The Unlikeable Demon Hunter (Nava Katz #1)(52)

Rohan shot the girls another perplexed glance. They flashed their cleavage while staying primly out of groping reach, resulting in more than one of the hipsters pulling a “trying to adjust myself” shifting side-to-side move in response.

“How can they ask a guy to go down on them if they won’t do the same?” he asked.

Cuntessa throbbed at his implied readiness to boldly go where many men would not.

“They don’t,” I said. “No guy is putting his mouth on it either.”

“They’re missing out on a whole realm of excellent,” Rohan said.

“God, yes,” I said, louder and tipsier than I intended.

We grinned at each other in perfect harmony but the conversation had me regretting my choice of bet. Wanting to explore that particular realm of excellent with him. Still. I’d used dancing as foreplay on more than one occasion.

Despite all the drinking, victory was almost mine but I got cocky, using a bit too much force on my final shot. The eight-ball hit the back of the pocket and bounced back.

Cuntessa gave a disgusted grunt.

“It’s almost no fun winning this way,” Rohan said, not hesitating to sink the ball. He pumped his fist in victory but there was no answering gush of approval from his posse. Come to think of it, no grumbling from mine, either.

We were yesterday’s news. The group had already paired off into dry hump partners. One of the pairs had gotten especially frisky. The guy’s shirt was pushed halfway up while his partner’s tipsy maulings had caused his jeans to slip dangerously low on his ass.

I grabbed my clutch then nudged Rohan, motioning toward the two with a jerk of my chin, notably dude’s pale butt. “He could be arrested for possession of that much crack.”

Rohan pressed his head close to mine. “‘Never back down.’” He read the tattoo written in graphic print at the base of the guy’s spine. “Dude,” he said with a mournful shake of his head. Booze exaggerated his word into pure Southern Cali drawl.

“Factoring in the placement, those words cover so many possibilities,” I said. “Everything from empowerment to grim determination in the face of prison showers. Wonder which it is?”

Rohan smothered a laugh against my hair. It shimmied down to my toes, which curled under to contain the sparkly lightness. He took my slight sway of motion for our cue to leave. “Since I trounced you,” he said, handing his stick over to a woman waiting for the table, “it’s time for all good little girls to go to bed. You, too.”

“To think that wit was wasted in the music industry.”

Rohan scooped up his jacket with one hand, placing his other on the small of my back to lead me away from the table.

I skirted the edge of the dance floor with its strobing lights, the alcohol in my system warming me as much as weaving through the press of bodies. Colors were more saturated. Time and my body moved more languidly. The music slithered up from the floor, pulsing into my skin. I stepped toward the other dancers, wanting to join them. To lose myself.

Rohan kept me on course, steering me to the exit with a steady hand.

I had to concentrate what he was babbling on about to me because words took a bit longer to penetrate. Oooh. Penetrate.

The cool night was a welcome relief. I swayed to the throb of the still-audible bass, watching Rohan grow more and more frustrated trying to flag down a cab.

“Give it up. It’s practically impossible on a weekend,” I said. “We’ll have a better chance a few blocks away.”

“So many things wrong with this city,” he muttered.

“Follow me,” I trilled, pushing through the crowd.

The night had turned unseasonably muggy, the air heavy with that metallic smell promising rain. A born and bred Vancouverite, rain didn’t phase me.

Dodging through the late night crowd, we’d just hit the mouth of an alleyway when we heard a hissed, “Wanna blow your mind?” I would have sailed past but Rohan clasped my wrist to stop me. The dealer stepped into view. Your run-of-the-mill slime bucket, he wore a skull and hearts T-shirt under a jean jacket. A crescent-shaped birthmark edged his left cheek.

The dealer jerked his chin at Rohan. “Interested, man?”

Rohan hooked an arm around my neck. “My girlfriend might be. She likes to live on the edge.” Girlfriend? Under his breath he said, “Like taking off on her own when ordered otherwise.” He pushed me forward. “Show her what you’ve got.”

Slime Bucket’s eyes glittered. “Devil’s candy. A rush like nothing else.”

Evil and unsubtle, a winning combo. I barely refrained from rolling my eyes. “Let’s talk.” I walked forward.

Thinking he had a customer, the dealer accompanied me into the shadowy alley reeking of urine, Rohan trailing us. The demon led us in through an open door to a small back room with a couple of couches. A naked bulb in a hideous ceramic table lamp cast a dim light, but it was enough to see the young man sprawled out on a couch, pressed close to a willowy, blue-haired female bearing an identical crescent birthmark as the dealer.

What really squicked me out was that the man was sucking on the female’s thumb, his face lost in orgiastic delight, even as clumps of his hair fell to the stained concrete. With every moan the guy let out, Blue Hair’s skin seemed to plump with an extra layer of collagen, her hair shine and thicken, and the crow’s feet by her eyes and lines by her lips vanish.