Page 4 of Blood Owed (Blood Mafia 1)
Lexi nudges me with her elbow. “Damn, you work fast, woman. Let’s at least take the shots first.”
The bartender drops the shot glasses in front of us, and another one slides our margaritas across the bar top.
Pulling my gaze from the handsome stranger with the chiseled jawline, I grab the shot glass.
“Fuck cheating boyfriends.” Lexi clinks her little glass with mine, sloshing a bit of tequila on my finger.
“No salt, no lime,” I sing-song to her.
She giggles. “We’ll be drinking from the bottle tonight.”
“Ready?”
“One, two, three, go!” she says all in one breath.
Oh fuck. I should have known she’d force it on me. I press the glass to my lips and let the tequila burn down my throat; the heat of it soothes the ache in my chest.
Or maybe that’s me deciding not to give a damn about Kevin and the pixie, at least not tonight. I’ll worry about them tomorrow.
Right now, I have one goal: get completely and totally smashed.
Chapter Two
Demi
Wearing a leather dress to a nightclub is a horrible idea. After grinding against Mr. Handsome Stranger for a few songs and dancing with a few other guys, the material is sticky.
I probably look like a drowned puppy.
“Lexi.” My words are slightly slurred, and I laugh. “Lexiiii, I’m going to the bathroom.”
She’s pressed up against some guy, rolling her hips into his.
“I’ll be back.” I’m not sure why I tell her, considering she isn’t paying attention, but I do. I’m not worried about going alone, I have a silver knife strapped to my thigh, a simple preparation in case Kevin decides to show up and cause problems.
I missed my castration opportunity earlier, but I’m prepared now.
Shoving through the masses, I make my way over to the small hallway marked Staff. I really have to pee, and I haven’t the faintest clue where the main bathrooms are, so I cross my fingers and hope the staff ones are unlocked. There are three doors, and unfortunately, none of them are marked. I open the first one. When I see the mop bucket, I growl and slam the door closed.
There better be bathrooms over here. Walking with my thighs clenched together so I don’t pee is ridiculously difficult in these heels. I wobble to the next door and open it, slamming it shut just as quickly. Third time’s the charm, right?
I open the last door, sighing in relief when I spot a porcelain throne.
Jackpot.
I lock myself in and use the bathroom. When I wash my hands, I finally look in the mirror. For all the sweating and dancing, my dark hair still holds a slight curl and my makeup is only a little smudged. I use the towels I wiped my hands on to fix my eyeliner.
Bam.
Something hits and shakes the walls of the bathroom hard.
My hip slams into the counter when I jump. I hiss and rub the spot, listening to the muffled sounds of shouting. Whatever’s happening, it’s coming from outside the club.
Curiosity—and tequila—get the better of me. I creep out of the bathroom, slink toward the door I haven’t opened, and press my ear against it.
Flesh hitting flesh is not a sound one forgets.
Especially after years of training in martial arts.
