The Unlikeable Demon Hunter (Nava Katz #1)(50)

The cab hit the lit up Granville strip in Vancouver’s downtown entertainment district, the streets teeming with people in a free-flow of life and music.

I paid the fare, then got out, trusting Rohan to follow.

A quick shake to my mane of curls, then clutch in hand, I waltzed past the people stuck in line, strutting right up to Max, the huge bouncer and keeper of the velvet rope. The red glow of the sign cast a soft filter over us.

“Looking extra fine tonight, Nava,” he said, unhooking the rope for me to pass.

“You charmer, Max. I brought a friend. That okay?”

Rohan stood behind me, scowling.

“He’s not as pretty but we’ll let it go.” He winked at me. “Have a good time.” The bouncer peered at Rohan. “Do I know you?”

“No.” Rohan grabbed my hand.

I barely had time to toss Max a little wave over my shoulder before Rohan dragged me into the club’s all-black foyer, the floor vibrating with the pounding bass coming from deeper inside.

I tried to pay for Rohan’s admission. “My treat,” I said, pushing his wallet away.

He knocked my hand out of the way and handed the cashier a couple of twenties. She practically fell out of her little black dress in her haste to take the money and make skin contact with him.

“That’s very sweet, but I forced you down here,” I said.

“Don’t I know it,” he replied.

“So I pay.”

“No, I pay.”

I shrugged, holding out my hand for the blacklight stamp that would allow me to be re-admitted. “Then the first round is on me.”

Rohan made a noncommittal sound as we stepped into the club proper, already busy scanning the room. I did too, trying to see the large space as he did. Pleated curtains framed by multi-colored spotlights illuminated cozy booths along one side. An enormous dance floor separated the seating area from the curved bar and pool tables that ran along the far wall.

A techno remix of a disco classic had the dancers going wild. My foot tapped to the music, my brain automatically finding “one” in the beat as my jumping off point to move to this rhythm. You could take the girl out of dance…

“How long do you plan on being reckless?” Rohan asked, his eyes not leaving the crowd.

“Putting a time frame on it defeats the purpose. Tell me something.” I centered myself in his field of vision so he was forced to look at me. “When did you quit going out? Right after you became Rasha? Or was it a gradual slide into boring?” I rested my hand on his bicep, sending a clear message to the statuesque brunette honing in on him.

She sailed past like this had been her direction regardless, though not without a dismissive sniff my way.

Rohan was oblivious. “That’s different.”

“Why? Because you’re male?”

“Because I’m trained.”

“Does training keep you from being killed?”

A muscle jumped in his cheek. “It helps.”

“But it doesn’t prevent it. You said it yourself. You don’t expect there to be enough of you to bury. This gig doesn’t come with guarantees, Rohan. I know I’m the big shiny prize, but can you honestly say that hasn’t been each of you at one time or another?”

From the tight frustration on his face, I’d made my point.

“I’ll give this my all,” I said, flipping my dark hair off my shoulder. “Prove my worth so that the demons are scared shitless of me and the Brotherhood can’t bear to do without me.” I jabbed him in the chest. “But I won’t give up who I am in the process. Those evil buggers are going to come after me until I die. Don’t force me to stop living in the meantime.”

He rubbed his hand roughly through his hair.

I curled my fingers into my palms, imagining playing with those silky strands. Toying with them to my heart’s content. Toying with him in all the most delicious ways.

“I’m supposed to take care of you,” he said.

“You’re supposed to guard me,” I corrected. “I have to take care of myself. But if you really want to be useful?” I pointed to the pool tables across the way. “Rack ’em.”

With that I went off to get shots, enjoying all the blatant looks from hot boys. One way or another, I was going to scratch the itchy edge inside me, tomorrow be damned. Which in this crazy new reality was a distinct possibility.





13





From the glowers I got when I arrived at the pool table with our shots, it appeared Rohan had forced a group of frat boys to wrap up their game. While they were too wussy to say anything to him directly, it didn’t stop a few hissed “pushy bitch” comments flung my way.

My bodyguard had made himself positively cozy, draping his leather jacket over a tall stool, leaving him in a tailored, short-sleeved charcoal shirt that emphasized his athletic build.

Drinks in hand, I let myself enjoy the vision of him racking for Eight-ball.

He removed the triangle with a deft hand, then seeing me with the drinks, eyed the clear liquid. “No whipped cream?”

“I prefer my shots not remind me of STIs. These are G Bombs.” I said, holding one out to him. “Cinnamon schnapps and vodka.”

He didn’t take the glass.