Roach.
Staring back at him.
That human garbage with a nickname that described him appropriately.
He watched Zane in challenge, his mouth set, face expressionless. That motherfucker was a dead man walking, and didn’t even know it yet.
“Zane?” Callum whispered and poked Zane with a drumstick.
Everybody was staring at him, at the singer who’d lost his voice mid-performance, and the heat of shame scorched Zane’s body hair until he somehow gathered enough air to bark the first verse of the chorus.
“Take out the trash!”
He would not let this town drown him in self-pity. He would not let Roach see him fail. This was a triumphant moment. That bastard, who’d dumped him into a pit full of bloodthirsty mongrels, would see that he was back. That he was fine, and that he shat on his club, his legacy, and on his family!
An ice-cold thought stabbed the back of Zane’s skull, freezing flesh as it went in deeper. Were there any other Hyenas left? He’d assumed all those bastards had perished in the fire, but Roach was right there, taller and more muscular than Zane remembered. What if he’d already called for the rest of his pack, so they could finish the job?
“Take out the trash! Take out the trash! Take out the trash!”
Take out the trash, the big one had said before someone grabbed Zane’s leg and pulled him over the floor, but Zane wasn’t afraid to be back on this turf. He played with growing fury, and as his hand descended along the smooth wood, making the guitar roar, one of the strings broke and slapped his hand.
Roach flinched, as if the noise hurt his ears, and some of his beer spilled to the floor. Zane stared at him in defiance nevertheless and finished the song. He left Sid to let the crowd know they’d be taking a short break. Bloodlust choked Zane to the point that he couldn’t speak and just huffed as he sat in a rickety chair to change the string.
Roach didn’t leave his post by the door, which suggested he worked here as a bouncer. Like a wolf guarding the exit so that Zane couldn’t leave. But Zane was no sheep. He’d grown claws since that fateful night, and wouldn’t hesitate to use them, because that motherfucker deserved to die.
The hand squeezing his shoulder came out of nowhere, and Zane instinctively elbowed the stranger assaulting him in the crowd. Callum’s choked cry penetrated his mind—a reminder of where he was and with whom.
“Jesus, Man! What’s up with you tonight?” Callum shouted so Zane could hear him over the noise that made Tony’s sound like any other bar.
“Nothing. Why?” Zane grumbled and picked up his glass of beer from the floor, the skin on his nape tingling as if someone were watching him from the back. Had the surviving Hyenas surrounded him, or did this place make him feel threatened because of the past? He downed half of the drink in a couple of gulps, and the cool lager moisturised his throat, which had gotten rough from shouting.
“‘Cause you forgot the words to your own song?”
Roach kept watching him. Dressed in black as if he were still mourning his buddies, he was handsome in a way a predator could be until it ripped you to shreds. His short hair was still a bird’s nest, the dark beard more in order. If someone didn’t know how black this man’s soul was, they might’ve thought Roach had a certain backwater charm—like a pair of old leather boots you put on because you forgot that last time you’d worn them their backs had rubbed your feet raw.
Zane could feel his presence without maintaining eye contact. He needed to deal with this. Once and for all.
“Yeah, well, I’ve got a headache. Need some air,” he told Callum, who watched him with beady black eyes. Rising to his feet was a challenge with the amount of booze running through his veins, but at least it let him see Roach hadn’t left his spot to go after him.
“Sure, you want me to get you some water?”
It was hard to focus on Callum when Zane saw the blond creature in a pixie cut and white cowboy boots walking up to Roach with a smile. Was this sad bastard out now or something?
Two years ago he’d practically begged for Zane’s dick, so deep in the closet even moths wouldn’t live there, and now what… had he started a new life on the charred bones of his club? Had he reached air by standing on Zane’s aching back?
“Nah, I’m good. See you later,” Zane said and patted Callum’s shoulder absent-mindedly before pushing his way through the crowd, chin lowered in preparation for impact.
Callum was asking something about the rest of the show, but Zane wasn’t listening anymore. All his focus was on the man who would die tonight one way or another. Zane had long lost his inhibitions when it came to revenge. He only needed to be smart about it.