Page 29 of Clubs

That’s not Ria, is it? I said in his mind.

Shaking his head, he eyed the doorway. Sure as shit doesn’t smell like Ria.

CHAPTER EIGHT

EMORY

“I’m not paying for it.” Pouting beneath his white beard, Andrew crossed his arms against his chest. “It tastes like shit, man. Try it. I dare you.”

“Jesus, I told you I’d make you a new one.” Emory tossed his dirty dish rag to the counter, unphased when some water splashed Andrew’s shirt. He was in no god damned mood today. “But if you send it back again, you can piss up a rope, dude. I’m not gonna do this all night.”

“Where’s Declan?” He glanced past Emory through the serving hatch behind the bar. “Since someone’s got an attitude, let me talk to—”

“He’s not here.” Before Andrew could continue bitching, as he always did, Emory snapped, “And no, I’m not calling him. He’s got enough on his plate right now, and he doesn’t need to hear about how you’re not satisfied with the third drink I’ve made you.”

And, just as he said it, Declan’s full plate of problems walked in the front door.

Wearing a baggie sweatshirt and tight blue jeans, black hair tossed into a messy bun, blue eyes twinkling around pin-pricked pupils, Ariana Lewis walked in that front door like nothing had happened. Like she was as innocent as ever.

Declan didn’t know that Ria was to blame for the current clusterfuck he was dealing with, but Emory did. Emory knew because he knew Ria better than Declan did—better than her sister did, better than Declan did—probably better than anyone.

Andrew was still ranting as Emory started around the bar. Unable to stop his flaring nostrils, unable to return Ria’s smile, he stalked across the room as if his feet were on fire, practically leaving a trail of flames in his wake. And still, she smiled at him.

“Hey, you,” she said, lifting her purse higher on her shoulder. “Andrew giving you a hard time ag—”

“We need to talk.” Emory snatched her by her upper arm and started toward the back of the house.

“Excuse the hell out of you.” Not strong enough to physically remove his hand from her bicep, she teleported a foot or two back. Glaring, she tucked her arms against her chest. “You wanna talk, we can talk, but don’t put your fucking hands on me like that. That hurt.”

Releasing his tight fist was no easy feat. Emory clenched his jaw to compensate.

He hadn’t meant to hurt her. He rarely meant to hurt anyone. But Angel strength was intense. So was their brash, cold nature. The irony was, Declan was the Werewolf. Some would think that he’d be the one with an all but uncontrollable temper. An animalistic rage. That wasn’t the case at all.

No. Declan was a smartass, but rarely violent. His touch was careful at all times. But Emory? Emory couldn’t count how many times he’d shattered a glass by simply holding it too tightly.

He could’ve done the same to Ria. Never would’ve forgiven himself if he had.

But damn it, he had the right to be pissed right now.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. But we need to talk.”

“Alright, let’s talk.”

CHAPTER NINE

RIA

“Why the fuck did you lie?” Emory leaned against the door of the cramped office in the back of Spades. Ria had her back to a cluttered desk, bills and membership ledgers piled on top of it. Her back was practically against the wall. Which would’ve meant Emory was caging her in, if not for the fact that she could—and would—teleport out of here the moment she was done with his shit. “Dipping, I get. Avoiding the cops if you had something to do with this, I get. But lying to Brooke? To Declan? Why, Ari? What the fuck did you do?”

That hurt.

Deep in her chest, that hurt. All of this hurt.

Yes, she did know Alicia, and yes, she had lied about it. But not because she wanted to make this any worse. It hurt that Emory thought she’d intentionally harm anyone she cared about. It hurt that he couldn’t see that she was doing her best here.

Even him calling her Ari, which usually made her chest warm, hurt. She wasn’t sure why he did that. Called her Ari. Brooke had called her Ria her whole life, so had everyone else. No one called her Ari.

On one of their not so uncommon late night drinking sessions while he was closing up Spades, Emory asked what Ria was short for. Ariana, she’d told him. Giving that teasing smile of his, he’d said, “And of all the nicknames, you go by Ria? Why not Ari? You’re pretty, you should have a pretty nickname.”

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