Page 3 of Bad Blood Wolf

Chapter 2

Brody Jameson, aka the White Tornado, sluiced himself off with one of the buckets of warm water they kept in a corner of the barn, where the concrete floor sloped down to a drain. Fuck, he was so sick and tired of this.

Only the seven hundred dollars he had coming to him made it worthwhile. Cash money, off the books. Getting beat to hell was the only thing that could keep that much untraceable cash coming in as fast as he needed it.

As long as he won. He didn’t know what the hell he was going to do when he lost. That was the day his life would come crashing down, and all he could do was keep moving forward until that day came.

He wiped the rest of the blood off him with one of the rags they kept ready, and toweled himself sort-of dry before he moved over to the brick-and-board shelves where the contestants kept their gym bags. Clothes, shoes, car keys, flasks, bandages—all tucked away and watched over by one of the Nashville bouncers to keep the rest of these assholes from stealing it.

Brody downed a couple of ibuprofen from the bottle he kept in his bag, washed down with whiskey from his personal flask, and then pulled on his jeans, commando. His leg was still bleeding from a couple of the deeper cuts he’d taken, but he didn’t even bother with bandages. Maybe the bloodstains would come out, maybe they wouldn’t. He just didn’t fucking care anymore.

The floor manager came over and handed him his winnings. He waited while Brody counted it, and then slapped him on the shoulder and congratulated him. The only person here who had—or would.

“Monday night?” he asked, stylus poised over his tablet, where he kept the fight schedule.

“Yeah,” said Brody. Monday night. Wednesday night. Friday night. Into infinity, until his perilously balanced house of cards collapsed and crushed him.

He pocketed the money, then pulled a t-shirt over his head and zipped up his gym bag. He wanted nothing more than to get home and crawl into bed, but the Demon Queen of the Amazon was about to fight.

She was so damn beautiful it took his breath away. Her jaguar was poetry in motion: sleek and sinuous, with fur and ears that looked soft as a house cat’s, coupled with blinding speed, deadly grace, and a flat-out crazy streak that made her fight until every wolf she took on begged for mercy.

Damn, the number of times he’d fantasized about her tying him to his bed and making him beg. Or vice versa—he was nothing if not adaptable. He wanted to run his fingers through that long silky black hair over and over, while she wrapped her legs around him and screamed his name.

But she was way out of his league. And a cat. And a member of the Bad Blood Crew, who not only had a hatred for all Nashville wolves, but who were certifiably batshit crazy, every last one of them.

Never stick your dick in the crazy. That’s what his dad had always told him. Good advice.

Not that that kept his dick from trying to jump out of his pants when he watched her fight. Or walk. Or do pretty much anything.

He turned around to see those smoky cat’s eyes fixed on him.

It was like a sledgehammer hitting him in the chest. He froze, their eyes locked.

And then Bastian, one of Nashville’s junior lieutenants and biggest assholes, stepped up to Jasmin. He flicked Brody a dismissive glance.

“You ain’t lookin’ at the traitor just on account of he took down a newbie, are you, kitten? ‘Cause if you want a good ride, don’t mess with that second-rate bull. I got you.”

His two minions, following a step behind as usual, snickered.

Oh, such a bad idea.

Brody watched, still frozen, as Jasmin turned slowly and raked her gaze up and down Bastian’s beefy, over-muscled body. He had his shirt open to show the bare-breasted mermaid tattoo on his left pec, positioned so her boobs joggled when he flexed, which he did now.

So classy.

Jasmin raised her eyes to Bastian’s face and answered in that sexy, gravelly voice that Brody had only heard once or twice.

“You,” she said to Bastian, “do not fucking ‘got’ me, puppy dog.”

His minions snickered again, this time at Bastian’s expense. His face went tight and angry. “Just bein’ friendly,” he said. “No call to be a bitch, when everyone can see you need a real man to put you in your place.” He grabbed his crotch.

Jasmin didn’t blink.

Watch out.

“I do?” she purred. “Then what are you doing here? Because I would fuck a traitor, an omega or a house cat before I’d let you have even a teeny little taste of me.”

Oh, shit. Now she’d pissed him off. Bastian’s face darkened, and he reached out to actually fucking grab her breast. “Looks like that’s all you got, bitch. A little teeny—well, you can’t rightly even call that a rack, can you?”