Fallen Angels 01 - Covet (15 page)

“Oh, thank you.” She reached out and squeezed his hands. “Thank you so much. I really do want this to work.”

She blew him a kiss and shut the door. Stepping to the side, he watched her ease out of the parking lot and accelerate down Trade Street, the engine going through its gears slick as shit through a goose.

Jim frowned and thought that if that was what she classed as not knowing how to work a stick shift, he wanted to know exactly what proficient would be.

Man, he needed a cigarette.

With a rattle and a whir, a car pulled up to the brick wall of the club and parked under one of the staff-only signs. Two barely dressed women with
Playboy
breasts and legs as thick as toothpicks got out and stopped when they saw him.

“Hey,” the blonde said with a sexy smile. “You coming into the club?”

Her friend had an Amy Winehouse beehive and a necklace that spelled out SLUT in diamonds. “Yeah, how'd you like to
come
with us through the back door?”

The innuendo was way too obvious for Jim's taste, and that dangler around her neck meant he was far more interesting in going if she were involved—but if it saved him a trip all the way around the club in the cold night? Fine and dandy, thank you, ma'am.

Jim walked over as a bouncer opened the door for the ladies.

“He's with us,” Blondie said to the guy. “He's my cousin.”

'“Sup, man.” The bouncer put out his knuckles and Jim gave them a pound. “Good to meet you.”

After they were inside, the guy relocked the door and talked into the Bluetooth clipped on his ear. “Up front? Okay. Coming. Shit, girls, we got a rumble in general population. You're gonna wanna harig here till it's over.”

“Oh, we'll find something to do,” the blonde quipped.

“Or somebody,” the beehive cut in, taking Jim's arm and rubbing up on him.

He disengaged himself. “I got a friend waiting for me.”

“Male or female?” the blonde asked.

“Male.”

“Perfect for a double date. Club's that way—see you in a bit.”

The one with the beehive leaned up to his ear. “You think I look good now, wait'11 you see my work clothes.”

They hustled off through a door marked LADIES LOCKER ROOM, leaving him in the dark hall thinking that if they were changing into something smaller than what they had on, the pair were going to come out dressed in postage stamps.

As he started down for the club proper, a dark-haired working woman turned the corner up ahead and came toward him. He recognized her instantly as the one Vin had actually been staring at when Devina's latex nemesis had been begging him for attention, and Jim was not happy to see who was on her tail: That pair of big, young guys were way too close, and they had looks on their faces like they'd chased her into this dim, secluded hallway because they wanted something she clearly wasn't interested in giving them.

Jim glanced up and back. The corridor was a good forty feet long and about ten feet wide, and aside from a door marked OFFICE, which was way far down by the exit, the locker room was the only shot she had at losing them.

And the bouncers were already busy with some kind of disturbance.

Jim planted his feet and got ready to intervene...when from out of nowhere, Vin appeared in the archway at the club end of things, looking like he'd come to the same this-ain't-right conclusion. Striding down, Vin closed the distance fast, but the drama reached Jim first. “I said no,” the woman snapped over her shoulder. “Your kind of female doesn't get to say no.”

Okay, so the wrong thing to say, right there. Jim stepped into the path of the guys and spoke to the woman over his shoulder. “You all right?”

As she turned to him, it was clear by her hard face and her terrified eyes that she was keeping it together by force of will only. “Yup. Just taking a break.”

“Why? Is your mouth tired already?”

Jim faced off at the guy who'd spoken. “Why don't you back the fuck off.”

“Who are you? Another one of her pimps?” The SOB reached around and grabbed her wrist. “Why don't you let her do—”

Vin diPietro, who had closed the distance, moved like the street was still in his blood. Before Jim took action, he was on the unwelcome contact, catching the biceps of that arm and breaking the guy's hold on the woman by snapping the kid around. He didn't say a thing. Didn't have to. He was ready to pop the motherfucker, gray eyes no longer cool, but volcanic.

“Let go of my goddamn arm!” the punk yelled.

“Make. Me.”

Jim glanced at the woman. “My buddy and I are gonna handle this.

Why don't you grab a cup of coffee and tell those other two girls to hang with you. I'll give you a shout when the attitude adjustment is finished.”

Her eyes drifted over to Vin. It was clear she didn't like accepting the help, but she wasn't stupid. Given the buzz in the college kids' eyes, there wasn't just booze fueling them, but some coke or meth, too.

Which meant the chances of things going downhill fast were high.

Til call for a bouncer,” she muttered as she opened the locker room door.

“Do me a favor,” Vin said, still vapor-locked on his boy. “Don't call anyone.”

She shook her head a little and ducked out of the hall.

And that was when the knife appeared in the quiet kid's hand.

Leaving Vin to deal with the chatty Cathy of the pair, Jim stepped forward and anticipated which direction the lunge with the blade was going to come from. Ah, yes, fidiot with the sharpie was going to cruise in from the right because he was right handed, so it was just a case of waiting—

Jim grabbed the guy in midcharge, snagging his wrist, whipping him around, and applying pressure to the joint until the weapon dropped to the floor. And just as he introduced the bastard's face to the wall, Vin broke into a fistfight, ducking a wide punch, then coming up with his bare knuckles like a boxer. His impact was a cracking stunner...but the trouble with illicit stimulants was that they carried, in addition to the possibility of felony and addiction, the certainty of anesthetic properties.

So the kid with the ugly, and now bloody, mouth didn't seem to feel a thing. He slammed a return hook into Vin's face and it was on. The pair of them went hog wild, turning the hallway into an MMA octagon—and check that shit out: Vin was both the aggressor and the punisher of the pair.

To give him plenty of room for the beat-down he was delivering, Jim dragged his deadweight out of the way, prepared to keep things civil as long as his load of crap kept the trouble and the opinions to a minimum.

Fucker had to open his mouth, though. Just had to: “Why do you give a shit what some whore does? She's just a heartbeat and a hole, for fuck's sake.”

Jim's vision flickered on and off, but he got a hold of himself and glanced up at the ceiling. Sure enough there were pods at regular intervals—which meant this was all being recorded. Then again...he and Vin had been smart enough to let their opponents throw the first punch and take out the weapon, so legally they could argue self-defense.

But more to the point, two college-aged fuck-twits who'd been doing illegal drugs weren't going to want to report shit to the police.

So no reason not to finish this.

Jim tightened his hold on that wrist, secured another grabber on the upper arm, and yanked the kid back so he could whisper in his ear. “I want you to take a deep breath. Come on, now...concentrate. Calm down and take a deep breath for me. That's it...”

Jim squeezed and squeezed some more until pain cut off any struggle.

And when there was plenty of compliance with the even breathing, he dislocated that arm right from its shoulder socket with a quick twist.

The resulting scream was loud, but the music from the dance floor drowned out the echo. Which was why, all things considered, clubs were not a bad place for throw-downs.

As the kid sagged onto the floor, Jim knelt in front of him. “I hate hospitals. Just out of one myself. You know what they're going to do to someone with your kind of injury? They're going to put the arm back where it belongs. Here, let me show you.”

Jim took the flopping limb and didn't bother telling the guy to breathe deep. He just applied the appropriate pressure so that the bone popped back into its home. No screaming this time—the SOB just passed out cold.

In the wake of his stab at being an ortho doc, Jim glanced up to see how things were going with the other half of the altercations—and got an eyeball full of Vin working his opponent's liver like it was bread dough. College Boy was wilting badly and looking royally licked, his hands up not to throw punches, but to ward them off...and his knees knocking together like his balance was going fast.

Which would have been great except for the fact they had trouble.

At the end of the hall, they were attracting attention, a clubgoer peering down the corridor. The lights were dim, but not that dim.

They had to clear the fuck out. “Vin, we got to go,” Jim hissed.

The newsflash didn't register, and that wasn't a surprise, given the brutal focus Vin was bringing to his fight. Shit, screw the peanut gallery; if he was allowed to keep this up, he was going to kill the guy. Or at least turn the fool into a linebacker-size vegetable.

Jim stood up, prepared to intervene with more than words.

Vin was having a fucking ball.

It had been years since he'd thrown punches at more than a bag of sand in the gym, and he'd forgotten how good it felt to physically express his opinion of an asshole—directly in the guy's face. Man, it all came back, the stance, the power, the focus.

He still had it. He could still fight.

The trouble was, like all good things, the party had to come to an end and it turned out not to be of the knocked-out-opponent variety—

although given the way the college kid's pins were wobbling, if Vin had just a little longer...

But no, Jim broke up the fun, locking a heavy hand on Vin's shoulder and yanking him out of range. “We've got an audience.”

Panting like an fin bull, Vin glanced up the hallway. Sure enough, a guy with glasses and a mustache was staring at them all, his expression like he'd been witness to a car accident.

Before anyone could react, however, the back door to the club swung open and an African-American man came striding down toward the melee, looking like he was capable of tearing the front fender off a car. With his teeth.

“What the
hell
is going on in
my
house?”

Vin's dark-haired woman stepped out from the locker room. “Trez, the two in the skull shirts are the problem.”

Vin blinked like a dummy at the beautiful sound of her voice, but then he refocused and muscled his kid face-first into the wall. “Feel free to finish what I started here,” he said to the club's owner.

Jim pulled his loose bundle of frat boy off the floor. “This one had the knife.”

The Trez guy looked the kids over. “Where's the weapon?” Jim kicked the thing over and the owner bent down and picked it up.

“Police been called?”

Everyone glanced at the woman, and as she shook her head, Vin found himself unable to look away. From across the club she'd made his heart pound; up close she made the thing stop dead: Her eyes were so blue they reminded him of a summer sky.

“I think these boys are done,” Trez said with approval. “Nice work.”

“Where do you want them?” Jim asked.

“Let's take 'em out back.”

Look at me,
Vin thought at the woman.
Look at me again. Please.

“Roger that,” Jim said, and began hauling his load down the hall.

After a moment, Vin followed the example, pushing his guy along.

When they came to the door, Trez opened the way like a perfect gentleman and stepped to the side. “Anywhere you like,” the owner said.

Jim 'liked' the brick wall to the left, whereas Vin preferred the opposite side— Just as he dropped the kid on his ass, he froze.

The security lights around the door shone down over the heads of the boys, casting a solid blanket of illumination all the way to their feet.

So their shadows should have been on the asphalt. They weren't. Both of them had dark halos on the brick behind their heads, a twin pair of smoky gray crowns that weaved ever so slightly.

“Oh...Christ,” Vin whispered.

The one he'd been beating on glanced up with eyes that were more tired than hostile. “Why are you looking at us like that.”

Because you 're going to die tonight,
he thought.

Jim's voice registered from a distance: “Vin? What's up?”

Vin shook himself, and prayed those damn shadows disappeared. No luck. He tried to rub his eyes in hopes of wiping them away—and found that his face hurt too much from the punches it took to handle that kind of attention.

And the shadows prevailed.

Trez nodded over his shoulder to the club. “If you two can head in, I'm going to have a word with this pair of shit-heads. Just so that they're perfectly clear on where things stand.”

“Yeah. Cool.” Vin forced himself to get moving, but as he came up to the door, he glanced over at the kids. “Be careful...watch yourselves.”

“Fuck you,” was what came back at him. Which meant they were taking it not as advice, but a threat.

“No, I mean—”

“Come on,” Jim said, muscling him back into the building. “Let's go.”

God, maybe he was wrong. Maybe he just needed to get his eyes checked. Maybe he was going to get a migraine in another twenty minutes. But whatever the explanation, he couldn't go back to where he'd been with this shit. He just couldn't handle that.

In the hallway, Jim took his arm. “You get knocked in the head bad?”

“Nope.” Although, given how much his face was flaring up, that wasn't entirely true. “I'm fine.”

“Whatever. Let's give the owner a minute out back and when he comes in again, I'll take you to my truck.”

“I'm not leaving until I see that—” Woman. There by the locker room door.

Vin headed for her, shutting all of his paranoid, wingnut head spins down and concentrating on her. “Are you okay?”

She'd put a fleece on over her revealing getup, and the thing fell to her thighs, making her seem like the kind of woman you wanted to take into your arms and hold through the whole night. “Are you all right?”