Bad Blood Wolf (Bad Blood Shifters Book 2) Page 4

  It felt warm. It felt good, and that scared her. Obligations made you vulnerable, and vulnerability made you weak.

  She tried to shake her head, but couldn’t.

  He said, “This thing tonight. No bodies, and nothing comes back on the crew, from Nashville or anybody else. And whatever this ‘friend’ is into, you stay out of it. If you can promise all that, you can borrow the truck and do whatever the fuck you want. Except crash it.”

  She nodded. “Okay. Thanks.”

  He didn’t let go of her wrist. “If shit gets bad, talk to me,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to lose you.”

  She nodded once more, and he released her.

  He tapped a couple of buttons on his phone to pull up the wireless interface for the music system. The music changed abruptly.

  Jasmin rolled her eyes.

  “What?” Flynn said. “It’s still Christmas music.”

  Jasmin just shook her head. Flynn found a pair of pants, and they walked downstairs to the cheerful, utterly inappropriate strains of South Park’s “Merry Fucking Christmas.”

  Chapter 5

  It was Saturday night, and Brody had one foot up on the brass rail at the bar inside the Mad River Road House, tossing back a beer and watching Bastian and his minions running the pool table.

  Staking themselves with his money.

  Six months ago, they would never have gotten away with it. Six months ago, he had friends at his side, who would’ve helped him bleed those suckers and get his money back.

  But all his friends had moved to Idaho with Donnie Jenkins to start a new pack, and Brody was stuck here. He didn’t even know why the fuck he’d come to the bar tonight, except that he wasn’t in the mood for the hip downtown clubs he used to go to, and if he had to stare at the walls of his apartment any longer, he’d go wolf and tear the place apart.

  This was mostly a shifter bar, full of Nashville wolves, but the beer was cheap and the nachos were good, and he told himself there was a miniscule chance one of the women would get drunk enough to want to have a one-night fling with the last of the ‘traitors.’

  Self-delusion was a beautiful thing.

  Especially since he was still burning for the Demon Queen of the Amazon. The more he tried to stop thinking about her, the more she assaulted his memory. Her scent, her touch, the sexy way she moved—both her cat and her human form.

  And the way he’d felt when he kissed her. Hot and wild, gentle and protective. One damn kiss, and now he was ruined. He’d barely been able to get his dick to lie down and take a rest since last night, and none of the girls here even looked pretty anymore.

  They weren’t her.

  Thinking about Jasmin almost made him forget the rest of his problems. He needed money by tomorrow night—needed it bad. Even if his credit card weren’t maxed and his bank account tapped out till payday, he couldn’t take big cash withdrawals from his regular accounts without eventually drawing suspicion from the wrong people.

  But people needed to be paid. People needed to be kept safe. Everything depended on it.

  Which was the other reason he was here tonight. Trying to convince himself it was worth the risk for him to challenge Bastian at pool, and try to win his money back.

  He wished he could just straight-up go after the bastard. He could take Bastian—despite all that muscle and swagger, he was a coward at heart. But he couldn’t take Bastian and all his friends—and he couldn’t guarantee he’d get the money back even if he did.

  He needed to win it publicly, so Bastian would have no choice but to hand it over.

  He’d been going back and forth in his mind for the last hour, weighing the risk, trying to figure out if it would even work.

  What he needed was a fucking miracle.

  And at that moment, the door opened and his miracle walked smack into the middle of the bar. The Demon Queen of the Amazon herself.

  Dead silence followed her, rippling through the room until all conversations had stopped.

  She had on tight jeans with cowboy boots, and some kind of slinky red tank top with thin little straps, despite the fact that it was cold as fuck out. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and the material clung to her breasts and showed off her sleek muscular arms.

  Her hair was loose, spreading down her back like a silk waterfall, slipping and sliding in a way that made Brody want to grab handfuls of it, tangle his fingers in it and pull her head back so he could kiss her neck, biting his way down the sensitive skin and hearing her moan.

  What the hell was she doing here?

  One tiny sparkling place in his chest blazed with the hope that she’d come to find him. The rest of him figured she’d come after Bastian and the minions, and this bar was about to erupt into the mother of all brawls.

  Jasmin gazed around the room like she owned the place and was deciding if she was going to kick them all out, or let them stay. When she was done with that, she walked her ass straight over to the bar, not three feet away from Brody.

  Everyone between them immediately left.

  Conversation around the room was picking back up, but she was still getting wary looks. So was he.

  Fuck.

  He should talk to her. If only the scent of her—wild jag and mango shampoo—hadn’t erased all the words from his brain.

  His wolf was in favor of just kissing the fuck out of her, getting his throat torn out and dying happy.

  “Dos Equis,” Jasmin said to the bartender. “Bottle. I’ll open it.”

  The bartender gave an almost inaudible growl. Insisting on getting her beer still capped was an insult, saying she didn’t trust the bartender to make sure no one put anything in it.

  Brody could tell people were still staring. The tension in the room was raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

  Ah, hell. They thought he was a traitor anyway.

  Brody moved down the bar till he was standing so close the scent of her lit up his brain like a pinball machine. “Let me get that.”

  He put down a few bills, and grabbed the bottle and the opener as Pete slid them across the polished wood surface. He opened Jasmin’s beer, the bottle wet with condensation, and then snapped the cap between his fingers, shooting it toward the garbage pail on the other side of the bar.

  Score.

  Probably the only time he was gonna do that tonight.

  Jasmin tipped her head back and took a swallow. Brody watched the long kissable column of her throat, her bare shoulders. His wolf whined pathetically.

  As if she’d heard that silent whimper, she turned to him, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “So, Tornado,” she said. “Come here often?”

  Her eyes glinted with mischief—and something else. A wild recklessness that spoke to something inside him that had been asleep forever, and probably should have stayed that way.

  Too late now.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” he asked conversationally. “Are you insane?”

  Jasmin set her beer back on the bar top and made a sound halfway between a snarl and a laugh. It got his body humming right down to his toes.

  “I’m Bad Blood,” she said. “So that would be a yes. And I’m pissed off that those thieving backstabbing motherfuckers stole our money. So I came here to win it back from them, in front of all their friends. You in?”

  She jerked her head toward the pool table, challenge in her eyes.

  Brody never shot pool. Everybody thought it was because he sucked at it, but the truth was that he was good at it. Too good.

  Like magic.

  But hell, he’d asked for a miracle. He just hadn’t expected it to come in such a beautiful, crazy-ass package. His blood fizzed with her nearness, and with the possibility of keeping his life from crashing down for a few more days. Whatever she was doing, he wanted in. Anything to make that feeling last longer.

  “What the fuck,” he said. “Who am I to stand in the way of certain death?”

  He’d rather go down fighting, with her at his side, than
just wait for the house of cards to collapse.

  She grinned at him. “Good wolf,” she purred. “Give me a minute to get us rolling.” She walked off towards the pool table without a backward glance.

  Brody turned to the bartender. “Another beer,” he said. Then, “Scratch that, make it a whiskey. Double.” He was going to need all the help he could get.

  Hips swinging in a boner-inducing manner, Jasmin sashayed over to the pool table where Bastian was playing, timing her arrival just as he sank a tricky 8-ball shot to win the game.

  Bastian looked up, and his gaze narrowed. “Well, if it ain’t the little pussycat,” he drawled. “Change your mind about me takin’ you for a ride?”

  Jasmin eyed him up and down. Brody could have sworn he saw a flash of claws at her fingertips, but they disappeared before he could be sure.

  Whiskey in hand, he began drifting over toward the pool tables.

  “I want next game,” Jasmin said to Bastian.

  “Yeah?” he said, looking her over. “Cody and his partner got next. You gonna make it worth my while to let you jump the line?” He licked his lips suggestively.

  Did the idiot never learn?

  “Mmmm,” Jasmin purred. “Two hundred a rack?”

  A little gasp went through the listening crowd. Table stakes were usually ten or twenty bucks a game—just enough to make it interesting.

  Bastian sniggered, staring at her chest. “I told you before, your rack ain’t worth two hundred.” But he looked tempted. “Let’s see your money.”

  Jasmin reached seductively into her cleavage, pulled out a wad of bills, and started slowly counting them onto the side of the pool table. She put down four twenties, then stopped on the fifth one. “Oops, this one has blood on it.”

  She sniffed it, then licked her lips. She put it at the bottom of the stack, a little smile coming to her face, like she was reliving a happy memory.

  Bastian swallowed, and Brody hid a grin. Either she really was crazy, or she was fucking with Bastian big time. Or both.

  Jasmin counted out the rest of her two hundred, and tapped the bills into a nice neat stack. She tucked the remaining money away down the front of her top.

  Brody knew Bastian couldn’t turn down that challenge—not with everybody watching.

  “Fine,” Bastian said, staring at the money, and then at her cleavage. “You want to hand me your money, you’re on.”

  “She still needs a partner,” Trace pointed out.

  “She can play with Anton.”

  That was his cue. Brody stepped forward. “No need,” he said. He winked at Jasmin. “I got you, babe.”

  He’d deliberately used Bastian’s words from last night. Jasmin cut him a sideways glance, but her mouth curved in a catlike smile.

  Bastian opened his mouth to protest, but Jasmin cut him off.

  “Works for me. Let’s see what you got, Tornado.”

  Chapter 6

  Jasmin watched the White Tornado chalking up his cue.

  This was fucking crazy. Jasmin didn’t have much spare cash—she was saving for a car of her own so she could get a restaurant job, someday when her jag settled down a little. She couldn’t afford to throw away two hundred bucks.

  Even after Flynn had agreed to lend her the truck tonight, she hadn’t been sure she was going through with this.

  But Brody Fucking Jameson wouldn’t stay out of her head. She’d checked out two other bars before she’d lucked out and found him in the same place where Bastian liked to play pool. Now she just had to get him his damn money back so she could forget about him, and that desolate look when he’d lost it.

  He looked anything but desolate now. He looked hot as fuck—blue t-shirt that showed off his muscular arms and stretched tight over his pecs, tucked into worn-in jeans with tears in the knees that fit like a second skin.

  Forget that, she told herself. Focus on the mission. Focus on your anger.

  It pissed her off that she’d been robbed. And it pissed her off even more that Brody had gotten robbed trying to help her.

  But what pissed her off the most was that they’d been robbed by arrogant pricks who didn’t even need the money. They just did it because they were entitled assholes. Because they could.

  None of them had the balls to get in the cage, so she had to make them submit some other way.

  And we might get to taste the wolf again. We could bite him.

  Stop it, she told her jag. That was a one-time thing.

  Still, she watched him, telling herself she was watching for weaknesses. Trying to figure out what made him tick, why he needed so much money he’d fight week after week with no enjoyment.

  Gambling debts? But gamblers were adrenalin junkies, and she’d seen enough of him in the cage to know he wasn’t. And he didn’t act like an addict, either. Anyone with a habit that big was jumpy, mercurial, moody.

  Brody was none of those things.

  Who cares what he wants the money for? Just get it for him, and then you can be gone.

  She strolled over to where he was standing and took the chalk from him. Electricity tingled up her arms when her fingers brushed his.

  He looked over at her, startled.

  Had he felt it too?

  Butterflies started fluttering in her stomach. Game nerves, she told herself. That’s all it is.

  Bastian’s team laid down their money. Four hundred dollars on the edge of the table.

  Trace broke first, and the balls scattered. He stalked the table, checking it out, and then had a murmured conversation with Bastian. “Solids,” he said, calling the color. He sank the 6 ball before he missed a shot.

  Jasmin looked at Brody, and he jerked his chin toward the table, giving her first shot.

  They had stripes—balls 9 through15.

  Jasmin hadn’t shot pool in a few years, but it was like riding a bike. Or anyway, she hoped it was. She’d never actually learned to ride a bike, so that saying could be a load of shit for all she knew.

  She sank two balls before she miscalculated and missed one.

  Bastian took over, and as soon as he shot she knew he was good. Better than her, probably. Which meant that Brody better be a damned good pool player.

  Bastian sank three balls in a row, and then it was Brody’s turn. “Better get ready to lose your money,” Bastian sneered. “Brody there’s a pool virgin. You might have to show him how to hold his stick.”

  Brody just gave her a lazy smile. “You can wrap your hands around my stick any time, babe.”

  Her jag wanted to go rub up against him and show him exactly where to put his hands, and his stick. Oh, fuck.

  “I think you got it,” she called back. “Just make a hole with your fingers and put the stick in it. Slide it back and forth a few times, and take your shot.”

  There were snickers all around the table, and Brody gave her a sideways look.

  Anton said, “I hear he’s been waiting a long time for someone to explain that to him.” More laughter.

  Brody had been going for an easy shot, but at Anton’s words, he changed his mind and lined up his cue for a complicated bank shot.

  Damn it, why did men always let their egos get in the way of their good sense?

  Face taut with concentration, Brody lined up his cue stick and shot. The 9 ball caromed off the bank, hit the 11 ball, and they both thumped into opposite pockets. He proceeded to run the table, moving surely between shots, calculating angle and force so precisely that the cue ball always bounced back to exactly where he wanted it.

  It was one of the sexiest things she’d ever seen. And watching his jeans stretch over his ass as he bent over the table didn’t hurt either.

  Bite it, her jag suggested.

  Shut up.

  “Eight ball in the corner,” Brody said, gesturing with his cue. He made the shot perfectly, finishing the game to stunned silence.

  “Look at that,” Jasmin said. “Virgin’s luck.”

  She reached for the money lying on the
edge of the table, but Bastian slapped his hand down on it. “Rematch,” he ground out. “Y’all got lucky.”

  Jasmin had the wild urge to whip out her claws and take his hand right off. She had no problem with all her money having blood on it.

  But she couldn’t. He was playing right into her hands. She needed him to play again, and she needed to up the ante.

  “Winners own the table,” she said, baiting him. “Maybe we should play somebody else.” She looked over at Brody, hoping he had the sense to pick up on her intentions.

  “Yeah, maybe,” he said carelessly. “These guys weren’t much of a challenge.”

  Bastian snarled. “Double or nothing,” he said.

  There you go. So easy. Bastian turned away, and Brody winked at her.

  Bastian racked up the balls, shoving them viciously into the triangle. Good. If he was pissed, he’d be easier to beat.

  Brody came around the table and stood close to her, murmuring in her ear. “You can still show me where the stick should go, if you want,” he said. “I’m always open to learning new techniques.”

  It was a cheesy line, but it still set her nerve endings jangling.

  Finish this. Get out. Before this whole damn night turns into one big regret.

  Bastian had to hit up his friends to come up with another four hundred dollars, to match what was already on the table.

  He must have spent some of last night’s haul already, or maybe it was home in his piggy bank.

  Brody didn’t fucking care. Bastian was going down.

  The more he focused on the game, the more the whole table started to look like one vast grid of lines and angles. His mind was automatically calculating the probabilities, possibilities, which shot would lead where, even which ones the others might miss.

  Math was his superpower. It always had been, from the time he was a little kid. Algebra, geometry, physics, statistics, you name it, he could do it—in his head, if he had to. It was how he’d earned his way through college playing pool—angles, force and trajectory. It was why he had a cushy job in the Nashville pack’s finance company, handling their investments.