Chapter 2
Iggy
Earlier that day.
I arrive at the Emberlight Resort and Casino an hour ahead of my job interview and attempt to give myself a tour of the facilities, but I’m turned back at every corner. It’s a demon-run establishment. So, naturally, the security is on point. As I'm led back to the lobby for the third time, it’s made abundantly clear to me that there’ll be no nosing about where I don’t belong.
Impressive, but no less than I’d expect.
It’s not just the tight security I admire. The place truly lives up to the luxury name. The decor, though too pastel for my tastes, is elegant and sleek with tasteful touches of opulence, and the staff are equal parts gracious, attentive, and hypervigilant.
“Ignatia Henix.” The receptionist calls my name, and I’m shown to the office of Skylla Flarelion, a legend in the marketing world. She’s what's known as a brand maker. While credit for the resort’s success often goes to the founder, the board of directors, or some other C-suite executive who did fuck all, it was Skylla Flarelion who took the small-time casino in nowhere Idaho and grew it into the internationally renowned brand it is today. I can’t believe I’m in her office.
Fingers crossed she didn’t fact-check my resumé.
“Thank you for coming in, Ms. Henix.” She keeps her seat as I enter but inclines her head in greeting, and it might as well be a nod from the queen. I’m practically giggling inside. She’s in her mid-seventies. Her short hair is pure white, her horns are gold gilded and studded with a pattern of onyx, and the way she holds herself, even while seated, there’s no question this demoness is a capital ‘B’ Boss.
“Please, call me Iggy,” I say, managing to sound cool and collected, a feat I couldn’t have pulled off in my early twenties. But now that I’m well on my way to thirty, I can exude confidence and refinement in short bursts. If I had to keep it going for a day or longer, I’d buckle. But an hour-long interview? No sweat.
“Iggy. Why don’t you tell me about yourself?” She folds her manicured hands in her lap, my cue to impress her, and I launch into my memorized self-pitch. She asks me a series of questions, and I give my prepared answers. From where I’m sitting, it goes well. She nods three times, and the corner of her mouth crooks into the teeniest smile twice. But most importantly, she doesn’t question any of the ever-so-slightly exaggerated qualifications sprinkled throughout my resumé.
It was ill-advised, I’ll admit, fabricating qualifications, but feeling habitually and chronically under-appreciated at my current job had put me in a mood. A drinking mood. I wasn’t so much lying as I was dreaming in resumé format, imagining who I could be and where my career could go, if I could just get my foot in the door somewhere better, somewhere where work quality mattered.
A couple of bottles of wine later, I hit send and blasted that heavily padded resumé to every open marketing position on the Career Monster job board.
I was shocked when it got a bite from an elite, luxury brand. I panicked and nearly declined the invitation to interview, but here I am.
“Thank you for coming in.” She rises, and I hold my breath, hoping against hope she’s not about to say don’t call us, we’ll call you .
“Thank you for having me.” My heart pounds as I stand and firmly grip her extended hand. I wouldn’t dare insult her with a weak handshake.
“Final interviews are on Monday. See Yeera at the front desk. She’ll get you scheduled.”
Yes, yes, yes! I’ve made it to the last round. I’m a top candidate. This job is mine! Please, Mother Darkness. It has to be mine. I’ll work my ass off. I’ll do anything they ask me to do. Anything I don’t already know, I’ll learn. Weekends, evenings, every minute of every day, I will focus on this job and nothing else, if they give it to me.
“Thank you,” I say, clamping down hard on the elated smile threatening to hijack my face. I have to fight the urge to curtsy as I make my exit.
I t’s Friday, and while I could take the six-and-a-half-hour flight home, turn around, and take the same flight back on Monday, it seems easier to stay the weekend. I jump in my rental and instead of heading east toward the airport, I head west. From the Emberlight Resort on Mt. BZB, I drive down into the valley and arrive in Winter Bliss. It’s been at least a decade since I’ve been back to the small town I grew up in, but it looks the same. It’s as if time got turned around in this cozy little vortex and forgot it had anywhere to go.
I don’t know anyone who lives here anymore, but there are inns aplenty in a town like this, and I have no trouble booking a room. I’m still buzzing with excitement from my interview, and all this energy has to go somewhere. So I lowball the innkeeper, a sleepy demoness wearing a cat-print apron. She perks up when she realizes I’m game to haggle. Her eyes swirl with an excited orange, and she crows with laughter when we finally strike a bargain. I’m grinning too. I got her down fifty bucks. Not bad. I had to forgo room service in favor of breakfast in the parlor, but that’s fine by me. Who wants to eat in bed? Disgusting. We shake forearms, sealing the deal, and she hands over the tasseled key to my room with a little satisfied sigh.
It’s not enough for me. Our exchange took the edge off, but I’ve still got cloud-nine energy pumping through my veins, mixed with nerves over Monday’s pending interview. I need an outlet. Looks like I’ll be stepping out tonight, maybe grab a few drinks and flirt with some cute randos. If I find one with some stamina, I’ll make a night of it.
“No guests allowed in the rooms,” she calls after me, as if reading my mind.
“That wasn’t part of our deal.”
“It’s a strict house rule. Non-negotiable,” she sniffs and gives me a judgy once over.
“Fine,” I grumble. The world is full of prudes bent on ruining everyone else’s fun.
I shuck my business attire and slip into something more me—black on black. I may have outgrown the black lipstick and lace of my gothic youth, but my signature color is mine forever. I head out just after dark in search of some nightlife. A neon sign comes into view, and I know immediately that this is where I’m stopping: Under the Volcano Tiki Bar. It’s too delightfully kitschy to ignore. I pull into a packed parking lot and circle a few times until I notice a back alley with a single open spot just for me. There’s a backdoor on the brick building set into an alcove. It has the tiki bar’s name painted on it, but when I get closer, I see it’s an emergency exit.
Turning, I’m stunned by the view. The bar is situated on just enough of a hill that this little alcove looks out over the whole town with its sloping roofs and hazy yellow street lights. In the distance, a full moon hangs in a cloudless sky, right over the silhouette of the town’s namesake volcano. “What a waste of a gorgeous view,” I murmur to myself and head around to find the front entrance.
I’ve no sooner slid onto an open barstool and placed my drink order when a pair of sexy forearms catches my eye. Hello there, mister . The forearms belong to a tall, dirty-blond man wearing a white cowboy hat and a dress shirt with cuffs rolled just high enough to tease me. Mmm. In college, I strictly dated demons. But once I gave up dating altogether, I branched out. I haven’t been with a lot of humans, but I like the size of this one. Especially his hands. He digs into his pocket and pulls out a small notebook. He thumbs through it before shoving it back in his pocket and heading off into the crowd.
I watch him with mild interest as he and his notebook make their rounds. I catch a few words here and there, and I can’t help but snort in amusement. His pickup lines are truly awful. Even the adorable tipping of his hat and dimpled grin can’t save him. A long string of rejections unspools tragically before me. Yet he remains bright eyed and eager, hopping from one woman to the next without pause. A rabbit on the hunt, the phrase pops into my head, and it’s an apt description. If rabbits hunted, this is how they’d do it.
I should be cringing away, but instead, I’m drawn in, fascinated by the fact that he doesn’t seem all that upset. A little frustrated sure, a touch disappointed maybe, but nothing deeper registers on his face, and I’m baffled. As far as I know, humans feel embarrassment and rejection the same deep and painful way demons do. I don’t understand how he can put himself through this.
As I continue watching, a pattern starts to emerge.
He’ll look at a woman, and if his eyes dilate or his nostrils flare, two subtle signs of attraction, he veers course, avoiding that woman only to approach another. Is it conscious or unconscious? I can’t tell, but he does it again. And again. And again.
A man takes the barstool next to me and tries to strike up a conversation, but I can’t be distracted now. I’m too invested in this mystery. What is this dimpled cowboy up to? Is he playing games?
I like to play.
When the barman returns, I order my favorite drink and have it sent to the white-hatted stranger. The bartender gives me what I can only interpret as an approving nod. When the drink is delivered, the white hat looks my way, and even from the far end of the bar, I see the way his eyes dilate when he sees me. His nostrils flare, and in a room already thick with the sweet scent of desire, my tongue instantly picks up the deluge of pheromones he dumps into the air, a dense, overpowering cloud. Holy Dark Mother. This man really likes the look of me.
In demon culture, it’s considered impolite to notice the off-scenting of others in public, but he makes that impossible. Every demon seated at the bar starts in surprise, glancing first at him, then around to see what set him off so powerfully.
Me.
I twist in my chair, practically purring at the ego stroke. Well, I guess I found my random hookup for the night. I wink at him.
But just like with the other women who elicited any sign of attraction, he makes no move. In fact, he ignores me completely. Even knowing his pattern, it still stings of rejection. I suppose this is the game he’s playing. It’s not one I’ve played before. Maybe he expects me to approach him, but it doesn’t strike me as the right move. I step outside to wait. I’ll give him five minutes.
He takes his time, but when he comes out, I’m greeted by the same overwhelming sweet scent and heated look he shot me inside, and a thrill runs through me. I’m certain this beefy-forearmed, large-handed stranger is a gift from Below, sent to help me work off my pent-up energy from earlier in the day. Thank you, Mother Darkness.
It’s time to play.
I tease him, trying to draw him out, but he keeps his distance all the while devouring me with his eyes. I don’t understand. If he wants me so badly, why doesn’t he make a move? “No pickup line for me?” I finally ask with a pout.
Again, he doesn’t answer. Stubborn. I take his hand, so deliciously heavy in mine and rough with calluses, and I tug him forward, leading him around the building to the alley where I parked.
When I glance back at his lanky form, a logistical concern pops to mind. I’m not sure the backseat of my rental car will accommodate both of us.
The concern fades as yet another gift from Below presents itself. The alcove with a view. Perfect. I pull him inside and press him up against the emergency exit. He flattens his back against the door. His face is partially shadowed beneath the brim of his hat, and he watches me through heavily lidded eyes. Inside he was constantly in motion to the point I’d almost call him fidgety, but now he goes perfectly still.
I rest my hands on his chest and feel his sharp intake of breath. He’s pleasantly hot to the touch, giving off the baked warmth of sun-kissed sand. So nice. I lift up on my toes, stretching to bring my mouth to his and stopping just shy of contact. I hover there for a moment and listen as his breath goes shallow and raspy. His nose twitches, and I can’t help but grin. I brush my bottom lip lightly over his, and a spark jumps between us. Just static, but at the flash, his wariness dissolves.
He tips forward, sealing his mouth firmly over mine, claiming it hungrily with a low growl. The brim of his hat smashes up against my horns, bumping against them until it’s knocked askew and finally falls off his head. He kicks it aside, and then he’s back, kissing me again. We lose our footing and stumble sideways until I’m pinned against the wall.
His palms land heavily against the brick, spaced around my head and caging me in. He shifts position, angling just right to deepen our frantic kiss. My lips give way, opening up at the pressure of his tongue. It sweeps in, taking what it wants, a demand pretending to be a kiss, and I feel it all the way down to my toes. My hands roam his torso, fisting his shirt and pulling at him. I want him closer, but he doesn’t budge. I loop my fingers over his belt and tug. His hips stay stubbornly cocked back, leaving too much space between us.
I pull my chin sideways, coming up for air. “Do you want to stop?” I ask.
“No.” He shakes his head, and by the heated look in his eye, I’m inclined to believe him, but he’s holding back. I want more. At the very least I need him pressed up against me, but judging by the warmth pooling between my legs, I don’t think that’ll satisfy either. I need friction.
Overhead, the moonlight dims as fine wisps of clouds, which had been invisible in the dark sky only moments before, pass across the round body of the moon. Like sheer curtains drawn across a window, they create an illusion of privacy.
“Can I take out your cock?” I ask with a flick of my tongue over my bottom lip.
He swears under his breath, a string of colorful curses, but he nods and says, “Yes.”
I grin at the delectable noises he makes as I unzip him. Little helpless moans, pained but eager. One stroke and his cock is hard and jumping in my hand. I run my fingers lightly up and down the length of him, and it’s like playing an instrument but the notes are all softly moaned curses. His hips, however, remain motionless and too far away to do me any good. There’s an unsatisfied ache between my legs that is loudly protesting his maddening self-restraint. I thought surely this would jump start things, but I suppose if I want to move things along, I’ll have to keep asking for what I want next.
“Can I touch myself with it?” He shudders; his whole body trembles as he meets my eye. He swallows hard, and I see the conflict warring inside. Again with the restraint. What’s it all for? I think so loudly that I nearly give voice to my frustration. The air is saturated with the taste of his excitement. He wants me so badly that it’s making my head spin. I’m wet and throbbing and playing with his cock. If he doesn't want this, doesn’t want to want me, then why doesn't he just walk away?
“Go on. Touch yourself,” he whispers permission as he levels me with a dark and needy gaze. That’s more like it. I lift the hem of my skirt, push my panties to one side, and work his tip against my clit, rubbing it lightly, and fuck it feels good, a bit of relief but not enough. The heat is still building between my legs. He groans, but he doesn't thrust or press in. Sweet Mother Below, what is it going to take to get this man rocking against me? I take the tip of him and dip it in, just the first inch or so. A painful tease for both of us. Our panting breaths mingle as our lips skate over each other’s. I pull him out and dip him back in again, just the same teasing amount, but I can feel my wetness coating him. His face blooms a pretty pink, and sweat prickles along his brow.
“Are you from around here?” he asks, his words breaking apart like waves on jagged rocks.
I grin and snort. “Now you've got a pickup line for me?” My head drops back with a throaty laugh. He has to be joking. The timing is too comical.
His head dips forward, and his nose sweeps up the length of my exposed neck. “I really want to know.” There’s no mirth in his voice as he mouths the words against my throat and then begins to lick. “Tell me, please.” His teeth graze and nip at me. “Tell me you’re from here.” There’s a desperate edge in his voice, and maybe that’s why instead of saying no, I say…
“Born and raised.” It’s true, but it’s not the truth. I lived here once, and there’s a chance I will again, but I don’t live here now and haven’t for a long time. I could explain, but he cuts me off.
“Oh thank fuck,” he growls.
A dam breaking.
The concrete walls that have been holding him back come down with a crash of his body against mine, and I revel in the weight of him smashing me like mortar into the brick wall. He hikes up my skirt in a couple of quick, rough jerks and pulls at my panties, but the moment he hears the flimsy fabric start to tear, he fists the waistband with both hands and rips. The tattered lace falls at our feet. He palms my ass and hefts me off the ground, pressing me hard against the wall.
I grunt my approval. My legs wrap around him, feet dangling in the air. His hips pin me in place, and he pants against the base of my neck with his cock poised at my entrance.
“Can I?” he asks. The words are sharp, delivered on ragged breath.
I’m just as eager, breathing just as hard, but I pause for a moment. He waits. His heart is pounding so hard in his chest, it feels like it’s trying to break free of his rib cage and jump into mine. It steals my breath. My head spins with the intensity, and I marvel at the dangerous amount of heat that’s built up between us. If we don’t give in soon, one or both of us might combust.
A familiar heat rushes to my fingertips. I still get the sensations of fire magic even if I don’t produce fire. The feeling so rarely leads to anything that I’m caught by surprise when a tiny spray of sparks leap from my fingertips. It startles us both. I usually have to concentrate hard enough to break a sweat to throw sparks. “Shit! Your shirt.” I’ve peppered him with scorch marks.
“Don’t worry about it. It happens. Should I put you down?” he asks.
It’s not what I want at all, and I can tell by the way he asked it’s not what he wants either. “Don’t you dare. Not until you’ve fucked me.”
My dirty-blond cowboy is quick to oblige, sinking into me with an eager thrust that turns into a pounding rhythm. He surprises me by slipping a couple of his fingers between us and sliding them up and down either slide of my clit. The friction is gloriously satisfying. Our slick parts rub against each other with a squelching noise that riles him up. He thrusts faster and pushes deeper, hitting my inner walls and driving the breath right out of me.
The graze of his teeth on my neck.
The scrape of the wall at my back.
The dig of his hips wedging open my thighs .
I race to the finish, though it feels more like the finish races toward me. With his cock pumping and his fingers right where I need them, it’s upon me so quickly that I’m caught by surprise. I come with a breaking of starlight across my vision and a startled cry of ecstasy. He feels it too; the waves of squeezing pleasure he’s set off inside me. He lets loose a throaty noise followed by garbled swear and a moan of, “so good.”
He clamps both hands firmly on my ass and comes soon after with a few more hard thrusts and his fingers digging into me. He grunts as his forehead drops onto my shoulder, and I only barely catch his muttered sigh, “Marry me.”
His head pulls back in surprise. “I didn’t mean— shit, Sorry, that was just a- a…” His already flush face goes a bit redder, and he stares at me in wide-eyed horror. “Sorry,” he says again. I chuckle.
“Don’t worry about it. It was good for me too.” I smile, and he smiles back. I saw his dimpled grin plenty of times inside. He flashed it all around, but somehow, it looks entirely different when aimed right at me. My heart gives a jittery little stutter and heat rushes to my fingers once more.
“You can put me down now.”
He presses a soft kiss to the tip of my nose, places me gently on my feet, and adjusts my skirt, smoothing it with what feels uncomfortably close to affection.
Shit. This was just supposed to be a quick hookup. Did I just make a mistake?
His grin goes lopsided and goofy, and it stays that way as he zips himself up and dusts off his hat. His hair’s a ruffled mess, sticking up at all angles, and there are a surprising number of reddish pink markings all over his neck from where my teeth clamped down a little too eagerly. The sight of it unsettles me.
He stoops to pick up what’s left of my ripped lace undergarments. “I’m sorry about these. I got a little carried away,” he says with an apologetic grimace. “I think they’re done for. Should I toss them?”
I nod, and he looks around, but there’s nowhere to dispose of my thoroughly ruined panties, so he shoves them in his pocket.
“Can I get your number?” he asks. His eyes are bright and yet also softly tender, and yikes. It’s a lot.
“I need to find a restroom and clean myself up,” I say and walk away, hurried along by a sudden urge to put some distance between us.
“Wait,” he calls after me. “What’s your name?” His long legs catch up to me easily. “I’m Chad,” he says. Chad? I give him a sidelong glance. “I know,” he says with a grimace. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize for your name,” I say firmly, and he shoots me another bright smile. I’m picking up on a lot of puppy energy, and that is not the vibe he was giving off earlier. He was unfazed, playing games, hitting on every woman at the bar.
“What’s yours?”
“I’m Iggy.”
“Iggy,” he repeats. “I like it.”
“Me too,” I say. My name suits me. I’ve always liked it. “Thanks for a great time, Chad,” I say as I hurry up the porch steps toward the front entrance.
“So can I get your number?” he asks again. He doesn’t follow me up the steps. He stands at the bottom of them, holding his damn hat against his chest and looking up at me with a disconcertingly hopeful look. This was definitely a mistake.
I’m something of an expert when it comes to random hookups, and one thing I’ve learned along the way is that some people are cut out for them. Some aren’t. I’m usually pretty good at steering clear of the latter.
“No,” I say with an apologetic grimace. It’s not how these things go. But oh, Dearest Dark Void, his shoulders slump and his face falls. Fuck. He was out hunting tonight, wasn’t he? Looking for a hookup? Well, we hooked up and now it’s over. Doesn’t he know how these things go?
“Look,” I say as I slowly descend the stairs to stand level with him. “That was an epic fuck.” I’m not just saying that to be polite. As far as random hookups go, this was top tier. We both got off, which isn’t always the case, and our chemistry was scorching hot. I can already tell I’ll be thinking about it later when I need to tire myself out for the night. “But I was just looking to blow off some steam. I’m only in town for a few nights.”
“You said you were born and raised here.” His brow crimps and he takes a step back, pulling away from me, and I don’t know why, but it tugs at my gut with a guilty twist, like I kicked a puppy.
“I was. I was born at Mithridate Medical Center, and I graduated from Infernus Academy.” I gesture in the general direction of each of the two local institutions, inwardly cringing at the personal details I just let slip. Demon’s keep private things private. Only our very closest friends know the intimate details of our lives. It’s an admirable trait the rest of the world could learn from. “But now I live in Boston.” There, final detail and now our misunderstanding is cleared up. Only, he doesn’t look any less hurt. Shit.
Okay, one more private detail, but this is the absolute last one he’s getting. “I came into town for an interview. If I land the job, I could be moving back. But exchanging numbers? No. That feels… premature, and like I’d be jinxing myself. I just can’t do it. That makes sense, right?” That’s as soft a rejection as I can manage. I don’t really understand why I’m putting in this much effort. He’s just some guy I’m trying to brush off. If he’s still hurt after this, maybe it’ll teach him a lesson about not getting clingy after a hookup. It’s kinda the number one rule.
It’s just sex. If you start to feel something, that’s your problem. Ignore it, shove it down, or better yet—escape. Not before you’ve come, obviously, but immediately after, put some distance between you and whoever sparked an unwanted feeling. That’s how you handle it. Not like this.
He looks down at his boots, thinking it over. When he looks up again, there’s still a crimp in his brow but his expression is less pained. “Say I come by the bar in a couple of weeks and you’re here. That’d mean you got the job, right? And you’d be sticking around. What if I asked for your number then?”
Oof… what do I say to that? It’s not like I’ll be settling down in Winter Bliss. If I do land the job at the Emberland Resort (fingers crossed), I’d opt to live on site, which, granted, is only an hour away, but I also wouldn’t stay long. A year, two tops. It’s too risky to stay at a place that hired me based on a fabricated resumé. It’d be much smarter to move on as soon as I have some real experience under my belt. And that’s my plan. I’ll use this one impressive job to springboard me along a career path of increasingly impressive jobs, until I’ve replaced all of the fake qualifications on my resumé with shiny-new, legitimate ones.
“Sure,” I say, shrugging one shoulder. “If we ever run into each other again, ask for my number.” But the chances of that happening are infinitesimally slim, and I can’t promise I’ll give it to you, I think but don’t say.
“Okay, then.” He nods, but there’s no puppy energy about him now. He’s gone back to being the man he was in the bar, the one remarkably unfazed by disappointment. “Have a wonderful rest of your evening, Iggy.” He places his hat on his head, tips it at me, and then—cue a dramatic sunset—the cowboy walks away.