Chapter 1
Jane
When life hands you lemons, make lemonade!
Someone told me that once and it always stuck with me, not because it made me feel better on dark days, but because it’s such a dumb thing to say.
It’s like a meme on your feed with a mountain background or a cute kitten and message on it saying something like ‘Don’t worry!
You got this!’ or ‘Make someone smile every day, but never forget that your someone too.’ (Yeah, with that ‘your’.)
I don’t think the people who made up these little proverbial sayings and uplifting generic messages had a group of stalkers dogging their steps either.
I mean, seriously, for one thing, what kind of fucked up lemonade can you make from a scenario where people you’ve never seen threaten to hurt anyone you come to care about, people who never let you make a home anywhere? How do you make the best of that shit?
I already have my hand on the door when I freeze.
I can hear a tune from an old juke box. The song it’s playing is dated; not the kind of music that would be on a playlist in a crowded wine bar.
There’s a pool table inside. I can hear the balls knocking against each other, low chuckles, the clink of glasses, and errant, female laughter.
I shouldn’t have come here. I told Sharlene the same thing, but she said these guys are the meanest and have the most muscle in town … for a price.
I hear someone snigger behind me and voices murmuring.
I glance over my shoulder to see two human guys in their leathers, standing with their bikes and sporting the patches of some MC I’ve never heard of.
I’m not surprised they’re there. This is a biker bar after all.
They’re watching me, talking about me. Cold, calculating eyes take in my jeans and old sneakers, the oversized thrift store jacket that I bought to keep me dry, but is nowhere near waterproof enough for the amount of rain we’ve been getting lately.
Not giving them the chance to say anything to me directly, I yank open the door. I don’t need any trouble. I got more than I can handle as it is and that’s the only reason I’m here.
My senses are hit with the force of a sledgehammer, my usual defenses crumbling like a dried-up sandcastle on the beach.
I automatically keep the cringe inside. I wish I could put my earbuds in just to help with some of the louder noise, but that would look too weird now.
The cacophony of sound that had been muffled before makes my steps falter.
The neon signs over the bar glare at me, and the smell of smoke and stale air assails me.
I almost take a step back, call this whole thing off.
But I can’t. What’s waiting for me if I don’t do this is worse than a little discomfort.
So I push it down, wondering why it’s so hazy when lighting up indoors has been illegal forever.
I survey the room, not even trying to pretend I belong here as the second-hand smoke chokes me a little. There are quite a few people sitting around. I can see some others playing pool at the back. As I make my way over to the bar, I garner a few curious looks, but no one approaches me.
I stop and stand in front of the one and only bartender.
He’s about a foot taller than me with dirty blond hair just long enough, just styled enough to look like he simply rolled out of bed, giving the impression that he can’t be bothered to go get a haircut because he just doesn’t care.
But I’m not fooled. Guys, just like girls, have to put in the effort to be this hot.
It’s not a natural occurrence no matter what he wants people to think.
This guy is all mirage. There’s nothing real about him.
Hot Guy ignores me for long enough that my waiting for him to look up becomes awkward even though he’s not serving anyone. I’m standing right in front of him and he’s intentionally not letting his gaze fall on me.
So rude.
This is a college town and I’ve gotten used to dealing with pretty boys like him in the diner over the past few months, but as the irritation mounts, I forget my usually crippling social anxiety.
I push away the sensations screaming at me to go somewhere dark and quiet and just zone out for a few hours.
‘Excuse me,’ I say lightly, pretending I haven’t even noticed his BS.
He finally looks at me and I’m caught. I’m ensnared by eyes that are the color of molten caramel with little flecks of gold that catch the lights even low as they are. My breathing stutters and I swallow hard. I’ve never felt anything like this.
His knowing smirk is enough to shake me out of my embarrassing reaction and I frown at him. What was that? What is he?
The realization hits me, and I take a step back, my nostrils flaring on a gasp I try to keep under wraps.
Incubus.
I should have known he was one of them even though I’ve never actually met one of his kind before. In general, the supes move in very different circles from humans, but I know they hang out in this bar. That’s why I’m here.
‘You break down or something?’ he asks in a lazy drawl as if I’m taking up his valuable time.
But something in his eyes makes me think that, like the rest of his appearance, this is a show he’s putting on. There’s something about me that’s intrigued him, and I don’t like it. The last thing I need is his full attention.
‘I’m looking for the Iron Incubi.’
He barks out a loud laugh and I can’t hide my wince. What if their gatekeeper won’t even let me talk to them? What’s my plan if I can’t get their help?
Leave, a helpful voice inside my head supplies. Get on the first bus out of town before bad things start to happen here too.
But I can’t do that. I need this all to stop.
I’m so tired. I just want to live my life.
I don’t want to go to a new town, live on the streets for the first few months, get some shitty job that doesn’t ask questions so I can beg my way into some hellhole apartment on the worst street.
And then do it all again in a few months just like I always have to do when they track me down.
They always find me. The thought of it makes me want to curl up and cry.
But I don’t. I’m here so this can finally be over.
Hot Guy doesn’t say anything, his gaze roaming over me, and I get the feeling I’ve somehow baffled him and he’s trying hard to figure me out.
Who knows, maybe he’s the kind of guy it’s really easy to confuse. Even a hot incubus can’t have looks and brains, right?
He gestures with his chin to the darker area where the booths are.
‘They’re in the back by the pool table,’ he says.
I incline my head in thanks, grateful he’s not throwing me straight out on my ass.
I walk through the smoke that’s heavier back here, trying not to cough. I can make out murmured talking and the feminine giggles I heard from outside.
Grinding to a sudden halt, I have third thoughts at the juncture where the floor changes from old wooden boards to an industrial carpet; the kind with brown toned patterns to hide the dirt. It doesn’t work here. I sort of don’t want to touch anything.
If I go past this line, there’s no turning back. Forcing myself to raise my eyes, I’m taken aback by the men in front of me even though I should have expected this level of good-looking.
There are more hot AF men back here. Two of them stand at the wall like sentries, one’s by the pool table in the middle of a game and the other two are sitting in a lone booth with the woman whose laugh I could hear before, I realize belatedly.
‘What the fuck is this?’ one of them asks, putting a little snort at the end.
My eyes follow the voice to the two men leaning against the wall.
The one on the left was the one who spoke, I’m sure.
He’s got brown hair, a shaggy haircut, and the beginnings of a beard along a jaw so chiseled I could swoon like a debutante.
This one actually doesn’t care what he looks like I’m pretty sure, but he’s as gorgeous as Hot Guy at the bar and he’s got a broad set of shoulders that I can’t seem to …
I tear my eyes away.
Don’t get drawn in. You know what they are. You never even notice guys like this. Pulling you in and lowering your defenses is literally what incubi do.
As I look over all the men here, I realize that four of them are even better looking than I originally thought. They could literally all be freaking underwear models if the toned arms I can see are anything to go by. The fifth one my eyes hardly land on. I don’t think he’s one of them.
I scrutinize the small woman in the booth that I just barely noticed.
She’s pressed up against one of them and I look away immediately.
He’s massive and he’s feeding from her .
.. just a little and she’s probably not unwilling, but her eyes are glazed over.
If she was in control of herself when she came in here, she isn’t now.
At least they aren’t fucking her at the table, I guess.
Though from the sounds she’s making, I doubt it’ll be much longer before they are.
That’ll be you if you don’t get your shit together.
I silence the thought that comes after that image – that they’d never want someone like me – for multiple reasons.
Firstly, I’m trying to be kinder to myself, mostly to get Sharlene off my back because she keeps saying I need higher self-esteem.
Secondly, the truth is that if they’re hungry, what I look like doesn’t matter.
They might not want to feed off a homeless drifter, but they will feed if they need to.
Kind thoughts!
The one who spoke is looking past me and I turn my head to see Hot Guy shrugging behind the bar.
‘What do you want?’ asks one of the guys at the pool table to my right. He sounds bored and annoyed at my interruption.
My eyes find his dark and foreboding ones. He’s got a short, black beard that matches his hair and … I want to run my fingers through it?
No, Jane!
‘We already have enough humans to play with.’