Chase Me (39 page)

Finally, he was wolf.

The deck’s old wooden boards flexed and creaked as she approached. Her luscious scent intensified, became more pungent. Cupping his muzzle in one hand, she cautiously raised the other to his temple. “Any sharp pain? New shadows or gaps?”

He shook his head once.

“Sure?”

Her elemental scent intoxicated him. Maddened him. Drowned out everything else. She was right. He’d have no trouble finding her at all.

“Okay.” Turning away from him, she presented him with a close-up view of her bare buttocks. With a quick shift of her weight, she sprang off the deck. “Chase me.”

Chase. Taste. Take.

Always.

Forever.

He leaped into the blur and followed.

He was desperate for a hit. Junkyard dog desperate.

Stephen eyed the late night sky as he drew closer to the grimy club bordering Block E. Thunder rumbled like timpani, and the chains on his motorcycle boots rattled as he walked. Rubbing at the gnawing behind his breastbone, he unconsciously paced his movement to the beat thumping out of the club called Subterranean.

He stopped dead when he turned the corner. An overflow crowd seethed in the Indian summer heat, and two huge bouncers flanked the door like implacable marble columns. It had been a long time since he’d had to wait on the wrong side of the velvet rope, and he wasn’t about to start now. Christ, he needed something, anything. His skin felt ready to burst off his bones.

He took a shaky breath, knowing that he’d have to play the “do you know who I am?” card and hope for the best. How low could you go? But he had to get in. Now. Straightening his shoulders, he walked alongside the line, his eyes flitting over the people who waited. Where were the couples with their hands on each other’s asses? With their tongues down each other’s throats? Right now, even inhaling some secondhand lust might ease the clawing and scratching on the backside of his ribs.

“Stephen! Is that Stephen?” The woman’s high-pitched squeal floated into the humid night air, setting off a chain reaction that sounded like birds chirping in an aviary. Excitement pulsed. He huffed quickly, but it was there and gone. He turned on a carefully calibrated showman’s smile, dripping accessibility and “so pleased to meetcha!” to pull more of the crowd toward him.

It worked better than he’d hoped. He was quickly surrounded, then swamped. Energy swirled, momentarily soothing the infernal gnawing behind his sternum, but it didn’t last long. He desperately worked the crowd like the pro he’d become, shaking hands, accepting kisses, dodging a few wandering tongues, suckling on a few choice others. Energy surged, and he inhaled greedily.
More, more.
Men wearing baggy jeans and black T-shirts knocked knuckles with him and flashed devil horns while their friends’ camera phones clicked. Snippets of conversation eddied around him: “Steve, Stephen? Stefan? I don’t care what his name is, I just want to…” “Drummer for Scarlett’s Web, idiot.” “He’s a lot… smaller than he looks on stage.”

Two women bookended him and kissed his cheeks as their friend snapped pictures. He felt a hand creep along his hip, then cup his groin. “You’re going commando, aren’t you?” the chick on the right breathed into his ear.

He grinned but didn’t answer, setting off more squeals. No one noticed that the grin didn’t meet his eyes; they never did. Dread rose like water in a leaky boat.
Her hand is right on my dick, and I don’t feel a thing.

The pulsing music beckoned, crooked its finger from the door. If touch alone wasn’t doing the job, maybe a music chaser would do the trick. He waded toward the door, pulling the crowd along in his wake. An elbow tagged his kidney, and he felt fingers yanking at his shirt. Someone grabbed a handful of his ass. “Leave me some skin, love,” he called back, a smile pasted on his face as he tugged his butt out of the man’s grasp.
This could get ugly.

All momentum stopped when a glacial blonde stepped in, pushed a black Sharpie into his hand, and pulled up her halter top to expose her world-class Scandinavian rack. A small space cleared around them, and cell cameras clicked as he grinned, cupped her right breast in his trembling hand, and scrawled his autograph just above her stiff pink nipple. A punch of lust glittered in the air—hers, for him, and the crowd’s, for her—but once again, the energy dissipated too quickly. It was there, then gone. His frustration surged.

“Hey!” the blonde said, recoiling from the shock he’d delivered with his hand.

He kissed her cheek in apology, shoving down the panic.
What the fuck was that?
His body was acting like a blown transformer, sparking and crackling. Not normal, not good. “Sorry, love.” He had to get inside. Now. He raised his arm and caught the eye of one of the three-hundred-pound badasses at the door. The bouncer dove into the melee and snagged him around the waist, half carrying him out of the crowd to the door.

“Thanks, man,” Stephen said, tucking in his rumpled shirt. “That got a little more out of hand than I thought it would.”

The bouncer grinned and straightened his immaculate suit coat. “No problem. Everyone’s excited about tomorrow night’s show.”

“Well, thanks. You really saved my skin.” He tried to slip a folded bill into the man’s kielbasa-fingered hand.

The bouncer waved it off and unhooked the black velvet rope. “Glad I could help. You enjoy your evening now, sir.”

Curses, squeals, and offers of blow jobs rained over him as he shouldered his way into the club. The thing in his chest had nibbled on appetizers, but now it was simply ravenous. Standing in the cave-dark entryway, Stephen wiped at his clammy forehead with his T-shirt sleeve and let the tsunami of sound pound over him.

A small zing, then… nothing.

Sex, then. He’d have to hook up with someone.

Oooh, what a horrible problem to have. He almost laughed. He was living the life, nailing groupies left, right, upside down, and sideways, but the sad truth was he didn’t even enjoy it anymore. Nope, shuttling his dick in and out of a warm, willing body had become a means to an end: Just produce the orgasms that would feed the beast. And it had been fun at the beginning of the tour, grand fun. Men, women, anything in between—it didn’t matter. Two at a time, three at a time, groups—hell, whole parties. A week ago he’d been so desperate he’d had a three-way in a fetid festival Porta Potty. Their road manager was still scrubbing the pictures off the Internet.

The thing was always hungry, never satisfied. But now that the band was back on home turf, he didn’t have to make do with weak humans anymore. He just had to find… some of
them.

A cloud of the club’s energy—gutter-glam techno, grinding dancers, blinking lights, and the scents of spilled beer, stale cigarettes, and hot, clean sweat—drifted over him as he walked from the entryway into the club. Pheromones permeated the place like sweet chloroform, and he huffed greedily as he approached the dark wood bar.
Yeah, this is more like it.

“Diet cola, no lime, please.” While the pierced and tattooed bartender poured his drink, he scoped the place out, mentally sorting energy into groups: light and shadow, sound and silence, smells, people touching each other. They all produced energy which he could use, but tonight he needed…
Ahhh. Jackpot.
A good dozen patrons who had that something extra blipped strongly on his internal radar.

The bartender—a vamp, he thought, but having escaped to the planet only a few years ago, he was still learning these nuances—placed his drink in front of him and waved off his money.

“On the house, man,” he said, acknowledging Stephen’s identity with a nod. He held out his black-nailed hand for Stephen to shake. Bracelets clanked. “Welcome home. When did you guys get back to town?”

“The tour bus just pulled in,” Stephen answered, taking a sip of his drink. Were their comings and goings really the source of so much interest? “I thought I’d reacquaint myself with the nightlife before Scarlett starts cracking the whip.”

The bartender moaned playfully. “Jesus, don’t torture me like that.” He acknowledged the approaching waitress’s hollered order with a nod and gestured back to Stephen’s drink. “Let me know when you’re ready for another.”

Stephen thanked him, dropped a ten-spot onto the bar, and turned toward the dance floor. Bodies blended and writhed to the bass-heavy beat, and his toe automatically tapped like he was behind his kick drum. Humid colognes drifted through the cramped space, and Stephen scanned the crowd. Who would it be tonight? The leather-clad, Cuervo-sipping redhead eyeballing him from the end of the bar? The Beckham-looking guy drinking beer who sat with his dark-haired friend at the table tucked into the corner? Both of them? All three?

A laugh drew his attention back to the dance floor, where a tall brunette danced with two friends. She was dressed like most of the other women in the club, in low-riding jeans and a knit halter top that clung to excellent breasts and exposed a taut stomach—but in his eyes, she lit up like she was radioactive. Her pleasure and happiness crackled through him like a Fourth of July sparkler. He watched her whirl and grind in time to the blinking lights for a good half hour, saw her cheerfully decline offers to dance from three men and one woman. She finally separated from her friends and peeled off to the restrooms.

She was the one. For tonight, anyway. He levered himself off the bar and followed.

While writing a novel is a solitary endeavor, producing a book is a massive undertaking which could not be accomplished without the support and expertise of countless others. As always, many thanks to my eagle-eyed critique partner Brenda Whiteside, and to my agent Cherry Weiner, who keeps me on an even keel. At Sourcebooks, special thanks to my editor Deb Werksman, to publicist extraordinaire Danielle Jackson, to Susie and Aubrey, and to all the people whose talent and expertise make my book a stronger piece of work. Thanks to research archaeologist Bruce Koenen from the Minnesota Office of the State Archaeologist for information about four-season archaeological practices, and for so generously sharing his insights into Minnesota’s geological and archaeological history. Any errors and extrapolations are, of course, my own. To my Midwest Fiction Writer chapter mates and my blogmates at The Ruby Slippered Sisterhood, thanks for your friendship, wise counsel, and for always having my back.

Last but definitely not least, endless thanks, again, to Mark—for holding down the fort, for herding the cats, and for the gift of time.

Tamara Hogan loathes cold and snow but nonetheless lives near Minneapolis with her partner Mark and two naughty cats. When she’s not working as a quality and process engineer for a global networking company, she writes urban fantasy romance with a sci-fi twist. A voracious reader with an unapologetic television addiction, Tamara is forever on the lookout for the perfect black boots.

Before its publication, Tamara’s debut novel,
Taste
Me,
won the Daphne du Maurier Award for Mystery and Suspense, and was nominated for the Romance Writers of America’s prestigious Golden Heart award.

Tamara loves hearing from readers! Visit her on the web at
www.tamarahogan.com
.