Page 66 of Her Wolf

Lars snorted in disgust and went back to the front door.

He dug in his shirt pocket and pulled out one of three small joints he’d rolled for tonight.

Wasn’t a party if he wasn’t getting fucked up. In three minutes, his shift was over.

Lars lit the joint and hit it hard, twisting his head to stare up at the menacing hotel rearing up behind him.

Maybe they’d built it planning for it to be abandoned so they could make a ton of money off people like Cora who got warm and fuzzies being in ruined places like this. He had to admit, the interior was just as creepy. Peeling paint, moth eaten fabrics. And yet, a hint of detergent and furniture polish here and there. And the carpets —although horrifically threadbare—were freshly vacuumed when he’d arrived. The tables and chairs new and shiny, if Victorian-style retro.

“God, you’re ugly,” he muttered. “I hope your architect offed himself when he was done. It would have been a public service.”

“You know, I was just thinking the same thing.”

Lars swung around, sweeping his eyes over the man walking up the stairs. How hadn’t he heard the car pull up? Or was he late getting to the door?

“Dean,” the man said, holding out a hand. “I hope I’m in time.” Hazel eyes glanced past Lars, to the partly opened front door. “My boss is going to skin me—I’m already late.”

“Ah, Ignatius the slave driver,” Lars said. “We’ve met.” He took a final drag of his joint, intent on crushing out the last half-inch under his heel.

“Mercy, don’t waste.” The man held out a hand, hazel eyes going wide. He had a fine head of hair and wore it devil-may-care messy.

Lars laughed. “Man after my own heart,” he said, giving the last bit of the joint over to the newcomer.

His mask was a sock-and-buskin mash up—one half comedy, the other tragedy—and covered his entire face, but Dean didn’t seem to have any trouble navigating the small roach between the mask’s melancholy mouth slot. He drew long and hard, finishing what was left of the joint in a single drag.

“Impressive,” Lars said, crossing his arms over his chest. “You an Olympic swimmer or something?”

“Diver,” the man said in a tight voice, dropping the joint and grinding it out under a heel. “But that was a long time ago.”

“Jesus, that’s some muscle memory you got.”

The man laughed hard, sending smoke shooting from his mouth and nose. “Fuck!” He slammed a fist into his chest as he coughed.

“Sorry, man,” Lars said through a laugh, clapping a hand on his back.

“You trying to kill me?” the man said, but he could see a smile through the mask.

“Hey, let’s get you checked in,” Lars said, guiding the man to the door. “These babies should have been shut already.” He slapped one of the doors on the way in.

The man in front of him shuddered theatrically. “This place should have burned to the ground. Now that would have been a public service.”

Lars laughed with him as they stepped through the metal detector, but his laugh cut off when the sensor triggered with a loud beep.

“Whoa, hold up,” Lars said, grabbing the man’s sleeve.

“What now?” His mask reflected one of the hallway lights, briefly blinding Lars.

Fuck, he shouldn’t have smoked. That alarm had triggered every fucking nerve in his body.

“You armed?” he asked, desperate to clear his clouding mind.

“What do you think?” the man asked, a laugh in his voice. “I’m surrounded by fucking cartel.”

Jesus fuck. Lars barely held his composure. He’d have been fine if he hadn’t smoked, but if this guy pulled a weapon on him, he doubted he’d react fast enough to disarm him.

“Gotta take it, I’m ‘fraid,” he said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

“I was joking, man.” Dean flashed him a lewd grin. “But I think I know what’s gone and beeped.” He rummaged through the pocket of his two-piece suit. He wore a cape over the whole ensemble, but as an afterthought.

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