The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(114)
Author: J.R. Ward

For what if he left her here alone, and she did not find shelter afore the sun rose? What if they were halfway to where she needed to be?

Putting his hands on his hips, he tilted his head back and searched the heavens, thinking maybe they could offer him some common sense—because he’d clearly lost his.

Of all the ways for me to die, he thought …

He’d never once considered it would be over a female.

As Trez surveyed the Goth crowd in the Iron Mask, he couldn’t say he was thrilled to be back in the saddle again. His business had always been important to him—well, first it had been Rehv’s gig; then when the Reverend had bowed out—or more like blown his way out—Trez had taken over the whole club enterprise. And yet, whether the place had been his or Rehv’s, he’d loved running the operations, dealing with the people, planning for new sites, watching his money grow. Yeah, sure, the humans were a pain in the ass, but that was true whether you were driving in your car, shopping in a supermarket, or trying to make a living.

Granted, the drugs and drinking really didn’t help that last one, but whatever …

Tonight, though, as he watched the dozen or so working girls make the rounds, sitting on laps, flirting, taking men by the hand and disappearing into the private bathrooms … he was sickened by it all.

Especially as he thought about what he’d agreed to do for s’Ex.

Man, it was so tempting to assume that he’d solved the problem … that keeping the executioner happy was going to make it all go away.

Wrong.

The thing was, he just kept thinking that if he only had more time, he’d find a way out.

“Any chance you’re looking for me?”

The human female standing in front of him had long black hair—natch, so many of them did up in here—and a body that was curvy as a racetrack. Likely just as fast. And with skin artificially paled to the point of flour and lips painted the color of blood, she was a wannabe vampire in a world of posers, all juiced up on a persona likely birthed from a bipolar emotional landscape.

Not that he was generalizing or anything.

“No,” he said. “I’m not looking for you.”

“You sure?” She did a little turn in front of him, flashing her bubble ass. “’Cause I’m worth the search.”

In his mind’s eye, all he could see was his Chosen, laid out before him, so beautiful and clean.

“Sorry,” he muttered as he turned and walked away.

After Selena had left him and iAm in the kitchen together, she hadn’t come back: When everyone had been called down to the dining room to hear the horrible news about the King, he’d expected to see her there. No-go.

And he wanted to head up to Rehv’s great camp to see her. Things between them were too open-ended for his liking, but he had the sense that getting down to the nitty-gritty was going to make him feel worse.

Her as well.

He really just needed to let the whole sitch with her go—

From across the way, one of the professional whores, a brunette in skin-tight red leather, met his eye, and he did a quick head-to-toe on her.

Yeah, he thought. She’d do.

When he motioned for her to come over, she was more than happy to weed through the crowd and close the distance. “Hey, boss.”

Shit, he really, totally hated doing this. “I got a private client I need some special services for. You interested?”

“Always.” She glanced around. “Is he here tonight?”

“Remote location. Tomorrow at noon. I’m going to ask two others.”

“Fun. Don’t bother with Willow, though, okay? She’s been a pain in the ass lately.”

“Roger that.”

“Thanks for thinking of me, boss.” She smiled and gave him a hip check. “I’ll be sure your buddy has a great time.”

As she sauntered away, Trez thought about maybe, possibly … yeah, pretty much definitely … ralphing his dinner all over the polished black floor.

In search of fresh air, he made his way to the entrance, and fronted like he was merely checking in with Ivan and the new guy at the head of the wait line. And then he just started walking, hoofing it in no particular direction even though he didn’t have a coat on and his Ferragamos were not good on the slick sidewalks.

In his solitude, he was far from alone: thoughts of Selena, his brother, his parents, crowded the space around him, making him consider seriously the merits of getting f**king plastered.

iAm had told him that the deal made with s’Ex was a dumb-ass f**king idea. And then promptly headed back for the kitchen to make cacciatore.

Still, all things considering, that convo had actually gone so much better than some of their others of late—

“You wanna buy some crack? H?”

Cocking an eyebrow, Trez glanced over at a white guy who was lounging up against the far side of a tattoo parlor. Classy.

Just as he opened his mouth to tell the guy f**k, no—the wind changed direction and he got hit in the face with a cream pie full of lesser scent.

It stopped him dead in his tracks.

“So what’ll it be?” the slayer asked him.

Trez looked left and right for no particular reason—other than he was suddenly interested in buying something he was never going to use from an ass**le who had no clue he was talking to the enemy.

Stepping into the darkness, Trez put his hand in the pocket of his slacks like he was going for his wallet. “How much?”

“For which one.”

Trez kept up the ruse, glancing around like he was nervous. Up close, this was defo a lesser, the sweet stench so much worse than a seven-day-no-shower human working in a sweatshop—who just happened to be doused in baby powder.

And smuggling a dead raccoon under each armpit.

“Both. Hey, you mind if we step a little farther in?”

The slayer turned away and started quoting prices as he moved deeper into the shop’s side alley. He did not make it to the cash-changing-hands part of the transaction.

Trez took control easily, coming at the bastard from behind, grabbing onto the head and snapping it around so that the only thing keeping it on the spine was the skin. Catching the deadweight by the torso, he pushed the slayer behind a stack of pallets and started going through pockets.

Ten baggies of powder. Twenty or so rocks—small scale. Seven hundred in cash, roughly.

Not major leagues. In fact, hardly remarkable for this part of town—except for the lesser part.

Shoving the still-moving corpse to the ground, he took out his phone and dialed up a number. It was answered on the third ring.