Preview: Dragon’s Secret Baby
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The blasts from Thorne Lewis' shotgun pounded through the air of the darkened room. Taking cover behind a nearby low barrier, he didn't look to see if his shots had hit home – he knew they had.
Through the dim light of the space, he scanned for his next targets. He allowed himself a moment to focus, to catch his breath and let his dragon eyes adjust to the room. Then, a beep sounded, followed by the clang of several targets popping up. Judging the distance, he could tell they were all the way on the other side of the room. And the clock was ticking.
Fucking Aurelius, he thought, slinging his shotgun over his shoulder, and leaping over the barrier.
By this point, Thorne's eyes had adjusted to the dim light of the shooting range, and, sure enough, he spotted his next three targets all the way on the other side of the room. Going by pure instinct, he rushed within range as fast as he could. Thorne leaped over the low barriers, ducked under the ones hanging from the ceiling, and dodged the shots coming from the small ports on the ceiling.
"Time's almost up, old man," came the voice of Aurelius through the room's speakers. "Ten seconds left if you wanna beat my record."
And now he's trying to fucking distract me, Thorne thought. Little punk.
But Thorne wasn't out of step just yet. Grabbing his shotgun and whipping into aiming position, he skidded onto his knees, took aim at the three human-shaped targets, and with a triplet of booming shots, knocked them down one by one. Once he confirmed he'd blasted the targets, Thorne ran with lightning speed over to the entrance to the range and slammed his palm down on the cherry red button next to it.
A buzzer sounded as the lights flicked on in the range. Scanning the room, Thorne noted with a pleased smile that every single target had been downed. With metallic grinding, the blasted targets raised on their tracks and moved back into their wall compartments. Thorne's eyes then flicked to the large, red digital display of his range time. Sure enough, he'd managed to keep his record – he'd beaten Aurelius' time by two seconds.
Should've been at least five, he thought, shaking his head. I'm losing my step.
The door behind him unlocked with a clang, and Thorne pulled it open and stepped through into the small storage space where he left his gun and ammo on the counter to be restocked. Once done, he stepped through the next door and entered a large room walled with banks of CCTV camera feeds. And sitting here and there was his crew, the Silver Talon Mercenaries.
They applauded as Thorne entered the room. All of them except for Aurelius, who stood leaning against the wall, his ropey arms crossed over his chest, his displeased expression nearly hidden by the long, ink-black hair that lay draped over his face.
"Fuckin' A, boss," said Corvo, Thorne's second-in-command, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a ruddy face and military-short hair. "You fuckin' wrecked in there."
"You know, cap," said Hoxson, a short, red-haired brick wall of a solider and the team's demolitions expert, "I thought, for a second, that you weren't gonna pull it off. But now I look like an asshole."
"An asshole who's out a grand," said the team's sniper, Jace, a willowy, red-haired woman with model-good looks and a mouth like a longshoreman. "Pay up, shitbird."
"Can't believe you bet against the boss," said Mick, the Talon's heavy assault expert, and a lean, strapping young man with a pug-ugly face and arms covered in fearsome tattoos.
"That right?" asked Thorne. "You put down money against your own captain?"
"Hey," said Hoxson, "Aurelius might be a prick, but he's got some moves. And the odds were too good to pass up."
"Well," said Thorne, "now you're going to be out even more than a grand. First round's on you."
"Ah, fuck," said Hoxson.
The team laughed and carried on, eager to get to the "free drinks" part of the training day. Aurelius, on the other hand, didn't budge an inch from where he stood. His handsome face was locked in a brooding expression that was typical for him, and Thorne knew something was up.
"That was a good score, Aurelius," said Thorne as the rest of the group headed out the door and toward the bar. "You keep at it and you're gonna be the top man in the Talons. But, for now, we're gonna get fucked up."
Aurelius snorted.
"I'll catch up with you guys," he said. "I'm going to stick around and run the practice a few more times."
"Sure," said Thorne. "Don't wait too long – getting fucked up's an order, not a suggestion."
With that, he clapped Aurelius on the shoulder hard and headed out. Moments later, he was out with the rest of the group, heading down the wide hallway of Silver Talon HQ.
"Where to tonight, cap?" asked Mick. "Taproom?"
"No go on the tap room," said Hoxson. "Had a little, ah, incident there the other night. Kinda want to avoid the place until the heat dies down."
"I'm gonna guess that by ‘incident' you mean you got shithammer drunk and picked a fight you couldn't win," said Jace.
"Right about everything but the part about not winning the fight," said Hoxson with a proud smile "I laid that little fucker out like you wouldn't believe. Some little shithead from the Golden Wings mercs."
"Gods, I hate those fuckers," said Mick. "Good thing it was one of those rich-kid twerps, otherwise I might be pissed for eighty-sixing my favorite fucking bar for the night."
"Let's do El Gringo's," said Corvo. "I could go for a fuckin' burrito."
Thorne stayed back while the team carried on, eager to get a drink in front of him and relax after a long day of training. Soon, the team was out of HQ and back on the streets of Hell's Kitchen. The red and white neon sign of El Gringo's was alight in the distance like a lighthouse leading them to booze. Minutes later, the crew was gathered around a small wooden table in the cheap Mexican joint, a huge metal bucket of beers packed into ice in front of them.
"No trip to El Gringo's is complete without a round of tequila shots," said Jace, waving down the nearest waiter.
Right at that moment, a buzzing sounded in Thorne's pocket. It was a particular buzzing pattern, one he reserved for special clients. Slipping his phone out of his pocket, he glanced at the screen, his eyes going wide as he did.
"Yo!" she said once she had the waiter's attention. "Five shots of your cheapest, shittiest tequila! Pronto!"
"Make that four shots," said Thorne, holding up his hand, his eyes still on his phone.
"Whoa," said Mick. "Boss isn't getting fucked up?"
"As much as I want to, I can't," said Thorne, shoving his phone back into his pocket. "Just got a message from the Abruzzi."
"The Abruzzi?" said Hoxson. "You mean the ‘extremely old and extremely, extremely powerful dragon clan' Abruzzi?"
"That's the one," said Thorne.
"The ones whose legs we've practically been humping for the last two years to get a gig with?" asked Corvo.
"You got it," said Thorne.
"I guess we did enough humping," said Jace, a wicked smirk on her face.
"Then we're gonna be meeting with them, I suppose?" said Corvo.
"I'm going to be meeting with them," said Thorne. "And they want to meet right now."
"Holy shit," said Hoxson. "This must be a big fuckin' gig."
Thorne's mind raced with the possibilities of what the Abruzzi would want on such short notice, and why they wanted him, and only him. It was only a minute since he'd gotten the message, and he was already having a bad feeling about the whole thing.
"Whatever it is," said Thorne, getting up out of his seat, "I gotta get there now."
"Later, boss," said Corvo. "And keep us posted."
"You'll know when I know," said Thorne. "And good work today, all."
With that, Thorne took his leave of the group and headed back out onto the city streets. As he made his way to his ride, he tried to make sense of this new development. Thorne knew that Corvo was right; they'd been trying to land the Abruzzi for years. The older dragon clans of the city were hard nuts to crack, however, and tended to have their own personal mercenary groups that they favored. But they were where the big money in the city was, so long odds didn't stop groups like Thorne's Silver Talons from doing their best to get their foot in the door.
Guess I'll find out soon enough, thought Thorne as he approached his ride – a huge, motorcycle of polished, gleaming chrome – and climbed on top of it.
And that wasn't the only thing Thorne was worried about – Aurelius' behavior gave him pause. Aurelius was the newest addition to the team, a kid fresh out of training and eager to prove himself. Thorne was used to upstarts gunning for the more senior mercs like him, hoping to earn their stripes by showing that they were the new hotness, but there was something about Aurelius that was more pointed, more hostile, even. Thorne knew that Aurelius was from the wealthy and powerful Inri family, who used their pull to get Aurelius on the team, and he wondered if coming from such a rich and influential dragon family was factoring into his behavior.
Kid like that's coming up against the first real challenges of his life working with me, thought Thorne as he gunned the engine to his bike. And he's not happy with not getting his way. I'm gonna have to keep a close eye on him, make sure he doesn't turn into a resentful little prick.
Thorne tore down the streets of Manhattan, making his way to the Abruzzi tower in Midtown. After a short trip, he arrived at the tower − a tall, gleaming spire that cut into the night sky above the city like a silver knife. Thorne always had a hard time wrapping his head around the fact that more than a few of the super scrapers that dominated the Manhattan skyline were owned by ancient dragon families like the Abruzzi. Sure, Thorne had plenty of wealth of his own, but it was nothing compared to what clans like these had built up over the centuries. Some could even trace their wealth back to pre-medieval times.
After a long elevator ride up to the top of the building, Thorne stepped out into the sleek, modern offices of Abruzzi holdings, the front company for the clan. He made his way to the conference room and let the receptionist know he was there. The great doors of dark wood opened, revealing a magnificent conference room, the view looking out from the incredible height of the tower onto the glittering sweep of the city around them.
"There's the dragon we've been waiting to see," said Harold Abruzzi, the silver-haired patriarch of the Abruzzi clan.
He was dressed in his usual immaculate suit, his hair parted perfectly. At his flanks were Marion Abruzzi, his wife, and Cedric Abruzzi, his son. At the sides of the long conference table sat a dozen or so other members of the clan, all with the same prim, chiseled features as the three highest family members.
"Been waiting to see me, huh?" asked Thorne. "Can't help but wonder why you all would go from not knowing my crew even exists to calling me for a last-minute meeting."
"Well, Mr. Lewis," said Harold, "you're sounding a little insubordinate for a dragon who's about to get the job of a lifetime."
"Maybe we ought to give the job to someone else," said Marion, her stunning features in an expression of skepticism. "Someone who's a little more well-mannered."
"Someone like me," said Cedric, his tone pompous. "I'm telling you, father – I could have the girl in the city by nightfall tomorrow. Just give me a ch–"
Not bothering to turn his head toward his son, his steely eyes fixed on Thorne, Harold raised a hand to signal that he wanted nothing but silence from his son.
"A girl?" asked Thorne. "What is this, an assassination mission or something? Lucky for you, wetworks are my specialty."
"Oh, I know," said Harold. "I did my homework on you, Thorne. You're a man who'll take any job without hesitation, from assault to assassination. And you'll take them without complaint, like the good mercenary you are. Matters like ‘morality' don't seem to matter much to you."
"That's the kind of shit you don't get the luxury of worrying about when you sign on to be a merc," said Thorne. "I like to think of myself as a tool – you use me to do a job."
"But…" said Harold, a small smile forming on his lips. "You weren't always like this. According to my research, you used to be something of a do-gooder."
Thorne bristled at this. He realized that the man had done his homework.
"That's all in the past," said Thorne. "Now, I'm all about getting paid. And I hear that your clan has money to spare."
"That we do, Mr. Thorne."
"Then what's the gig? And how much time does my team have to get ready?"
"Thing about that," said Harold. "We only require your services for this particular mission."
"See, that's not going to work," said Thorne. "You want me, you get my team. I don't work without them."
"You can have them for recon, or moral support, or whatever," said Harold. "I don't give a damn. But when it comes to the mission itself, I only want you handling the necessaries. Fewer mercenaries mean less attention."
Thorne remained standing, his hands clasped behind his back.
"And trust me," said Harold. "What I'm going to be paying you for this little operation will be more than enough to make you and your team very, very happy."
"Then let's not waste any more time," said Thorne. "Let's get down to it."
"Just what I wanted to hear," said Harold.
He then typed a few keystrokes into the computer setup to his right, bringing a satellite of the state of Louisiana onto the screen. The image then zoomed in on New Orleans.
"This is where you'll be headed for the mission," said Harold. "New Orleans. It's where your target currently resides."
"My target," repeated Thorne. "And what do I need to know about him?"
"'Her," corrected Harold. "Your target is a young woman by the name of Adelaide Wilson."
Harold typed in another few keystrokes, this time bringing onto the screen an image of a young woman who was so strikingly beautiful that it gave Thorne pause. The young woman was fair-skinned, with dark, shoulder-length brown hair that framed the stunning features of her heart-shaped face. And her body didn't look too bad, either. The image appeared to have been taken from a distance, but Thorne couldn't help but notice the lovely curves on display.
"And who is she?" asked Thorne. "Some dragon who decided life in the big city wasn't for her?"
"Well," said Harold, tapping a key, and turning off the display, "I'm afraid we've reached the end of the ‘need-to-know' information."
Harold lowered his gaze and regarded Thorne with a skeptical expression.
"I trust that this won't be a problem? After all, one of the reasons I choose you to perform this job is that you and your crew have a reputation for doing the work without asking questions. Anything for a payday."
Thorne nodded, the image of the girl still fresh in his mind.
"That's right," he said. "You pay me, and I don't give a good goddamn what else you have in mind."
"Excellent," said Harold. "So, your task is to find this girl and bring her back to me in one piece. I'd prefer that she be completely unharmed, but I won't object to a little roughing-up if you find it necessary in order for her to…cooperate."
"No assassination?"
"Absolutely not," said Harold. "It's imperative that she be brought to us alive. If anything should happen to her…well, let's just say, I sincerely hope, for your sake, that it doesn't come to that."
Thorne kept cool at this. Being threatened by one of the oldest clans in the city didn't exactly sit well with him, but he was used to such talk from clients like this.
"So," said Thorne. "Go to New Orleans, find this girl, bring her back in one piece. Sounds easy enough."
"I hope it is," said Harold. "This girl is a college student, so you shouldn't have any trouble apprehending her."
All of this struck Thorne as bizarre. What on earth did a clan like the Abruzzi want with some college kid? But he knew better than to ask.
"All sounds good," said Thorne. "Just the matter of payment to discuss."
Harold turned to one of the men at the conference table closest to Thorne and gave the man a slight nod. The man then reached into his suit jacket, withdrew a small, folded piece of paper, and handed it to Thorne, who opened it up.
Thorne's eyes went wide as he looked at what was written inside.
"I trust that this should be an adequate amount for a job such as this?"
"This..." said Thorne, trying to play it cool in the face of all the zeros on the paper in his hands. "…should be sufficient."
"Then good. Your deadline is one week. That will be all."
With that, Thorne was led out of the room and toward the elevators. Back on his bike, the events of the strange meeting swirled in his mind. He drove back toward Hell's Kitchen, ready to tell the rest of the crew just what was going on.
But despite the money, he knew there was more to this seemingly simple operation than Harold was letting on. Thorne could only hope it wasn't something that might kill him in the process of getting it done.
"Get up! Right now, dammit!"
Adelaide Wilson couldn't believe what she was seeing. Sprawled out on the couch, in the middle of the afternoon, his bong on the floor at his feet, was her boyfriend, Marcus. His eyes were shut tight and roaring snores sounded from his slacked open mouth. A little bit of drool dripped down from the corner of his lips. And, as usual, he was wearing nothing but his ratty blue plaid pajama pants.
"Up! Now!"
Adelaide was furious. She tossed her purse at him, the impact jostling him out of his nap. Marcus jerked upright in his seat and looked around with bleary eyes.
"What the hell are you doing?" asked Adelaide, her hands on her hips.
"I was, um, watching Rick and Morty," he said, his voice groggy, gesturing to the TV that was still playing. "You ever saw this show before? It's pretty funny."
"No," said Adelaide, her voice edged with anger, "because I was at school all day, not sitting around in my pajamas smoking weed."
"These aren't my pajamas," he said, tugging at the dingy fabric. "These're my lounging around pants. You know I don't like to wear during the day the same shit I sleep in."
Adelaide was almost too angry to speak. She scanned the room, noting the junk food wrappers, the empty beer cans, and the PlayStation controller lying on the floor among the mess. It didn't take much detective work for her to know what he had spent his day doing.
"Oh, how responsible of you," said Adelaide, stepping out of her heels and kicking them off to the side.
"You gotta, you know, take baby steps," said Marcus, stretching. "First you start by making sure you're putting on different clothes in the morning, then-"
"Then what? You actually start showering on a daily basis? You get up before noon? You eat some food that doesn't come in a plastic bag?"
"Um, eventually, yeah," he said, not appearing to be bothered in the slightest by Adelaide's anger.
"Or, crazy as it sounds, you actually put some work in on your painting? I know that might be a wild idea, but considering you're an artist and all, maybe it's something worth considering."
"Babe," said Marcus, standing up and putting his hand on Adelaide's shoulder and speaking the tone one might use with a child. "You know you can't just rush the muse like that. She comes when she wants."
"Augh!" shouted Adelaide, stomping her foot and storming out of the living room.
Adelaide was furious. Marcus, her boyfriend of almost six months, was the latest in a series of artists that she'd gotten involved with over the last few years since her time began at college. It always seemed to go the same way for her: she'd be taken immediately by their passion and talent, then she'd get wrapped up in their romantic world of art and inspiration, then something more serious would develop.
But as soon as she got the chance to look behind the curtain at what their lives were really like, she'd found that just about everything about them was a front. Sure, they could turn out a painting or piece of music every now and then, but as soon as they began to start settling, they'd invariably turn into big children who depended on Adelaide's responsible personality.
"You know, you could get a freaking part-time job," shot Adelaide. "I know that sitting around watching cartoons and getting high is probably a really integral part of your creative process, but you could at least pick up a few hours at a restaurant or something here and there!"
And, just like the rest of them, Marcus seemed to be allergic to the idea of work.
"Ad," said Marcus from the living room, "you know I can't do that. What if the muse hits while I'm in the middle of a shift or something? What am I supposed to do, just let inspiration slip through my fingers or something?"
Adelaide looked around the bedroom at the few paintings that Marcus had begun over the last few months. They showed obvious talent, but not a single one was anything close to being finished. The paintings were nothing more than monuments to Marcus' lack of drive, focus, and work ethic. Adelaide could hardly stand to look at them.
Marcus strolled casually into the bedroom, not seeming like he was bothered in the slightest by anything Adelaide had said. Her eyes scanned his body, noting his slim frame, his ropy muscles, and the tattoos that decorated his skin here and there. His long, sable hair draped over his shoulders, and his steely gray bedroom eyes regarded Adelaide with a playful look, one that seemed to suggest that they cut the bullshit and get right to the makeup sex.
Goddamnit, she thought, why do these loser artists all have to be so fucking hot?
She shook her head, determined not to let her libido get the better of her.
"Normal people work and pursue what they want in their free time," said Adelaide. "Or they go to school. Or they do something. But you think you're too good for any of that, huh? You think that you're a special, precious little artist who doesn't have to work, who can just sponge off people who actually show some responsibility, huh?"
"No, babe," he said, "that's not what this is about."
Then, an expression of realization flashed over his face, as if he'd just remembered something.
"Um…" he said, now looking sheepish.
"What?" demanded Adelaide. "What is it?"
"Do you think…um, you could spot me for rent this month? Kinda remembered I went through the last of the money from my last sale."
That was it. Adelaide's vision turned red, and rage began to take her over. She didn't care how sexy he was, how talented he was, or how good he was in bed – she wanted him gone, long gone.
"Get out!" shouted Adelaide, shoving Marcus into the hallway.
"Wait, what?" stammered Marcus, clearly shocked.
"I said, get the fuck out!"
Adelaide stormed into the living room, gathering up Marcus's junk in her arms, then opening the front door and tossing it all out onto the lawn.
"Whoa, babe!" said Marcus, following on her heels. "Let's talk about this or something! Just cool out!"
"I'm not going to cool out," said Adelaide, trying to keep her voice cool as she marched to the bedroom. "I'm going to get your shitty little bag of clothes from the bedroom and put them right next to the rest of your crap. Then you can get the hell out of here and go crash on the couch at one of your loser friends'."
And that's just what she did. Grabbing Marcus' clothes by the handful, she shoved them into the ratty duffel that had moved in two months ago. Nearly everything he owned could be fit into that bag, and Adelaide was quick to shove everything in there.
"Seriously, babe," said Marcus. "It's just one month. I'll sell something soon and then I can pay you back. I swear!"
Adelaide wasn't in the mood for any promises. She tossed the bag with a heave onto the front porch and pointed toward it.
"Now go," she said.
"But…what about my art?"
"Come get it some other time; I don't care. But you're gone."
Marcus lowered his head in defeat. Seeing him give him so passively struck Adelaide as a little pathetic. She couldn't believe that this schlub in pajama pants was the same passionate artist for which she'd fallen so hard.
Snatching his bong off the floor, Marcus started toward the door.
"You know, when I've got a show at the Met in New York, you're gonna feel really stupid about what you're doing."
"I'm more than happy to cross that bridge when I come to it."
With that, Marcus stepped out onto porch and Adelaide slammed the door behind him.
Good riddance! she thought as soon as the door shut.
But as soon as the reality of what she'd done hit her, Adelaide felt suddenly alone. Part of her wanted to open the door back up and call out to Marcus, giving him one more in a long series of last chances.
Just be strong, she thought, going through the living room and cleaning up the mess that Marcus had left.
Then, a chime sounded from her purse.
Gotta be Marcus, she thought, picking her bag up and going through it. Couldn't even wait five minutes before begging to come back.
To her surprise, however, she saw that it was a text from Maddie, her best friend.
Hey, girl! What's up?
Part of Adelaide wanted to pretend that nothing had happened, that it was just business as usual. Adelaide was the type who hated to burden other people with her problems, but she realized that, in this case, it was something that was going to come out eventually.
Her fingers dancing over the phone keypad, she explained the events of the last few minutes.
I've been waiting for you to ditch that loser! Bout damn time! Let's celebrate with some drinks!
Adelaide fired off a quick response.
I don't know…I think I just want the evening to get used to everything.
The reply was nearly instantaneous.
BS. Come out for drinks with Kate and me. Better than sitting at home sulking. And this way you won't have any moments of weakness and call him back up or something stupid like that.
Adelaide realized that Maddie was right. Staying home alone would likely mean a bottle of wine and some sad music, and she'd been through enough similar situations to know that, by the time the bottle was just about empty, texting Marcus would start to seem like a good idea.
OK, fine. When and where?
Then the response.
Eight o'clock. Meet us at Mick's.
Adelaide's stomach sank a bit. Mick's was one of the local biker bars, and not exactly the most welcoming place for college kids like them. But Adelaide was now determined to get out of the house and try to have a little fun, so she simply sent back a confirmation text.
After cleaning up the rest of Marcus' mess, as well as getting his art supplies and unfinished paintings ready to hand over, Adelaide started on getting ready. She spent a little time fussing over what to wear, keeping in mind that the sorts of guys that frequented Mick's weren't the harmless college guys who'd maybe be bold enough to smile at her from across the bar. The men at Mick's were the type with tattoos, muscles, and long beards – the kind of guys who looked like their preferred method of courtship was to throw girls over their shoulders and take them out back to have their way with them.
Adelaide realized with a sly smirk that this actually didn't sound so terrible.
Bad girl, she thought, going through her clothes. No rebounds tonight. Just go out and get some good girl time in. Guys are the last thing you need right now.
Adelaide decided on a pair of skinny blue jeans, a nice white blouse, and a pair of black flats. She regarded her features in the mirror, noting her catlike green eyes, dark hair, and lips that she'd always felt were too big and full for her face.
Not much I can do about all that, she thought, putting on a bit of makeup.
An hour later, she walked into Mick's. The place was a standard dive bar with pool tables, neon beer signs, and rock music playing on the jukebox. A couple dozen bikers were here and there; drinking, playing pool and darts, and carrying on, their eyes latching onto Adelaide as she walked past. Seedy smiles formed on their faces as they ate her alive with their eyes. Adelaide found herself wondering if this was such a good idea after all.
Finally, she found Maddie and Kate seated at a small table in the corner, both of them waving eagerly to get Adelaide's attention.
"There she is!" shouted Maddie, a petite blonde with a girl-next-door face with a bikini model's body.
"We were, like, this close to thinking you'd given in and called Marcus or something," said Kate, a waifish girl with dark, curly hair and a face of classical beauty.
"Are you serious?" said Adelaide? "I'm not even ten minutes late."
"Well, it wouldn't exactly be out of character for you to give up and call up whatever artist you just ditched for a goodbye screw or something," said Maddie before taking a sip of her gin and tonic.
"That's total BS," said Adelaide. "I don't do that."
"Are you kidding?" said Kate, raising her eyebrows in surprise. "What was that one guy's name, that guy who made the sculptures out of cans or something?"
"Oh, God," said Maddie. "Paul, Peter – some bible name."
"Preston," said Adelaide, the memory of him rushing back into her thoughts.
"You broke up with him for, what, spending two weeks straight taking acid or something? And how long did that last for?"
"Um," said Adelaide, "well, there were a few false starts, but I eventually kicked his ass out."
"Yeah," said Kate. "'Eventually', being the key word here."
Adelaide shook her head as she scanned the bar. The place was wall-to-wall bikers, each seeming eager to have their chance with one of the three cute college girls who'd just walked in. Or maybe even all three of them.
"So what," said Adelaide, still feeling a little nervous, "you guys figured that being around hard-ass bikers was the best way for me to get over Marcus?"
"Well," said Maddie, "we were planning on coming here anyway. But maybe hooking up with one of these guys would do you some good. Not a tortured artist in sight."
"I can't believe you guys come here," said Adelaide. "It's like you're asking for trouble."
"That's the whole point," said Kate. "These guys here? They're real men. Not like those boys at school with their baseball caps and oversized hoodies and used Honda Civics that their parents bought for them or whatever."
"Yeah," said Maddie. "These are guys who'll take you out of here on their bikes and screw you like you've never been screwed before."
"Oh my God," said Kate. "This guy I met here a couple of weeks ago, he was like-"
Then, she held up her hands to indicate the size of his cock.
"No way," said Mattie. "You're lying."
"Totally serious."
Adelaide chuckled.
"You guys are the worst."
Maddie and Kate were Adelaide's best friends in New Orleans and the closest thing to family she had in this city. Her adopted parents lived out in Florida, and Adelaide wasn't the best at keeping in contact with them. And since she never had the closest of relationships with them, it wasn't surprising to her how distant she'd grown from them since they moved out of the state when Adelaide decided to stay for school.
"OK, who've you got your eye on," said Maddie, scanning the crowd.
"Oh, easy," said Kate. "That guy at the pool table, the one who's like, seven feet tall."
Adelaide looked at the man Kate was referring to. He was a tall, strapping, tough-looking man with slicked-back red hair, arms covered in tattoos, and a handsome face partially hidden behind a pair of sunglasses.
"That's a good one," said Maddie. "I want the guy at the bar, the one with the giant fucking arms."
"OK, what about you, Ad?" said Kate.
"Um, not really sure," she said. "I don't think any of these guys here are really my type, you know?"
Maddie rolled her eyes.
"You're only saying that because you still haven't gotten a drink. Be right back."
With that, Maddie sprang up from her seat and walked seductively to the bar, taking a place by the man she'd had her eye on. Adelaide watched as Maddie flashed him a sly look, the two of them chatting for a moment. Then, the man handed the bartender some money, and a tray of drinks was placed in front of Maddie. She returned to the table with a pleased expression on her face, and Adelaide could see the man at the bar watching her walk away, his eyes very, very interested.
"That's another thing I like about this place," said Maddie. "Easy as hell to get free drinks."
Adelaide couldn't help but laugh. Maddie placed a new drink along with a shot of whiskey in front of each of them, and with a cheers, the night was on. An hour or so passed, and Adelaide and the girls went through another couple rounds of drinks. The music picked up, the bar filled up more, and soon, Maddie and Kate were in the mood to dance. Taking their drinks from the table, they headed off toward their chosen bikers and went in for the kill.
"Next round's on you, Ad!" said Maddie. "And I don't want to hear that you paid for it!"
Adelaide's stomach tightened. She'd never really considered herself good at flirting and getting drinks out of guys never came as easily to her as it did to Maddie and Kate. Nevertheless, she was feeling drunk and confident. She approached the bar, standing between a couple bikers, and got the bartender's attention.
"Now what the fuck is a little college girl piece of ass like you doing in a place like this?"
The voice to her right was booming and deep. Adelaide turned toward the man and found that her eyes only went to his chest. She craned her neck up to look at the biker and saw that he was tall, ugly as sin, and fat as hell. Raunchy tattoos snaked up his neck and onto his face, and he was dressed head-to-toe in leather.
"These're on me," he said, shoving a couple of twenties toward the bartender.
Then his piggy eyes scanned Adeline up and down slowly.
"And I can think of something else I'd like on me," he said, his slug-like lips forming into a skeevy smile. "Call me Bulk – that's what everyone else does.”
Panic gripped Adelaide. She wasn't interested in the slightest by this man, and even felt a little threatened by him. But she got the impression he was the type who wasn't likely to take no for an answer. She glanced over her shoulder quickly, trying to spot Maddie and Kate, but she couldn't find them among the dancing crowds.
"Um, thanks for the drinks, uh, Bulk," said Adelaide. "But I gotta get back to my friends now."
Bulk shook his head.
"See, where I come from, if a man buys a girl a drink, then she owes him a little bit of her time. Now, have a seat and let me get to know you a little better."
"You know what?" said Adelaide, "you can just have the drinks. I gotta go."
She turned to leave, but before she could even take a step, Bulk's hand shot out with a surprising quickness. He latched onto her wrist and held her in place.
"Sit that little ass of yours down. Now."
Panic rushed through Adelaide. She realized that there was nothing she could do. Bulk's face was twisted into an expression of frustrated anger, like that of a kid who wasn't getting what he wanted. But this kid was six-six and three hundred pounds.
"Let me go!" protested Adelaide.
"Not a fucking chance," said Bulk. "You're mine."
But before Adelaide could say or do anything else, a large hand clapped down onto Bulk's shoulder. Adelaide's eyes shot up to the hand's owner, and she saw that he was a tall, built man dressed in a tight white t-shirt that clung to his broad shoulders and defined pecs and a pair of dark jeans and combat boots. His hair was slicked back and as dark as India ink, and his face was so gorgeous that Adelaide couldn't believe it was real. His eyes were an icy blue, his lips were full and sensual, and his jaw was wide and strong. Adelaide couldn't tell his age, but he looked to be in his late thirties.
"Don't think she's interested, buddy," said the man, his voice low and rich.
Bulk shifted his weight around and looked hard at the man.
"What the fuck you think you're doing, asshole?" said Bulk. "How about you back the fuck off."
"Not gonna happen," said the man. "See, I'm an old-fashioned kind of guy. And old-fashioned guys like me know that when a girl's got a look like that on her face, one that I would call ‘abject terror,' it means they want you to leave them the fuck alone. So, I'm gonna make sure that's exactly what happens."
"The only thing that's gonna happen," said Bulk, “is that you get the fuck out of my goddamn face, pretty boy, and leave me to my woman."
The man shook his head.
"And because I'm an old-fashioned kind of guy," he said, "I'm gonna give you one last warning before I drop your ass to the floor. So, here it is: back the fuck off, and leave the girl alone."
Bulk took a step closer to the man, shoving him with his big, round belly. Adelaide watched with fear as he got as close as possible to the man.
"Fuck. You," he said.
"Hate to do things this way," said the man, "but you asked for it."
With lightning speed, the man pulled back his fist and sent it into Bulk's face in a tight arc. The fist connected, a sick crack sounding out through the bar. Bulk flew backward as soon as the fist hit him, moving faster than Adelaide would've guessed a fat man like him would've been able to. Bulk fell onto the floor in a heap, and the crowd around them yelled and whooped at the action.
Adelaide watched Bulk as he lay still on the floor, looking like a truck had just slammed into him. Eventually, a few of his friends arrived and, with a team effort, heaved him from the ground and dragged him out of the bar. Adelaide's heart raced, and she put her hand on the side of the bar to steady herself.
"You OK?" asked the man.
As Adelaide took in the sight of her savior, her heart picked up even more than before.
Holy fuck, she thought, this guy's goddamn gorgeous.
"Um, I think so," said Adelaide.
The man reached forward and took one of Adelaide's hands into his. The feeling of his skin against hers was like nothing she'd ever felt before. It was chemistry in the purest sense.
"Your hands are shaking," he said. "You need a minute. You alone here?"
"I'm here with my friends, but they're a little, uh, distracted at the moment."
"Name's Thorne," said the man.
"Adelaide," she replied.
"Adelaide," he said, as if trying the name on for size. "Now, that's a pretty name. Like something from another time."
"I'm sure an old-fashioned guy like you appreciates it, then."
One side of Thorne's mouth pulled up into a smile, which had to be the most charming smile Adelaide had ever seen in her life.
"You'd be right about that."
"A real gentleman, too," said Adelaide, taking one of the drinks that Bulk had bought her and placing it in front of Thorne. "Here, I think you've earned this. That is, unless you're too old-fashioned to let a girl buy a drink for you."
"Well, to be accurate, you didn't buy it for me. That brick wall of a gentleman currently being loaded into the back of a car did."
"Maybe you should go out and thank him," said Adelaide.
"I think he and I have done all the conversing we need to do for one night. Who knows – maybe this'll be the start of a beautiful friendship."
Adelaide smiled. Thorne was…something else. He had an easy confidence in him, as well as charm. And after a few moments of them talking, she realized she already felt safer, more at ease.
"You from here, Mr. Old-Fashioned?" asked Adelaide, taking a sip of her drink.
"Nope," he said, shaking his head slowly. "Here from New York. In town on business."
"Business, huh? What kind of business is that?"
"The kind that if I told you, I'd have to kill you."
He flashed her another sexy little grin.