Page 2 of Witch's Wolf

The truck rumbles as I steer into a neighborhood that seems just as alive as Manhattan itself, even at this late hour. They say that New York City never sleeps, apparently they mean the outskirts too. The air buzzes with energy. Honking horns, the occasional burst of laughter, and the hum of streetlights is loud in my sensitive ears. Ahead is a bright-green neon sign, blinking its invitation like a firefly in the dark.

Michelle’s Blues & Piano Bar

“It looks smaller than I expected,” I say, glancing at Raul and trying to gauge his reaction. He has an air of self-satisfaction. Smug bastard. “You and Monica keep saying how good Erica is. The way you all made it out, I expected some huge venue. Carnegie Hall or something.”

“It’s big, alright,” Raul says, an infuriating glint in his eye. “Just not the big you’re thinking of.”

I turn into the parking lot, trying to figure out his cryptic tone and decide if there is some double entendre there that I’m missing. The place looks small to me, but there are row after row of cars stretching into the distance filling the parking lot. Frustrated, I sigh and continue searching for an open space. My truck’s headlights sweeping over the sea of glossy paint jobs on the tightly packed vehicles. Having my usual round of no luck, I finally find a place to park all the way at the far edge of the lot, practically kissing the concrete wall.

“Typical,” I growl as we walk towards the building.

As we reach the bar’s entrance, something unexpected happens. The noise I anticipate from a bar, a cacophony of laughter, clinking glasses, maybe even the piano drifting through the air isn’t there. Instead, all I hear is hushed murmurs that filter through the doors.

“I can’t wait to see her.” “She was amazing last time.”

Raul’s grin widens.

“I think they’re talking about Erica.”

“You hope they’re talking about Erica,” I mutter, my tone sharper than I intend.

The tuxedoed man at the door greets us with an almost reverent smile, like we’re not just customers but part of some exclusive club. He doesn’t blink or hesitate, motioning for us to walk right in as if he recognizes us.

“Good evening, gentlemen. Your table is waiting. Enjoy the night.”

“Our table?” I look at Raul in surprise.

“Yeah,” he says, breezing past my rising irritation. “Erica’s been expecting us.”

I bite back my annoyance and follow him through the door. Inside, the soft glow of candlelight pulls me in despite myself. The place is cavernous, with rows upon rows of tables, each crowned with a single, flickering flame. The light dances across the walls, casting everything in warm, golden hues. Despite the large open space, it somehow feels intimate. Too intimate for my own comfort.

“Gentlemen, if you’ll follow me,” a waiter greets us.

I glare at Raul, but his smile is smug and self-assured. I want to punch him. Right in his mouth, but I’m not going to start a fight tonight. Not here at least.

The waiter leads us through the tables, expertly weaving through them with the easy practice of familiarity. Then I realize where he’s taking us. Right to the front and almost dead center. Our table is practically touching the stage.

On the stage, a sleek black piano gleams under a dim spotlight. We take our seats. Uncomfortable, I dart a quick glance around, feeling conspicuous and underdressed. We’re getting a lot of looks and more than a few whispers that I’m sure are wondering what the hicks are doing front and center.

It’s awkward, so I put my attention on the table, waiting for the show to start when I spot a note, neatly folded and sitting in the center of the table. It has mine and Raul’s names in a flowing script staring back at me. I pick it up and open it.

Welcome to my playground, puppies. I hope you enjoy the show.

“Puppies?” I hiss under my breath, my jaw tightening.

“It’s a joke,” Raul says, waving it off like it’s nothing. “Relax.”

Relax. Right. Like that’s possible when everything about this night is feeling more and more like I’m being set up. Set up for what, I don’t know. Does he really think this is going to change my mind about her?

The faint click of heels on hardwood pulls me out of my thoughts. All around us heads turn as the sound grows louder, each step is measured and deliberate. Then she appears. Stepping out from behind a white curtain with the kind of presence that makes the air feel heavier and alive at the same time.

Erica.

Her cinnamon scent hits me hard. A warm, spicy sweetness that weaves its way through the cloying perfumes in the room. My wolf stirs, unbidden, its attention locking onto her.

She’s stunning, of course she is. Fuck. She’s wearing a light-blue dress that clings to her figure, highlighting every curve in a way that is clearly calculated. She pauses beside the piano, tilts her head in a graceful bow, and offers her audience a smile that’s equal parts charm and challenge. I hate how my pulse reacts.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice low and smoky through the mic. “It’s good to see you again. I thought I’d kick things off with one of my favorite tunes. Here’s Heart’s ‘Alone.’”

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