make eye-contact with the miniature drug-dealer. But through my peripherals, I can see the thick vein throbbing in his forehead.

He reaches into his bag and pulls out a dime-bag full of white powder. “Take it.”

I empty the little bag into the ounce of vodka and wave down another bartender.

“What are you drinking?” the bartender asks.

Lawrence rocks back and forth, his fingers fidgeting, with his gaze down on his feet. He grumbles under his breath. Down the bar, Freddie’s opponent stands up from his seat and stretches out his shoulders.

I raise the shot glass. “Could you take this to our moustached friend at the end of the bar? He looks like he could use some liquid confidence.”

“Who do I tell him it’s from?” the bartender asks.

“Just tell him it’s from someone who has a lot riding on him winning.”

The bartender delivers the shot. I pat the red-faced Lawrence on the back and start towards the other end of the bar, where my next target, the burly loner, sits.