8. Harley #2
I haven’t had a real erection in over a month.
Not one I was awake for. Not one that felt like desire instead of some disconnected body malfunction.
The mess I woke up with earlier flashes through my mind—cum drying on my skin, my dick stuck to my boxers, my stomach turning because my body had done something without letting me be there for it.
Now it’s happening again, except I’m wide awake and surrounded by people and chasing after a man I haven’t even seen properly.
My first reaction should probably be relief.
Maybe gratitude. Some stupid little spark of look, you’re not completely broken after all.
Instead terror skitters under my skin, followed fast by anger.
I don’t trust this. I don’t trust my body.
I don’t trust the heat, or want, or instinct, or whatever the hell is dragging me through this club like a hooked fish.
I press a hand low against my stomach and suck in a breath.
The pull doesn’t stop.
If anything, it sharpens.
Somewhere ahead and to the left. That’s the only way I can describe it.
Not sound. Not sight. Not smell, because the whole club reeks of liquor, sweat, cologne, and men packed together too tightly under flashing lights.
It’s more like a thread inside me keeps tightening in one direction, and every second I don’t follow it makes my skin feel wrong.
A small, rational part of my brain asks me what the fuck I’m doing.
I tell it to shut the hell up.
I start moving again, pushing through bodies, ignoring annoyed looks and shouted comments.
A hand slides over my hip as I pass, and I slap it away without even looking.
Someone laughs. Someone else calls me rude.
I don’t care. The music pounds so hard the floor seems to breathe beneath my shoes, and for one horrible second I think of wolves running, paws hitting earth, jaws open, eyes bright in the dark.
No.
I shove that image away and keep going.
I’m not thinking about wolves.
I’m not thinking about shifters.
I’m not thinking about the man in the infirmary bed, pale and broken and somehow lodged in my chest like a splinter.
Except the thought of him makes the pull flare hotter and I almost stumble. The crowd parts briefly near the far side of the dance floor, and I see him.
Not clearly. He’s just a tall form moving with an uneven gait, one shoulder slightly angled, dark clothes, broad back.
He’s heading toward a shadowed corner, and details are impossible with the lights flashing and people shifting around him, but my entire body reacts like I’ve been hit with a live wire.
There. It’s him. I don’t know how I know. I only know I need to get closer.
Then hands clamp around my wrists. I’m grabbed and spun so fast the room blurs.
“Looking for me?” Weasel asks.
His face fills my vision, smug and eager, and the thread inside me snaps tight with rage. I don’t feel fear. Well, not at first anyway. I do feel rage and it’s hot, bright, and vicious enough to make my throat vibrate before I even form words.
The sound that comes out of me scares me. It’s low and ugly and almost a snarl.
Weasel’s expression flickers with surprise, but he doesn’t let go. His fingers tighten around my wrists, and that is when panic joins the rage. I’m not panicking because of him exactly, but because I’m trapped. Held. Stopped from moving. Stopped from following that pull. Stopped from getting to—
I don’t let myself finish the thought.
“Get the fuck away from me!” I shout.
My voice barely cuts through the music. His grip tightens again, and something in me tears loose. I pivot slightly and kick with everything I have, driving my heel into the side of his knee.
Weasel bellows.
The sound punches through the club noise sharply enough that heads turn.
His leg buckles and he reels backward, but he drags me with him because he still has hold of one wrist. The sudden motion sends further panic searing through me so brutally I can’t think at all.
I jerk, shove, twist, and claw until his fingers slip off my skin.
I stumble back, breathing hard.
People are staring now. Some look amused. Some concerned. A few are moving closer, belatedly catching on that this isn’t some drunken flirt-fight between men who know each other.
Weasel is cursing on the floor, clutching his knee. Fuck! I should run for the exit.
But instead I turn toward the corner where I last saw the tall man. The shadows shift. For half a second, I think I catch sight of him again—broad shoulders, a flash of movement, maybe a hand braced against a table. My whole body surges in that direction.
Then a thick arm bands around my middle and hauls me off my feet.
“No!” The word rips out of me before I can stop it.
“Cut it out, you little shit,” a harsh voice barks in my ear. “We don’t tolerate fighting here, no matter how cute you are, so you’re gone, buddy!”
It’s a bouncer—one of the huge ones.
Fuck.
I struggle anyway. I can’t help it. His arms are locked around my ribs, squeezing too tightly, and suddenly I’m not in Scoundrels anymore. I’m held against a bigger body, trapped, breath crushed out of me while my feet kick uselessly and nobody helps fast enough.
The room narrows.
My heart slams.
I can’t breathe.
The bouncer starts dragging me toward the door, and I fight harder even though I know it’s useless. My ribs scream where I hit the toilet earlier. My lungs burn. His grip tightens another fraction, and black spots scatter across my vision.
I try to tell him I can’t breathe but nothing comes out. For one terrifying second I’m sure I’m going to pass out in his arms.
Then cold outside air hits my face, and I’m set down roughly on the pavement. I stagger, almost fall, and catch myself against the wall.
“Don’t bother coming back, dude.”
“I”—I gasp, sucking in air hard enough to hurt—”didn’t—”
“Don’t care who started what,” the bouncer says, moving to stand in front of me.
His face looks like a well-used punching bag, and under different circumstances I might wonder how many fights he’s won and lost to get it that way.
“Don’t care, don’t matter, don’t come back.
Other guy’s banned too, but he’s gotta wait for his ride. ”
Sirens split the air.
The bouncer cocks his head. “And that’s probably it. You better run, buddy.”
Run?
I can barely stand.
My insides are still raging for me to go back in and find the man I never even reached.
Leaving feels wrong in a way that makes no sense and every kind of sense at once.
The invisible thread inside me stretches toward the club, toward him, and the farther I stand from that door, the more panic claws at the back of my throat.
“Now!” the bouncer snaps, shoving my shoulder. “I’m trying to keep you from being arrested, you idiot! We only called for an ambulance, but cops will probably show up too!”
The ambulance turns the corner before I can answer, lights flashing red and white against the buildings. More vehicles follow behind it.
That breaks me out of my stupor and I take a few hasty steps back. I do not want to wind up in jail.
I turn and stumble the first few steps before forcing myself into a run, my lungs burning almost immediately. I don’t go far. At the first cross-street, I veer around the corner and flatten myself against the side of a building, chest heaving like I’ve run miles instead of half a block.
My dick is still hard.
Of course it fucking is.
Apparently the world has decided I need humiliation layered over terror tonight.
I suck in air, wait until the sirens are louder behind me, then edge cautiously toward the corner and peek back toward Scoundrels.
I don’t see the ambulance first.
I don’t see the bouncer.
I see a broad chest.
Right in front of me.