All the King's Men: The Beginning (11 page)

As the first slide of electric guitar screamed from the speakers, Scarlet, dressed in a sexy white jumper, slid up from the floor to her feet as she eased the zipper down on the front of the jumpsuit, and then she flipped her head back, sending her long tresses flying to reveal her face. As usual, she wore a mask, which made her allure even more appealing. What looked like a contraption he might find in his long-abandoned dungeon covered her mouth. It looked like a muzzle, made of solid, black material that resembled plastic. And over her eyes was a thin strip of leather, like a Bat Boy mask. Eyeholes revealed her vivid, green eyes, which seemed to lock to his briefly as she peeled out of her jumpsuit like a sexy kitten.

Damn. Underneath, she wore only a modern, almost tech-looking, black-and-white bikini, accented with white plastic over black spandex that clung in all the right places and left little to the imagination.

Clear, hard plastic stripper shoes that looked like glass, with two-inch platform soles, led up to long, lean legs, and Micah briefly pictured those legs around his hips, her body under his on his bed, her fingers digging into his back as she cried his name. He blinked and shook his head. That image was way too real. Almost like a premonition. What the hell?

Scarlet worked the room like a maestro. Everyone came to the Garter to see her, which was why management usually pushed her show toward the end of the evening to keep the patrons hanging and spending. And tonight was no exception. The room was packed even more now than before. Standing room only.

Scarlet gripped the pole, swung around, upside down, and contorted herself into positions worthy of Cirque du Soleil. God, she was one fucking flexible human being, and Micah's cock twitched as another shot of her getting flexible on him in his bedroom dashed through his mind.

Who knew what to expect from Scarlet? Sometimes her shows were softer, more angelic. Sometimes they were more classical. Then others, like tonight, she was hard and in your face, almost like an angry, bondage queen ready to pull out a whip and draw blood. She leaped off the pole, sank into a power squat, rotated her hips hard, arms strong and flexed, head back as if she were pleasuring herself to orgasm, and then she whipped herself around the pole again, her body all hard angles and strength.

If men here cheered, they would be losing their voices right about now. Because, shit, Scarlet was hotter than Hades, on fire beyond the usual. Maybe it was the heavy-duty beats she cavorted to, because White Zombie provided a raw soundtrack for the extreme moves she was laying down, and Micah sat transfixed, taking in this last bit of enjoyment.

All too soon, the song ended, and Scarlet bowed and left the stage. And for what felt like the first time in almost five minutes, Micah breathed. She had that effect on him, and as he glanced around the room and picked up the vibe of heavy arousal from the crowd, it was clear he wasn't the only one she affected. Possessive jealousy hummed under his skin, and he glared at the other patrons, ready to rip off the heads of anyone who tried to touch her.

What the fuck? Why was he going all mated male medieval all of a sudden? He was already mated—well, half-mated—to unreciprocating Jackson. His reaction to Scarlet didn't make sense.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Malek check his watch. It was almost time for his private dance. "You sticking around?" Malek said.

Micah shook off the odd mated aggression roiling through his nerves…emotions that Scarlet, not Jackson, had evoked. "No, man. I'm going to get out of here." He needed to clear his head, get some fresh air, move, do something. Because his brain was fritzing out.

"You sure?" Malek stood and downed the rest of his drink before setting the empty glass back on the table.

"Yeah, I'm sure." Micah adjusted himself, killed his own drink, and dropped a twenty on the table to cover their bill as he stood.

"Okay." Unspoken promises thickened the air between them. Promises of good-bye and secrecy, as well as protection. Malek would keep his word and not let anyone come for Micah when Jackson left. "You take care, Micah."

"You, too, Malek." He clasped hands with his old friend, and then pulled away and headed for the door as Malek slinked toward the private rooms in back, a shroud of guilt falling over him. The guy still felt like he was cheating on Carmen, and Micah stopped for a moment and stared with compassion after him. Poor Malek. What would happen to him after Micah was gone?

The snow had picked up, coming down in blustery curtains of large, heavy flakes, coating the sidewalks and streets with over an inch of powder. Within minutes, Micah's hair was covered, as were his shoulders.

He didn't mind the cold, so he kept walking. A couple of times, he felt eyes on him, but when he stopped and searched the shadows, he saw no one. It was probably nothing. He'd been feeling watched for weeks now, but no one was ever there when he looked, and if someone really was tailing him, wouldn't he have revealed himself by now? So, yeah, the sense of being watched had to be all in his head, even though his instincts told him otherwise.

He didn't know how long he had been walking—a long time, though—when he lifted his gaze and found himself approaching Berlin, the club where he had met Jackson. That had been a strange night. He'd been in an especially foul mood, kicked off his shift early, stopped by the Garter, drooled over Scarlet, and then found himself here as he searched for someone to ease the ache in his balls when Scarlet had been unavailable. Berlin was known for its gay and lesbian patronage, so why he had ended up here that night was a question he couldn't answer. But he had, and Jackson had made eye contact with him from the dance floor, where he'd been grinding up on some other guy. It had been instant attraction between them. Jackson ended up ditching his dance partner, cozied up to Micah at the bar, and the two of them had ended up in the men's room, with Jackson on his knees in front of him and Micah's hands fisting Jackson's dark brown hair. Micah hadn't intended for it to be anything more than a casual one-nighter, but the rest that happened between them had been history from that moment on.

And now their relationship was history. They fought too much, and unlike others who argued, he and Jackson had stopped making up. There were no more apologies. No more requests for forgiveness. No makeup sex. No sex at all. Jackson's needs were getting satisfied elsewhere. The guy enjoyed fucking too much to have gone celibate altogether, and Micah had already seen in Jack's mind what he was doing and where and with whom he was spending his nights.

Speak of the devil. Micah's heart lurched as if stabbed as Jackson spilled from Berlin's doors in the arms of another male. A human. The one Micah had seen in Jackson's thoughts. The two hesitated then locked into a passionate kiss, arms squeezing each other, hands groping body parts that had been meant for Micah. Even from over a block away, the smell of Jackson's arousal stung Micah's nostrils.

His mated male side roared to life, just as it had with Scarlet a little while ago. That was his mate, goddamn it! How dare he find pleasure with another! How dare that human grope what belonged to him! And unlike with his reaction to Scarlet, he would do something about this betrayal, goddammit!

Micah was about to barrel in and strangle the asshole groping Jackson's crotch and sticking his tongue down his throat when a hand closed around his wrist.

"Hey, Mike. What's up?"

Micah spun to find Traceon, that quiet, dark-skinned mixed-blood who always stood off to the side chewing a matchstick during team meetings, standing beside him. His pale green eyes scrutinized him, narrow and shrewd. Trace hadn't missed anything. He knew what Micah was up to.

"What are you doing here?" Micah snapped, yanking his arm away. He looked back up to find that Jackson and his new beau were gone.

"Following a lead." Trace's deep voice held no emotion. No inflection. It was almost monotone. "Where's Malek?"

Micah began walking toward Berlin's front entrance, searching for Jackson. "Who are you, my mother?"

Trace fell into step beside him. "Not since the last time I checked."

Micah regarded him with a sidelong glance. "What are you doing?"

"What do you mean?"

"Are you following me?" He thought about the odd feelings of being watched and wondered if Trace was to blame. The guy did come pre-packaged with special gifts, being that he was a mixed-blood. Maybe one of his gifts included being able to hide in the shadows. No one knew for sure. Trace never talked about himself and kept his life pretty hushed and closed off. And his mind was like a locked box. For all the chatter Micah picked up from everyone else, he never got shit from Trace.

Trace flicked his gaze at him with a crooked frown. "Following you? I was about to ask if you're following me."

Micah tried to get inside Trace's head, but as usual, the mental fortress surrounding Trace's thoughts was firmly in place. He'd never met someone who could so easily close him off like that. Most of the time, people's minds were an open book. He didn't even have to try—he simply heard their thoughts. It could be exhausting, but he had learned to adjust to the odd-even-for-a-vampire phenomenon a long time ago.

"Why would I want to follow you?" Micah scowled and picked up his pace. He didn't want Trace around. Couldn't the guy take a hint?

"Exactly my thought," Trace said, meeting him stride for stride.

Micah searched the encroaching crowd for Jackson, but he was gone. His scent lingered, but it seemed he and his human had already split. Sudden aggression surged through his blood. Jackson was with someone else, heading off to do God knew what to one another. His heart splintered as anger, humiliation, and hopelessness crashed together like fusion atoms.

Roaring, he spun on Trace, grabbed him by the throat, and slammed him into the nearest brick wall, lifting him off the ground. "What the fuck do you want, Trace?"

Trace closed his eyes, almost as if he enjoyed the pain, and then blinked them open again to meet Micah's gaze. "Walk away from him, Micah." He spoke as calmly as he could with Micah's fist around his neck.

Micah reared back, and the skin around his eyes pinched and tightened as he glared at him. "Who are you talking about?"

"You know who I'm talking about." Trace's expression grew deathly serious. "Walk away, Mike. He's only going to hurt you."

Micah slammed him against the wall again, and Trace sighed and dreamily closed his eyes before lazily lifting his lids. The corners of his mouth lifted as if he'd just had a hit of feel-good juice. What the hell was up with this guy? Did he get off on pain or something? "Don't pretend to know what's going on here, Trace."

It looked like Trace had to force himself to focus. "I'm not pretending to know anything."

"Like fuck you aren't."

Trace waved his right hand, and Micah felt a wave of calming energy pour over him. It was enough to make him loosen his grasp and let Trace drop to the ground. Micah's gaze fell to Trace's hand then lifted again to meet his eyes. Trace had just gotten infinitely more interesting, but he was still wading in murky waters where Micah was concerned, and he needed to get out of Micah's business before he lost a body part. What did Trace know about anything, anyway? He wasn't mated and never had been. "I'm going to ask you again, Trace. Are you following me?"

Trace exhaled heavily, and his breath formed a fog of vapor in the cold air. Then he pushed his skull cap more securely over his hairless melon and glanced up the snow-covered sidewalk as a sharp wind drove against them. "What you need is a guardian angel, Micah." Trace flashed him a quick glance, and then he turned and trudged away, head down, hands buried in his coat pockets, leaving large, heavy footprints in the snow.

"I don't need shit, Trace. Least of all a guardian angel. So fuck off and leave me alone." Micah checked the time. It was after four in the morning. He still had a few hours before sunrise, but he no longer felt like being out and about. He wanted to go home. Where he could drown himself in a drunken haze.

His time was running out.

Chapter 7

Tristan grunted and drove his hips against Josie's bottom as he came. "I'm coming. God, I'm coming." Again, he pumped into her, and then again as he filled her and let out a long, deep growl of satisfaction.

His cock struck her tender G-spot as he throbbed, and she climaxed again with a shudder, leaning against her forearm, which was pressed against the tiled wall of the shower. That made three orgasms for her in fifteen minutes. Josie was a female lost to her hormones, and Tristan wasn't complaining. In the past week, they had fucked ten ways to Sunday. In the shower, on the kitchen counter, on the couch, in bed, on the floor, on the dining room table. She couldn't get enough, and Tristan aimed to please, eager to ride out the sexual roller coaster with her.

"You've been insatiable, baby," he said quietly against her shoulder, breathless and still waxing in the afterglow of hot and dirty shower sex.

"Hormones," she said, just as out of breath as he was. "They do a girl's body good."

"They do my body good, too."

She huffed a gentle laugh. "Is that so?"

"Mm-hm." He nibbled her neck, groaning through a tiny aftershock as she sighed. After several more luxurious seconds within her swollen warmth, he slid himself out and rinsed them both off.

"You hungry?" She turned and slung her arms lazily over his shoulders.

"I could eat." He kissed her full lips.

"I'll go fix you an egg salad sandwich while you finish up." She kissed him back and stepped out of the shower.

"Don't exert yourself." Tristan reached for the shampoo as he watched her wrap a towel around her slim body. Within a couple of months, her belly would swell with his child. Already, she had gained three pounds as her appetite increased.

She flashed him a curious glance over her shoulder and laughed. "Exert myself? Making an egg salad sandwich?"

Chagrined, Tristan rolled his eyes at himself. "I know, I know. I'm sorry. I just want you to take it easy." He was already becoming so protective of her and the baby. Overly so. He didn't want her trying to do too much. She should lie down and rest more. They had been given a gift, and he didn't want to leave anything to chance.