Bad Blood Wolf (Bad Blood Shifters Book 2) Page 5

  He was a whiz at picking stocks and predicting the market.

  The one thing he couldn’t do was lose his focus. The problem was, every time his partner came within three feet of him, he started to feel breathless and a little bit high.

  He couldn’t let her down. Even more than wanting to get his damn money back, he still wanted to be her hero. Stupid, but there it was.

  Jasmin broke this time. She sank the 4 ball on the break, so they took solids, and she sank three more before missing a shot.

  Bastian sank three of the seven stripes, and then it was Brody’s turn.

  He didn’t have much to work with, and to run the table from this position would be too suspicious. He could probably do it, but it would take the kind of skill nobody saw outside a world championships.

  He made two balls before he came up against a shot no one but a pro could make. It killed him to miss one, but it wouldn’t help their cause if he were called out as a ringer.

  Luckily, Trace just wasn’t that good.

  Trace sank three more balls. He came damn close to sinking the final one, too, and Brody’s stomach clenched before the ball shuddered against the edge of the pocket and bounced away.

  It was Jasmin’s turn now, and she easily sank their last two balls and called the pocket for the 8-ball. It was a tricky shot, and she took her time lining it up.

  Brody was so busy watching the table, giving her a murmured “a little to the left,” that he didn’t notice Anton easing up behind her until it was too late.

  Her stick jerked, and the cue ball clipped the 8-ball on the wrong side. It bounced off the corner of the pocket, and the cue ball went straight in. Scratch.

  They’d lost the game, and all Jasmin’s money.

  Chapter 7

  The bar erupted into cheers.

  Brody stared at the table, shocked. That little fucker Anton had jogged Jasmin’s cue stick.

  Fury rose up in Brody, and Jasmin’s whole body went rigid, like she was trying not to go jag and rip somebody’s throat out.

  Bastian reached for the money, and this time Brody was the one to slap his hand down on the stack of bills.

  “Foul,” he said. “You sent your little omega shitsucker over there to fuck up her shot.”

  Bastian sneered at him. “Y’all just can’t stand to lose.”

  Jasmin’s eyes were gleaming green-gold, and she was snarling softly.

  “All right, simmer down now.” Cutter Easton, one of Nashville’s senior lieutenants, pushed his way through the crowd. Brody hadn’t even known he was here tonight.

  “Seems we have a little disagreement here.”

  “Forfeit,” Brody said. “They cheated.”

  Cutter looked at him coolly. He was shorter than Brody, but with powerful shoulders and muscular legs. He was always balanced on the balls of his feet, like he was ready for a fight. In his late thirties, he was one of Timber Jenkins’—the alpha’s—closest advisors. You didn’t fuck with Cutter unless you wanted trouble from Timber himself, and Brody didn’t.

  “There’s no proof of that,” Cutter said. “But since there’s a debate, what do you say to one more game?” He glanced at Jasmin, and Brody knew he didn’t want to re-escalate the feud with the Bad Bloods. “Money stays on the table. Both teams match it. Winner takes all.”

  Was he crazy? What was he playing at?

  It didn’t matter. Brody had maybe fifty bucks in his pocket, if that. He wondered how much blood-soaked money Jasmin had between her boobs.

  Jasmin’s eyes narrowed. He could almost see the gears turning in her mind. They should have won that game, but that would have put them only eight hundred up. To make up the money Bastian had stolen from them, they would have had to bet it all again anyway.

  But that was when she’d only put in two hundred. If she put up eight hundred more and they lost, she’d be out a thousand, plus the seven hundred from the other night.

  Shit. He couldn’t let her risk it, even if she had that much on her. She was already reaching down inside her top again.

  But he couldn’t give up, either. He didn’t have it in him.

  “I don’t have cash on me, but I’ll put up my car,” Brody heard himself say. The bar went quiet. He knew they thought he was crazy. Hell, he was crazy.

  Bastian snorted. “That rust-bucket ain’t worth more than a couple hundred.”

  “It’s worth a hell of a lot more than four hundred, and you know it,” he countered. “Cutter, witness.”

  The lieutenant nodded. That made it a pack matter. If he lost, Brody had to give up the car, and Bastian had to accept it as payment.

  Jasmin counted out four hundred more, Brody moved his hand, and she laid the money on the stack. Then she backed up and stood with him, shoulder to shoulder, her presence reassuring instead of distracting. They were in this together now. And Brody was going to have to run the damn table, and take his chances with being called out as a pro.

  Brody watched Bastian racking up the balls, and felt himself go into the zone.

  He’d been right the first time. He was going to regret this whole fucking night.

  Brody grabbed two more beers from the bar, handed one to Jasmin, and took a pull of his own to ease his dry throat. He could feel the tension in the room ratcheting up. Everyone in the bar seemed to be crowded around the table, some people standing on chairs to get a look.

  Two thousand dollars, lying on the side of the table. And an IOU for Brody’s car on top of the stack.

  If he lost the car and his money, he was totally screwed. His hands started to sweat.

  But it wasn’t just the heat and the crowd. He could feel the will of the pack turned against him. Nashville didn’t have the magical bond some of the other, smaller packs had—Nash Jenkins had won alpha by fighting his father, but he’d never renewed that bond.

  Some said it had weakened the pack. Soured them.

  But wolves in a pack still felt something, even if they weren’t bound by magic. It was in their nature to bond, to think and hunt as one when they needed to.

  They felt the belonging—and they felt when they were shut out of it. Ostracized. Alone.

  His wolf wanted to howl with fear and anger.

  His chest felt like an elephant was sitting on it. This was different from the cage fights; in a fight, he had to psych himself up. Get his wolf riled.

  Here, his wolf was already anxious. Edgy. Too many scents and sounds, too much hostility from the other wolves.

  Suddenly, he felt Jasmin’s hand on his back, light and sure. Warmth spread up his spine, blossomed in his chest. The tightness eased, and he could breathe again.

  He wasn’t alone.

  Bastian came way too close to running the table, sinking five balls.

  Damn. Brody had no choice.

  He tried to narrow his focus to nothing but the table in front of him, the balls, the tip of the cue and the imaginary lines he was drawing on the table in his mind.

  He took three long, deep breaths, lined up his shot, and went for it all.

  Lines and angles, forces and trajectories, odds and probabilities. It all clicked through his mind like information on a computer screen.

  He paced the table, totally focused. Straight shot, bank shot, double shot, one tricky shot that bounced off the rail and came back to hit another ball and carom into the pocket. Blam. Blam. Blam. In minutes, there were only two solid balls left—the 6, and the 8-ball, sitting in an impossible position, tucked in behind one of Bastian’s remaining balls.

  If Brody sank the 6-ball, it would be impossible for him to get to the 8. If the cue ball hit Bastian’s ball before the 8-ball, which he would have to do, they’d lose.

  He deliberately missed the six, managing to leave Trace in just as bad a position as he was in. Trace sank one ball, and table scratched instead of trying to separate his last ball from the 8 and taking a chance on hitting it illegally.

  Jasmin lined up her shot. If she hit it right, she’d be in a perfec
t position to sink the 8. Or anyway, as good as it got in this fucked-up game.

  She’d put up the money. She deserved the takedown. And she could do it—she was the Demon Queen. He nodded at her. You got this.

  She gave him one long, enigmatic look, and shot at the 6.

  She missed it.

  What the fuck? There was no way she’d lost her nerve. Unless she didn’t think she could make the 8, and she’d deliberately bailed.

  Or she was giving him the takedown. But the Demon Queen never quit before the takedown.

  Bastian had a choice now. He could go after his final ball and hope he didn’t hit the 8, losing the game. Or he could scratch again, and let Brody have one more shot.

  He chickened out, scratching, and it was Brody’s turn.

  He was ending this now.

  The bar had gone silent. Brody sank the 6 easily, and was left with the 8, still hiding behind the 11-ball.

  He caught Jasmin’s eye, and then cut his eyes briefly to the money lying on the side of the table and lifted his chin ever so slightly.

  Go get it.

  Because there was a damn good possibility that when he made this last shot, they were going to have to run for it, and he sure as hell wasn’t leaving that money behind a second time.

  He made a show of walking the table as if looking for a shot, even though he knew exactly how he was going to do it.

  “Ain’t no way to make that, asshole,” Bastian said. “Just take your scratch and finish this.”

  Jasmin was heading for the chalk sitting on the side of the table next to the pile of cash.

  “Fuck off, Bastian,” Brody said, still taking his time.

  Jasmin picked up the chalk and began chalking her cue stick, eyes on him. She gave him the tiniest of nods.

  “8-ball, corner pocket.” Brody gestured with his cue stick. “Off that rail, that one, and that one.”

  Bastian laughed. Jasmin didn’t. She put the chalk down. Her hand rested on the table, right next to the money.

  Brody positioned himself, leaned over the table, lined up his cue and shot.

  Blam. Blam. Blam. Smack.

  The cue ball caromed off the three rails he’d called, right into the sweet spot on the side of the 8-ball, without hitting the 11.

  The 8-ball tipped into the corner pocket.

  The game was over. They’d won.

  He felt like the whole place should erupt in cheers again, but of course it didn’t. Bastian wasn’t popular, but he was sure as hell more popular than Brody. And Jasmin wasn’t popular at all.

  There was near dead-silence in the room. Bastian’s face was purple with fury, and he turned to grab the money before Brody could get to it.

  But Jasmin had already scooped up the cash off the side of the table. She cocked her hips and looked up at Bastian. “Thanks for a fun evening, puppy. Let’s do it again sometime.”

  She sauntered toward the door. “See you soon.”

  Bastian started after her and Brody went to intercept, but Cutter was faster. He put his hand on Bastian’s shoulder and murmured into his ear, quietly but emphatically.

  Jasmin passed Brody and stuffed a wad of bills into Brody’s pocket, his IOU peeking out between them. “There,” she said. “We’re even.”

  Her words barely registered—his attention was focused on the other wolves.

  Bastian shook his head like an angry bull and shrugged Cutter’s hand off his shoulder, but some of the tension drained from his body. It drained from Brody’s as well. It looked like Cutter had no intention of letting Bastian start another feud with the Bad Bloods. The first one had cost the pack a fuck-ton of money, considering they’d ended up buying the Bad Blood’s territory from Alexander Grant’s lawyers and signing it over to Flynn, along with a hefty settlement for damages caused when Randall Creston and Tyrone Jenkins had attacked them to try to kill Jesse Travis.

  Brody thanked whatever wolf gods existed that Cutter was here tonight. Then he realized the Demon Queen of the Amazon had disappeared out the door, without saying another word.

  Chapter 8

  In a moment he was slamming out the door, his beer still in his hand. What the actual fuck? She sashayed in here, flirted with him, dared him to back her in this crazy stunt. They’d pulled it off—together—and now she was just taking off like he didn’t exist?

  He caught up to her just as she was getting to her truck, all the tension of the night erupting in anger.

  “What the hell was that?” he demanded. “We’re not ‘even.’”

  She faced him, that beautiful curtain of hair swinging as she turned. “What are you talking about? I divided the money fairly, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  He shook his head. “You’re a piece of work, you know that? That’s not what I’m worried about.”

  She shrugged. “Then you shouldn’t be worried about anything. I got you your money back. Take it and spend it on drugs or gambling debts or whatever was so important.”

  She opened the truck door, and he reached past her and slammed it shut. “Why did you do it?” he demanded. “You didn’t track me down and risk your pretty spotted fur by coming into a wolf bar you’ve never been to before, just to help me win my fucking money back. And if you did, I don’t need your pity.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Fine then. I was winning my money back. You were just along for the ride. What do you want me to do, fight you? Because I will, if it will make you take the money and shut up.”

  He put his hands on his hips. “You’re going to fight me to make me keep the money.” This was insane.

  “I’m going to fight you to make you shut up.”

  “Why’d you do it?”

  He held her gaze relentlessly. Her eyes were bright green, like new leaves in a forest, but opaque. If the eyes were the windows of the soul, hers had been shuttered for a long time.

  For the first time, she looked uncomfortable. “You ask a lot of fucking questions. Those assholes stole your money when you were trying to help me out. I owed you, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Now I can.”

  Damn it. He sent the beer bottle spinning off into the night, hearing it shatter on the ground. “You fucked up that last shot on purpose.”

  He hadn’t meant to say that, but it just came out. It bugged him, like she’d challenged him, and then let him win.

  Like she’d handed him the takedown. The Demon Queen always took the takedown.

  She rolled her eyes again. “Give your male ego a rest, Wolf. Take your money and go home.” She took a step forward, her scent aggressive. “Or did you decide you want to fight after all? Because my jag is all riled up by that testosterone storm in there, and it wouldn’t take much to make her come out and play.”

  She ran her fingers over his shirt like she’d done to Bastian, claws out. The fabric slit underneath her razor-sharp touch, but she didn’t draw blood.

  He almost wished she would.

  He wanted to fight. He wanted to fuck. He didn’t know what he wanted, but she was driving him crazy.

  “Fine then. Let’s play,” he growled.

  He dug his fingers into the silky waterfall of hair at the back of her neck and pulled her to him, his lips crashing down on hers in a wild kiss.

  For a second she went totally still, and he thought—I’m fucking dead. But at least I got one more taste.

  And then her lips parted under his and she pressed up against him, hot and wild. The world narrowed down to lips and tongue and teeth and hands, the two of them plastered together, kissing and biting and running their hands over each other’s bodies in frantic haste.

  She felt as good as he’d dreamed. No, better—the warm tight curve of her ass fit perfectly in his hands, and her breasts pressing against his chest were an oasis of softness compared to the lithe muscles on the rest of her body. He shivered at the heat of her hands when she touched his skin through the slits in his shirt where she’d parted the fabric.

  Feelings long-dormant
in him came alive. His wolf howled inside him, and an aching need shuddered through him. He held her tight to him, running his fingers through her hair over and over the way he’d always wanted to, and its silky softness made him long for something he couldn’t name.

  The scent of her arousal mixed with his own was so much more intoxicating than alcohol. He devoured her lips, high on the scent of her, knowing he’d lost his mind and never wanting it back.

  His dick was hot and hard, straining against the seam of his jeans, and he let go of the silky strands of hair and cupped her ass again. He lifted her so that she straddled his hips, back against the side of the truck, and pressed his cock against the sweet spot between her thighs.

  Want me. Want me as much as I want you.

  She gave a feral moan as he found the right spot, and he rolled his hips, caressing her through the tight cloth.

  She nipped at his lower lip, sending his wolf growling, and then her teeth traveled down the side of his neck, not quite piercing the skin. His dick throbbed, and a deep moan forced its way out of his throat. He’d never wanted a woman this much. Not even close.

  Her hands slid down the back of his jeans, tightening the pull on his dick. The feel of her warm skin on his naked ass drew another groan from him.

  Brody reached around and pulled open the back door of the truck. It was an old one, with a bench seat in the back, and he pushed Jasmin onto the seat. Her ass had barely hit the vinyl before she was undoing his jeans. She put her hand inside his briefs and wrapped it around his swollen cock, sliding her fist up its length.

  He barely kept from letting out a full-blown howl. She slid backward across the seat without letting go of him, and he moved with her, managing to pull the door shut behind him.

  He knelt above her, fumbling at her jeans, gritting his teeth in a strangled moan every time she pulled rhythmically at his cock.

  This was insane. He was half-naked in Jasmin the Demon Queen’s truck right outside the Mad River Road House, where half the Nashville pack would love to catch him with his pants down.