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Brick
Dammit. I drive away, but the idea of letting Madison roam unprotected in that crazy outfit has me cutting back around the block to find a parking place. I find a valet garage not far and pull off my tie before I leave the Taycan.
It’s not that I’m feeling possessive. I don’t have the need to keep other men from looking at that juicy little body.
Okay, fine, that’s exactly what it is.
This little human has my instincts running haywire. There’s no reason I should feel so protective. She’s no one to me. She’s not pack or even a wolf. But I sure as hell can’t stand the idea of anyone seeing her dressed that way.
I’ll just go back and make sure she doesn’t attract unwanted attention. She’s a smart girl, but something in me compels me to make sure she’s safe.
I pay the twenty dollar cover charge to get in. It’s wall-to-wall packed with patrons. The venue is small, with a bar at one end and a stage on the side. The band onstage is a mediocre version of Duran Duran. They look the part, and the music is decent, but the performers seem a little embarrassed, like they’re not sure if they’re about to get booed off stage. I unbutton the throat and cuffs of my dress shirt and roll up my sleeves before I order a beer and find a barstool in the back to watch the show.
I catch sight of Madison and what must be the rest of her band pounding shots at the side of the stage, presumably for courage. I want to go throw her over my shoulder and carry her out. To hide her away from the world. Keep her for myself.
I should be at the office, working all angles of the Benson deal. Searching for our next acquisition, one that will ensure Moon Co’s market dominance. Or I should be flying to the Berkshires, so I can shift and let my wolf run out the endless energy that’s been keeping me up at night.
There’s no reason I should be hanging around this human haunt, stealing a few precious moments to satisfy my craving for her.
My whole life, I’ve committed every moment to my pack and the businesses that keep us wealthy. Keep us safe. I’ve had a few flings with a handful of willing she-wolves, but I’ve never taken such an interest in a female before.
My attraction to Madison isn’t rational. She is definitely something special, whether my wolf loves her delectable scent or not. It just would be far easier to ignore the attraction if my wolf wasn’t involved.
I want it even more when she gets up on stage and the band starts playing because they’re good. Sexy. Musically talented. Fun. They’ve got the beat, and the crowd chants along at the tops of their lungs. Their lead singer is a beautiful black woman who appears the same age as Madison with tattoos down one arm and a nose piercing. She’s wearing a headband to hold back her wild mop of curls. She’s great, but I’m too taken by my pain-in-the-ass assistant to watch her. Madison is a rock star. The stage lights illuminate the whole band, but she shines brighter, as if lit from within. My eyes are glued to her and her alone.
I shouldn’t be surprised to find she has talents other than fielding my phone calls and remembering entire conversations verbatim–there’s probably nothing this girl doesn't do well.
And it hits me as I stand under the neon lights, in this dark, tight space with too many idiots drenched in cheap body spray. Everything I've done, every moment of my life has been with my pack, for my pack, to benefit my pack. My father raised me to know my duty and my destiny. The legacy of Alpha has ruled my days, months, years.
Up until now.
The music swells around me, too loud, too much bass. The place is foggy with human stench and sweat and hoppy beer. The carpet under my polished wingtips is no color and every color, marked with decades of questionable stains.
What in the hell am I doing here? What compelled me to come in? To stay? To actuallyenjoywatching this ridiculous show?
It doesn’t make sense, yet I can’t make myself leave. Can’t make myself stop looking at New Girl up there on that stage.
Madison and her friends finish the set and leave the stage, and I keep my eye on her as she goes to the bar with her bandmates, her guitar still slung over her shoulder.
I should leave. She’s here with friends. She can take care of herself. She may be a fragile human, but she’s smart and not alone.
But she’s also drinking. And if she thinks she’s taking the subway home, I will have to intervene. I keep my post in the back, irritated when I lose sight of her for a while.
“Brick Blackthroat!” She stumbles a little with exaggerated surprise, and I shoot a hand out to catch her elbow. I mean to help her catch her balance, but instead, I hesitate and let her tumble against my chest. I wrap my other arm around her waist. Her breasts press against my ribs. “Oh.” She tips her face up in surprise. Our lips are close.
So fucking close.
Close enough that I’d only have to move a half-inch to taste her beautiful, sassy mouth. I almost do it. I want to.
But it would be so very wrong.
The tequila on her breath sadly overpowers her natural scent. Okay, so there is something she doesn't do well–hold her alcohol.
Reluctantly, I release her waist, keeping my hand at her elbow to steady her.
“What are you doing here?” she slurs, making an obvious attempt to get her balance and square her shoulders like she’s not wasted.
“I’m here to drive you home.” I scowl because now her citrus spice scent invades my nostrils, and my hand automatically tightens on her arm, like I’m unwilling to let her go.
