CHAPTERONE
SPRING 2001 - BROOKE
Fuck, this is awful.
I felt a dozen gazes on my ass, and it took everything in me not to turn toward them and growl a profanity. It wasn’t fair how just an expression could make my stomach hurt like this. Although, the cigarette smoke probably wasn’t helping. Neither was the whoosh of weed that rested on my shoulder from the guy in the leather chaps who just walked past.
Who the hell wears chaps in this day and age?
I fought the urge to wrinkle my nose as I strode closer to the bar, stilettos testing my trust in gravity with every step I took.
Bars weren’t for me. Never had been. Alcohol, drugs, loud music—not my thing. Soft jazz, a Norah Roberts book, a cup of cocoa, and a plate of Chips-a-hoy were more my style. Hell, I’d take a Junie B. Jones over this.
Yet here I was. In a minidress I was sure my ass would pop out of if I bent over, hair bouncing in big copper curls, wearing a shade of lipstick so bright that I’d jumped when I’d seen myself in the mirror.
Just get it over with, Brooke. You’ll be home by ten, and then you can read all the sappy stories you want.
As I set my bag on the Formica countertop, I looked at the bartender pouring beer into a mug. He was a tall guy with hair near the same color as mine, big shoulders, a clean-shaven jaw, and a V-neck that showed just the right amount of chest. A name tag that readEmorysparkled in the light of the redSpadeslight overhead. When he lifted the cup onto the counter, I caught sight of two interlocking mars symbols tattooed on his wrist.
My stiff posture softened with relief.
It’d always be relieving to know a ripped gay man was the one pouring your drinks when there were two dozen guys in leather reeking of alcohol scattered throughout the room.
His gaze met mine, and he tugged his thermal down to his hand. “What can I get for you, miss?”
Shit, I shouldn’t have stared. “Just a Coke.”
“Pepsi alright?” He lifted a glass from below.
“It’ll do,” I said. “Thanks.”
He gave a curt nod as he poured, glancing me over. When it was full, he slid it down the bar. “Guardian?”
“Half Witch,” I said. “You?”
“Not something I tell strangers.”Probably a Demon then. He leaned against the counter behind him, bringing a glass of whiskey to his lips. “What’s a Guardian doing here?”
Catering to my biggest character flaw. Being a pushover.
I grabbed my purse from the counter, tugged the zipper down, and dug around for a moment. When the laminated image touched my fingers, I passed it over. “I’m looking for her.”
He squinted down at the image for a moment. “We get a lot of girls in here who look like her. I’m not here every day though.” He glanced up. “You got a shirt or something with her scent on it?”
Not a Demon then. Werewolf maybe?
I went back into my purse and passed him the Ziploc bag Ria had given me. “You’ll recognize the scent?”
“No, but Declan might. Hang on.”
* * *
Emory had disappeared through the stainless-steel door beyond the bar, and I hadn’t felt comfortable on the rickety wooden bar stool since.
Each time I’d glanced around, at least five sets of eyes were on me, and not in the way I’d expected. Ria said if I came here wearing my librarian slacks and button-up, everyone would think I was a cop and turn the other way. Which made sense. When I worked cases before, I always dressed down. Jeans, T-shirts, and Reeboks.
But Ria reminded me I was talking to men, and showing in clothes like those wouldn’t attract any kind of attention at all. “Show some cleavage,” she’d said. “Men don’t give a shit about ugly women, and if you show looking like a soccer mom, no one will talk to you then either.”
I would’ve preferred the latter.