Page 29 of He Is Jensen: Part One

Chapter twenty-two

Jensen

To hell with changingclothes to fit into some goth-themed drug bar. By eleven thirty, I’m standing in the far corner of the smoke-filled, three-story portion of the Empire Tower Casino’s Club Nebula, nursing a beer for show and thinking of that moment when I’d handed Layla over to Maddox. It had been Maddox. I’m sure of it.

Hadn’t it?

If not, what fuckery was Zodius up to right now?

Either way, there’s a reason I’m alone tonight. I’m not risking Maddox finding out my plan and turning on me again.

Nonchalantly, I tilt back my beer again, studying the far corner by the bar where two punkers—one with a Mohawk and the other with a spiked ’do—are talking with a woman. One of the punkers partially blocks my view. A glimpse of long black hair, and I set the beer down with a thud, waiting for a better line of sight, hoping like hell it’s Layla, which is insane. It won’t be this easy. I’m making myself crazy. This place is crawling with goth-black hairdos.

“Hey, sugar,” a purring female voice greets me as a raven-haired beauty shoves up close to my chair, nuzzling her ample breasts on my arm. A dealer—that’s the buzz in the bar. The ICE dealers are all hot chicks that size you up and decide who gets what or nothing at all. Apparently, the dealers sampled the goods because this one has the eyes of a repeat user—bloodshot, unusual with dilated pupils, the dark ridge around the eyeballs wider. I wonder if Layla’s eyes will look like this after a few more doses, or if they already do.Ifshe’s evenalive.

I force a smile, reminding myself that any amount of ICE I land could be important to Layla’s safety and to our scientific team. “That’s sugar pie honey bunch to you, darlin’.”

She laughs, wrapping her arm around mine. “I like how that sounds. Want some heat with your ICE?”

“Depends,” I drawl, my gaze shifting toward the bar, trying to find my mystery woman again, but my view is still blocked. Reluctantly, I flick my attention back to my ICE babe. “You gonna share a little ICE buzz with me first?”

“Whatcha gonna give me if I do?” she asks, stroking my arm.

The pull of that corner, that dark-haired stranger, drags my gaze away from her again, and holy fuck. Layla. It is Layla. I stand up, adrenaline pumping like gasoline through my body. She’s alive. Fuck yes. She’s alive.

The woman clings to me, her body blocking my path to Layla. “Where you going?”

“Beer goes right through me, baby,” I reply, untangling myself, only to find Layla missing. Damn it.

I charge to the bar and get in the face of the bartender. “The prim little black-haired princess who was standing here…Where did she go, and with who?”

“I’m not a babysitter,” he snaps.

I reach over the bar and yank him off his feet. The man’s eyes go wide, dilated, and filled with panic. “Headed out the backdoor with two of the regulars.”

I drop the man and shove my way through the crowd before cutting down the side hall, past the restrooms. I burst through the steel door exit and into a back delivery area for the hotel, a loading dock to my right. A muffled voice reaches my ears, cutting through the sound of the churning industrial fan inside the warehouse.

Easing under the open entrance of the dock, I survey the dimly lit warehouse but see nothing. A stealthy GTECH leap, and I’ve skipped the stairs, and I’m on the next level. Still nothing, no Layla. To my left, stacked pallets stretch in long, neat rows, as far back as they are high, the concrete floor that separates them shiny and clean.

I inch past several stacks to my left and go stone still, colder than any hit of ICE could make me. Layla is backed into a corner with the two men who were crowding her.

“Quid pro quo, baby,” one of the men says to her. “Pull that shirt up and show me what you got. You give me some of you, and I’ll give you ICE.”

I bolt into action. The only person touching Layla is me.

Chapter twenty-three

Jensen

I’m behind Layla’s attackersin five seconds flat, grabbing a handful of both men’s shirts and flinging them into a stack of pallets.

“Thank God, Layla,” I breathe out, shackling her arms, ready to hug her just to prove to myself she’s real.

“Don’t touch me,” she hisses. “Stop chasing me.” Her eyes are wild, and she’s trembling.

“Layla, I’m not the enemy here.”

The sound of a gun cocking echoes through the open warehouse and high ceilings. Layla inhales sharply, and I don’t miss the difficulty that she has doing so.

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