Seraphine smirked. “As long as you’re not taking us to a comic book convention, we’re good,” she said.
“You wish,” I said, then turned my attention fully to Grace.
She stood close, eyes bright, jaw set in a little smirk.
“Harley, huh?” I asked.
“You know you love it,” she said, voice low and teasing.
“I thought you’d come as my favorite witch,” I said. “You had options.”
“Witches are played out,” she said. “At least Harley gets to have fun.”
There was an edge to the word “fun” that made my stomach tighten. I stepped a little closer, enough that I could smell the faint mix of her perfume and something else I could not place.
“What’s gotten into you?” I asked quietly.
“A demon,” she said.
She laughed as she said it, then brushed it off with a roll of her eyes and started to move her hips in a small dance to the distant music, tempting, playful, candy on the surface. The joke slid into the space between us and sat there. My chest tightened.
I wanted her.
I wanted to pull her in, throw her over my shoulder, take her somewhere quiet, strip the costume off her body and replace the laughter with something real. The need rolled through me in a steady wave, heavy and sharp.
At the same time, that old anxiety punched me in the gut.
Bael.
Images of her sigil glowing on her skin. The way she had laughed that morning. The raw bacon. The shower.
My hand closed around hers, wanting to keep her close.
“Cherry Smoke,” Bullet called out. “Let’s move! Everyone’s already there. Bar’s open. Music’s on. We’re late.”
Cherry Smoke sat at the edge of the French Quarter, an old building with a new sign. Ajax ran the place with the same mix of charm and threat he used within runs. No one fucked with Ajax or his territory, which meant it was a good place to start a party.
Tonight, orange and purple lights washed the brick. Fake cobwebs hung along the awning. A giant plastic skull glared down from above the door. Bikers, locals, tourists, and everything in between came in a steady stream.
Inside, the music hit hard. Bass rattled the glasses behind the bar. Ajax stood behind the counter in some half-assed costume that involved fangs and a bloody apron, pouring drinks with quick hands.
The club had taken over one side of the bar. Patches everywhere. Leather. Boots. Tattoos. Masks. Wigs. The smell of beer, sweat, perfume, and sugar filled the space.
Josh showed up not long after we did, hovering near the wall, hands in his pockets. The kid gave me a nod and I tipped my chin back. His gaze went to Grace, as instructed, then started a slow sweep of the room.
I watched Grace.
She drank. Not more than usual, but faster. She moved through the crowd with an ease that drew eyes. She danced in the middle of the floor, bat resting on her shoulder, hips rolling to the beat in a way that made every man in range stare.
She kept coming back to me, though.
She pressed herself against my front, arms around my neck, thighs brushing my legs. She ground her body along mine with no hesitation, no shyness, no sign that she cared who saw.
“You’re staring,” she said, breath warm against my ear.
“You’re making it hard not to,” I told her.
“Good,” she said. “You owe me attention.”
