I did look fierce though.
Ziff chirped from my shoulder, not at all bothered by the booming music, the heavy cloud of tobacco and pot smoke, or the reek of sex. My little sidekick had seen it all before, and I didn't go anywhere without him unless I had to.
"Now, shall we introduce ourselves?" I whispered, staring at the blue-eyed man as he lounged on a stool, dressed in a suit and looking oddly out of place in the leather-and-glitter crowd. His hair was slicked back, and he had a pair of black-framed glasses on his face. The whole look should've turned me off; I was not into corporate weasels. But the heavy fur cloak on his shoulders and the way the edge of his mouth twisted up at the side … intrigued me.
The heels I'd borrowed from Chris—gay best friends are the shit—shimmered with black sequins as I stomped down the steps the way my BFF had taught me, and carefully worked my way through the crowd.
Ears and tails dotted the mixed partygoers—werewolves, lynx shifters, bear shifters, even a woman with horns that I couldn't quite place. It was eclectic and beautiful, a mixing pot of sex and seduction without a single human being in sight.
This is exactly what I needed to unwind, I thought as the dance crowd parted near the bar, and I paused in silent frustration. The stool the blue-eyed man had just occupied was empty. With a sigh, I stepped up to the bar and ordered a cartridge for my vape pen—they served more than just alcohol here, with an entire menu of cannabis products.
The bar-and-bud-tender handed over a sativa strain with promises of energy, creativity, and focus. Fun. Pulling the tiny rose-gold battery from the very tight back pocket of my (also borrowed) red leather pants, I screwed in the small cartridge and took a short, quick pull, exhaling sweet smelling smoke across the surface of the counter.
"There are four bars in this establishment," a voice purred in my ear, sending a chill down my spine that was either lust … or terror. I seemed to be having issues with those sorts of emotions a lot lately. In that, I couldn't very well tell them a-fucking-part. That did not bode well for my sanity. "And only one of them makes a proper cosmo."
Glancing to the right, I caught the hint of a naughty smile tracing across the man's thin lips. He was hot as hell, but in a cold, distant sort of way, like a glossy magazine ad. If it weren't for that dirty fur draped over his shoulders, he'd be almost too perfect. That was a fucking skinwalker for you. They were rare enough that I was surprised to see one here, especially considering my Sunday target was also a skinwalker. If this guy’d looked anything like the description in my dossier about Nix Locklear, I’d have called Mik.
But I didn’t need Mik tonight, and this guy, he didn’t match the tan-skinned, dark-haired Native American man I was looking for.
Blue-Eyes set down the most decadent looking pink drink in a martini glass, a twisted orange peel floating on the surface. He held up one of his own, and as I moved to set my vape pen down, he used two pale fingers to pluck it from my hand and hold it to his own lips. I found myself mesmerized as he took a slow, steady inhale, gave me a genteel shark smile, and then exhaled.
Muscles down below clenched in anticipation.
This was the guy, the stranger that I was going to take home.
"Cheers?" he asked me, very carefully and slowly setting the vape pen aside and looking over his glasses to meet my eyes. There was something dangerous about this guy, cutting and cold and awful. I'd have to be careful, even if a one-night stand was the only thing in our future. Without my magic, someone like this might be too risky, but I'd be damned if I was going to let myself feel weak.
I could handle this.
"Cheers," I returned, lifting my glass up to his and clinking the edges. The general rule of thumb was smoke first and then drink, but whatever. Kitsune could handle a hell of a lot more booze and THC than a human anyway; I'd be fine.
Mik would murder me.
But I was not the one with daddy issues, thank you very much. A parent's stern disapproval didn't mean much to me. Mine hadn't been around long enough to drill that into me.
"So," Blue-Eyes continued, pushing his black glasses up and into his pale blond hair. "What are we celebrating tonight?" His eyes were the color of ice chips, almost colorless, and they sparkled mischievously as he looked me over and licked his lower lip with a slow, purposeful sensuality.
"A night off,” I said, purposefully vague, lifting my drink to my lips and taking a slow sip. The tart bite of cranberries rolled across my tongue as I swallowed.
"A night off, huh?" the man replied, his voice low and smooth as cognac. It was eerie, how unassuming his words were and yet, how full of power, too. I could feel magic tickling my skin as he spoke. "Well, now, if you need your night filled"—the man paused here to emphasize the word with the drooping of his eyelids, putting on a dark and dangerous bedroom look that had me squeezing my thighs together—"then I'd be happy to take care of that void."
"Oh, would you now?" I asked, setting my glass down and taking a seat on the stool. I needed those few extra inches of space between me and this guy. "Maybe I could get your name first?"
The man's mouth twisted to the right in a sideways smirk.
"Just call me … Sir, and I'll be happy," he said, and I raised both brows, trying to hold back a laugh. Seriously? But I took another drag on my vape pen and grinned. Fine. Tonight was all about getting away, about fantasy, so why not?
"Okay, Sir, you can call me Chris." I bit the end of the vape pen and leaned back, letting 'Sir's' eyes sweep over my black sequin drag queen heels, red leather pants, and barely-there black halter. My ears and tails were out, a clear sign of my species even if I wasn't totally sure what flavor Sir was. He was a skinwalker, yes, but what kind? Coyote were the most common, but the fur on this man’s shoulders was too ragged and wild for me to be certain. Then again, I’d heard that skinwalkers could literally change their skin every few years, so who the hell knew? He could be a coyote this week and a buffalo the next for all the fuck I cared. Skinwalker knowledge wasn’t exactly common knowledge, and Google was less than helpful when looking for answers about a people who worked as hard as they did to keep all their secrets.
It had been a heated debate with Chris whether it was even safe for me to show my nine white tails in public, but eventually we’d agreed that people wouldn't know how old I was. For all they knew, I was two hundred and eighty, and well old enough to have earned all nine. If I was that nervous about showing my cards, I doubted this guy would be much more forthcoming about his. I could ask his species, but I simply didn’t care to.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Chris," my companion replied, giving a tiny half smirk on my fake name. "Would you care to go somewhere quieter? To … talk."
Ziff chittered something that sounded like a laugh in my ear, then scurried his way into the leather Armani bag slung over my shoulder specifically for him. Chances were he'd sleep the rest of the night, which worked well. Nothing worse than having a tiny fennec fox staring at you while you got pounded doggy style.
"Talking, hmm?" I watched Sir though my heavy lashes as I sipped my drink, my tails swishing lazily behind me. "I came here to dance. Do you dance, Sir?"
He coughed a half laugh, rubbing at the shadow of stubble on his cheek as his unblinking eyes drilled into me, dipping to the low V of my halter top, then trailing over the delicate lines of the cherry blossom tattoos on my exposed midsection.
"No," he replied eventually, meeting my eyes, "and I don't believe you came here to dance, Chris. You came here for a distraction from whatever life issues are weighing down those lush shoulders of yours."