2. Seraphina
2
SERAPHINA
“BITEME MCGEE”
If there’s one thing I need before fucking Ivan and his friends, it’s a drink.
I pull my motorcycle in one of the spots near the exit of the Drunken Hound, dismounting and pulling my leather jacket tighter around my shoulders as the Moriton night air nips at my skin. The heels of my boots clunk heavily against the rotting steps, causing several club members to look my way. I ignore the hungry gazes and offer smiles to those I recognize as I make my way up to the bar, my eyes scanning the sparse metal stools for a place to take away some of the agony throbbing in the balls of my feet.
Unfortunately, the only available seat is next to a man dressed in a correctional officer’s uniform. And while I’m sure it won’t be a problem, I’m weirdly paranoid tonight. Probably something to do with the client I’m about to see.
Fuck you, anxiety. I need that drink.
I sidle up to the bar and casually slide onto the seat, moving my hips side to side as I try to find a comfy position while I wait for the bartender to come over. Axel is currently at the opposite end, the dimple in his cheek popping as he serves his very best smolder to the blond girl he’s leaning in toward. She’s so goddamn far out of his league, I can’t help but chuckle at his tenacity. She wrinkles her perfect nose at whatever he said, then pockets the two-dollar tip she was about to hand him. His mouth pops with indignation, and the girl smirks, mouthing words that look a whole lot like I think I deserve compensation for wasting the past thirty seconds of my life.
A small laugh bursts from my mouth, causing the officer to jerk his gaze toward me for the briefest moment. I quickly seal my lips, thanking the stars as Axel trudges toward me, and the officer returns his attention to his beverage.
“Hey, babe. Sorry for keeping you waiting.” He slings a towel over his shoulder with a bright smile like he didn’t just have his balls metaphorically kicked in. His baby blue aura flickers slightly as he takes in my expression, the smile on his face dropping. “Whoa. You okay?”
I nod, twisting my hands tightly together as I give him a bright smile. “Peachy.”
He gives me a dubious stare, but pushes the issue no further. “The usual?”
“Please,” I murmur, shifting in my seat as I sense the weight of the officer’s stare of my profile. “Except make it a double.”
Axel nods, moving to the back and grabbing the cheapest whiskey in the spot to make my drink. The officer on my right flicks his eyes toward me, and I clutch my jacket tighter over my chest, willing Axel to reappear so I have something else to focus on.
My gaze finds the TV in the corner of the room, disappointed to find the news playing. I’d much rather watch some hot muscular men chase each other around and play with balls than listen to all the depressing shit going on in this city.
I listen to the attractive female newscaster prattle off the latest horrors befalling the city of Moriton. Homelessness at an all-time high, teens getting addicted to X, people kicking puppies—the usual. But then she says something else—something that catches my interest.
This afternoon, the serial killer known as “The Reaper” escaped a max security prison in what police are calling “the worst prison break in Moriton history.” Police are still looking into the incident and trying to discover how it was possible for The Reaper to pull off the heist.
Several other escaped prisoners were apprehended a mile outside of the gates, but when they were questioned, none seemed to be involved with or know anything about the deadly man who caused the break. When asked for a statement, Police Chief Ace Jennings had this to say:
“He is a dangerous, violent, sociopathic criminal. He will kill without thought and without remorse—man, woman, or child. If you see him or have any insight as to where he might be, do not take the law into your own hands. Do not try to apprehend him, speak to him, or even draw his attention to your person. We repeat, he is dangerous, and if anyone has information as to his whereabouts, they should contact the Moriton Police Department immediately.”
“Awful what the world has come to, isn’t it?”
I jerk at the low timbre of the officer’s voice, fighting the urge to look his way even as I feel his stare piercing my profile.
“Sure is,” I murmur, twisting my fingers in my lap.
Axel returns, sliding my drink in front of me. The officer gives him a nod, and Axel disappears for half a minute before returning with two shots of clear liquid. He places one in front of me, then scuttles off without another word, leaving me with a frown and a shot I never asked for.
“You’re welcome,” the officer says, his eyes digging into my profile hungrily as he tries to gain my attention.
“I didn’t ask for it.” I eye the shot with a scowl.
I know I’m toeing the line of bitchiness, but I don’t like how comfortable this man seems around me. I drag my eyes to him with every intention of telling him to fuck off, but my words die in my throat as his aura bursts from his outline. I can’t quite place the color of the dark hue throbbing in the dim bar light—all I know is it’s beautiful. Beautiful and dangerous.
When I’m finally able to drag my eyes away from the color bursting from his pores, I start to notice other features. Thick, unruly hair frames an angular face, the deep obsidian color drawing out eyes the hue of a cloudless summer sky. He has two-day stubble framing a jaw cut from stone, just short enough so the dimples in his cheeks are visible with his smirk.
My stomach clenches with something like desire as I run my eyes over the broad shoulders practically bursting from his uniform. I’m about to comment on it but think better of it and grab the shot he bought me instead. I take a whiff of the mystery liquid and nearly gag as the scent of expensive tequila singes my nose hairs.
I fucking hate tequila.
“How are you doing on this unexceptional night?” he asks, watching as I tap the shot glass against the counter before raising it to my lips.
“American dreamin’.” I swallow the venom with a grimace. “Can’t get no rest. How are you, hot lips?”
The man gives me an expression like I just slapped him, but he recovers in the next moment, schooling his features scarily well.
“Better now.” He smirks as I roll my eyes, replacing it with a questioning stare as I snatch his shot and take it back quicker than the first. “You okay?”
“Why do people keep asking me that?” I reach for my original beverage and take a swig. “Is there something wrong with my face?” I ask, turning to him while puffing my cheeks out and going cross-eyed.
A laugh bursts from the man’s perfect lips.
Well, that’s not the usual response…
“It’s the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen.” He leans in and places a hand on my thigh that sends lightning skittering across my skin.
I turn my head to hide my blush, scrunching my nose but leaving his hand there. “How embarrassing for you.”
He tilts his head. “How is that embarrassing?”
“If I’m the most beautiful face you’ve seen, then you’ve clearly not seen very many faces,” I say, carving out the jagged scar that runs at an angle from my forehead to the corner of my mouth. “Have you been living in a hole or something?”
He reaches up, snatching my hand from my face before I have time to react. His thumb runs across the back of my hand, causing heated sparks to dance across my skin.
“I’ve been in maximum prison for the past eight years—so yeah, pretty much the same thing.”
My heart thuds, and I scowl as I rip my hand from his grip. “Uh-huh. Is your orange jumpsuit at the laundromat?” I eye his police officer’s uniform dubiously. What an asshole. Was that supposed to be an attempt at a joke?
“It was actually black-and-white-striped—but no. The man I killed for this uniform is wearing my jumpsuit.” He grins, leaning into my personal bubble. I jerk back, my mouth pinching in irritation as I realize he really was just fucking with me.
I give him a blank stare, reaching out and pressing my finger into the name tag on his uniform. “Officer… Jameson? Like the whiskey? Dear God, please tell me you bought this at a costume store,” I mumble the last part, but it doesn’t stop Officer Whiskey from chuckling.
“I’ll stick to my story from earlier.” He grins, gripping my hand again and pressing a kiss to my forefinger. I rip it away, cradling it to my chest as if he just did me a great offense—though I have a horrible suspicion my expression says the opposite.
“Are you trying to get in my pants, Officer Bourbon? Because you’re doing a horrible job of it.”
“Really? And here I was, thinking you were just about to accept my proposal.”
“Think again, Bottom Shelf.” I narrow my eyes, tossing my pale hair over my shoulder. “I’m a rye-and-dine type of gal. And you’ve failed to fulfill either of those obligations.” I gesture to the empty shot glass of tequila. “So I think I’ll go back to ignoring you, finish my delicious drink, and take my leave. Unless you have a more promising proposal for me ?”
“Go out with me.” A demand, not a question.
“I’d much rather stick a sea cucumber up my pussy. But thanks for the offer.” I turn and proceed to ignore him again.
“Oh come on. It’ll be fun,” he says, grinning flirtatiously.
“Do you know what a sea cucumber is? The answer is clearly no.”
He laughs. “What? Afraid I couldn’t afford you?”
While I’m sure it’s another of his stupid “jokes,” fear clenches my chest at the notion he somehow knows what I do for a living. The thing he could use to imprison me—or worse, exploit me.
“Who told you?” I demand, resisting the urge to reach for the dagger nestled in the side of my book and ram it through his eye socket.
“Told me what?” His deep voice is free of the teasing lilt from a moment ago. “I’m… sorry if I offended you in some way? You’re right—sea cucumbers are fucking disgusting abominations against God and man. I would hate for one to go anywhere near your precious pussy.”
I search his gaze, then turn with a huff, brushing my sweaty palms over my fitted black bodysuit. “Just… stop bothering me. Okay?” I take a sip of my drink, intent on forgetting the disgustingly handsome officer next to me exists.
“What’s your name?” he asks, clearly not ready to give up.
I roll my eyes. “Brandy.”
“No.” His brows furrow. “I mean your real name.”
I turn to him with a scowl. “What makes you think Brandy isn’t my name?”
“For starters?” He sits back, making a show of dragging his eyes down my scantily clad frame. “You just told me you’re a whiskey girl.”
I roll my eyes again but make no comment, and he grins like he thinks he’s figured me out.
“So… what is your real name?”
“Biteme McGee.”
Now it’s his turn to roll his eyes. “Seriously?”
My pale lashes flutter sweetly. “It’s a family name. Middle school was a bitch.”
He throws his head back in a laugh that exposes his Adam’s apple, and I lick my lips as the urge to run my tongue across his throat overwhelms me.
“I can see why,” he finally says, running his eyes over me in the same hungry way as earlier. “Such an ugly name wasted on a pretty face.”
I should say something to shut him up, but…
Dammit. It should be illegal to be that hot.
“Anyway… what's your name?” I ask, dragging my eyes from his perfect plump lips and fixing my face in a bored expression.
“Orion Adair.” He smirks. “Fastest hands in the West.”
I’m about to make some crack about it not being wise to give your full name to strangers—or maybe about his outdated Western reference—when something weird occurs to me. “I thought your last name was Jameson?”
“I told you—Jameson was the name of the man I killed to get this uniform.”
I take the opportunity to look at him—really look —and what I see lurking beneath his teasing smile disturbs me.
“I should get going,” I murmur, reaching for my purse to pay for my drink.
“Don’t bother.” He rests his hand atop mine, and my skin jumps. I look up, hitting him with a bright—albeit somewhat feral—smile.
“Thank you… Orion.”
“My pleasure,” he murmurs, watching me intently as I slide out of my seat.
“Oh, Brandy ?”
“Yeah?” I nearly losing my balance with the force I whip around to face him.
“Be careful out there.” He tips his drink toward the TV screen with that eerie smile still pulling at his mouth. “It seems there’s a psycho running amok.”
I open my mouth to respond, but the words get caught in my throat. With a disgruntled huff, I turn on my heels and hasten out of the bar, casting all thoughts of the handsome, disconcerting officer aside.
After all, it’s best not to keep Ivan waiting.