Page 59 of Red Fury
The crowd behind me erupts in protest.
“What the hell?” someone shouts. “We’ve been waiting for hours!”
“This is bullshit!” another voice yells. “She just walked up! And they’re letting her in.”
I don’t stick around to hear the rest of their complaints. Whatever just happened, whatever made this bouncer change his mind about letting me in, I’m not going to question it. I stride through the entrance before he can reconsider, sending up a silent prayer of thanks to whatever gods watch over dragon shifters.
The moment I step inside, I’m hit by a wall of sound and sensation that nearly knocks me backward.
The music is thunderous. It’s a deep, pulsing bass that I feel in my bones, accompanied by electronic beats that seem designed to drive people into a frenzy. The main floor stretches out before me like a vision, packed wall-to-wall with gyrating bodies moving in perfect rhythm to the deafening music.
But it’s not just the volume that overwhelms me. It’s the scents, too.
My enhanced senses are immediately assaulted by a mixture of perfumes, colognes, sweat, alcohol, stale cigarette smoke, and pheromones that creates a nauseating cocktail. Hundreds of different scents layered on top of each other, creating a sensory overload that would have sent me into a panic spiral if I hadn’t shifted recently.
Thank god for that night in the park with Fury. My dragon is settled enough to handle it.
I force myself to focus, scanning the crowd for any sign of my targets. The dance floor is a sea of beautiful people.
I find no sign of Fury, Thompson, or Webb.
Unfazed, I continue my visual sweep, checking the various seating areas scattered around the perimeter of the main floor, the bars positioned at strategic points throughout the space, even the raised platforms where professional dancers perform.
Nothing.
Where the hell are they?
I realize that I must look completely out of place just standing here. I need to blend in. I also happen to need a drink while I figure out what to do next.
I make my way toward the nearest bar, weaving through the crowd of dancers, who seem completely lost in the music.
The bartender is everything I’d expect from a place like this, from his perfectly sculpted abs visible through his black mesh shirt to his arms covered in tattoos. The guy has a smile that could charm the panties off just about anyone.
“What can I get you?” he asks, raising his voice to be heard over the music.
“Surprise me,” I say, not really caring what he serves as long as it looks like I’m enjoying myself.
He grins and starts mixing something that involves multiple bottles and a lot of theatrical flair. While he works, I turn back toward the crowd, continuing my search.
Still nothing. It’s like they’ve vanished into thin air.
I scan the opposite bar, the seating areas I couldn’t see from the entrance, even the darker corners, my dragon vision coming in handy.
“One Black Blood Special,” the bartender announces, sliding a dark red cocktail across the bar.
I’m about to reach for my credit card when a large hand appears beside mine, placing a crisp hundred-dollar bill on the bar.
“I’ve got this,” a deep voice says.
I turn to find myself face-to-face with a man who makes me want to take a step back.
He’s huge, almost matching Fury’s impressive height and build. His dark hair is perfectly styled, his suit clearly custom-tailored to show off his powerful frame. But it’s his eyes thatcapture my attention; they’re a pale, glacial blue. They’re lighter than Fury’s. His are…
Why the hell am I comparing him to Fury? That asshole made it clear where we stand.
“Thank you for the drink,” I say politely, taking a sip of the cocktail. It’s surprisingly good; sweet with a hint of something darker, more complex.
He leans against the bar beside me, close enough to brush up against me. Like the bouncer at the door, he’s wearing too much cologne, though his is more expensive and slightly less offensive.
