Page 44 of Raising Hell

“Let’s do this.” Amon slides his hand to my other ass cheek as they whisk me towards the door. Nerves take flight in my gut as we approach the bouncer, a broad man with black sunglasses on despite the darkness.

“Sweet shades, dude!” Cas says with a wide, genuine grin.

The giant man arches his eyebrow above the rim of his glasses. He is Cas’s height, which means Amon still towers over him, but this guy’s chest is a barrel, shoulders so broad he looks like he could take out a brick wall, wrecking ball style. Cas only continues smiling at him until it becomes uncomfortable.

“Thanks?” he finally says. It’s definitely a question.

Cas doesn’t answer, just pulls out a pair ofidenticalsunglasses and slides them on. With that, he steps up to the barrier, patiently waiting.

The poor guy is so perplexed he doesn’t argue, shaking his head a few times before unhooking the rope and allowing us to enter. Once we’re through, Cas turns around and hands himyet another pairof the same sunglasses. “As a backup,” he explains, then walks away, leaving a dense air of confusion behind him.

Honestly, it’s on point for him.

“Go,” I hiss to Amon, whose bewildered expression mirrors mine. He nods, staring at the bouncer who holds the sunglasses, face blank like his mind just exploded. Amon snaps out of it when I nudge him, and we hurry away from the lobotomy behind us, chasing after Cas into the pulsing lights and blaring music of the club.

“What’s the plan?” I ask. Amon leans closer as Cas takes his place beside me again, shades in place. Now that we’re here, I’m unsure of our purpose. “I’ve never done anything like this. Should we go find them?”

“Findthem?” Amon asks, pulling a repulsed face like I’ve suggested we go lick shoes on the club dance floor. “Waste our time searching for them? Oh, no, sweet Rory, that’s beneath us.”

“But how…”

Cas is wearing his signature grin as he leans closer—the one that might as well be a beacon for the trouble he’s about to find. “No, baby, we don’t go to them. They’ll come to us.”

Chapter 20

Casimir

The club pulsates with the rhythmic beat of music that gives this place a heartbeat of its own. Its veins are filled with dancing, sweaty humans; half of them are stumbling around, clearly intoxicated, and the other half are eye-fucking every warm body that walks past.

“Want to get some drinks?” Rory asks, his hands wringing in front of him. Even looking like a gourmet meal and flanked by two powerful demons, our little firecracker is nervous. It’s a charming quirk of his personality.

It also means I get endless opportunities to remind him how perfect he is.

“Cas can get them,” Amon announces, and I roll my eyes but nod. He tugs me forward, hand firm on my nape and voice directly in my ear as he tells me what to order. A spark tiptoes up my spine, making me shiver as a gentle nip scrapes against the hinge of my jaw.

Fuck, the things this man can do with his mouth.

His grin is full of filthy promises when he pulls back, smacking my ass. “Go be a good boy and fetch.”

Still tingling from his touch, I make my way to the bar and signal the bartender. His initial annoyance fades when our eyes meet, and a flirty grin replaces his frown as he saunters over, biting his lip. “Hey there,” he purrs, leaning in close so we can hear each other. “What can I get for you?”

“Two whiskey sours for my friends, and a Puckering Chocolate Starfish for me.” I toss him a wink, as humans do, in case it motivates him to hurry.

He explodes into a cough and pounds a fist against his chest, his face flaming as he clears his windpipe. “Do…what…now?”

“A Puckering Chocolate Starfish,” I repeat louder, enunciating every syllable, and the lady beside me snorts her drink out of her nose. I thump her on the back before she flees, presumably towards the restroom to clean herself. That was messy.

The bartender’s wild-eyed stare suggests they may not serve those kinds of drinks here. That’s fine—Amon gave me a few options he thought I’d enjoy. “How about a Back Alley Tongue Puncher?”

His face is turning positively purple now, and he pulls his lips between his teeth. To be honest, he looks constipated as he says, “Listen, buddy, you’re hot but your pickup lines could use some work.”

Annoyed that he’d hit on me while I’m trying to order, I hold my hand up and silence him. “If you can’t do that, how about you make me a Creamy Briefs?”

A man that just sidled up beside me at the bar mutters a quiet, “Nope,” and walks away, and my frown digs deeper.

These people aren’t very friendly.

Through the commotion of the crowd, Amon’s howling laughter reaches my ears, and I freeze as I realize what’s happening. The bartender’s lips twitch with amusement before he can’t contain himself anymore, doubling over with laughter and slapping the bar.

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