Mended (Connections, #3)(66)

As soon as we walk through the main part of the club, there are beautiful girls surrounding us. Leif has his choice and he takes what’s offered along the way—running his hands down women’s chests and occasionally even up their skirts. I pass on the walking and grazing. We take the stairs and end up in an even darker part of the club.

“Fuck, is this some kind of strip club on steroids?” I yell over the beat of the wild music.

He looks around with experienced eyes and I know he’s been to places like this before. Laughing, he says, “No, it’s an underground nightclub. No rules. Sex. Drugs. Threesomes. Whatever you want, it’s here.”

“You’re not joking, are you?”

“Nope,” he says with a grin.

“That explains the practically naked women dancing on the tables.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Let’s have a seat and take a better look. Order a drink and I’ll show you how it’s done here.”

Once we sit down, I raise a finger and quirk it my way. He leans forward and I say, “You don’t have to show me anything. But I’ll definitely take a drink.”

“Calm down, man, I didn’t mean anything by it,” he says as he whips out a pack of cigarettes and lights one up. Exhaling the smoke in a ring, he motions a waitress in our direction. She’s at our table before he even takes another drag. The voluptuous brunette is wearing fishnet hose and a see-through bra with her tits pushed up. She bends down enough to give me a perfect view of her nipples. She asks me what I’m drinking and once I tell her she shimmies over to Leif and does the same thing. I shake my head when he tucks a twenty between her breasts. A few minutes later her tits are back in my face and she’s sliding a gin and tonic my way. “Thanks.” I slip her a twenty across the table.

“Anything else?” It’s easily understood she’s talking about things not on the menu.

I shake my head. “I’m good,” I say and lean back in the booth. I start to relax a little when the cold and icy mixture hits my lips. I hold the liquid in my mouth and let the ice slide across my tongue as I watch Leif place a hand on the waitress’s hip, then slide it down to her ass. She whispers in his ear and then dances off into the crowd, letting at least a dozen other shitfaced men touch her in the same way.

Leif slams his drink back. “I’ll be back in ten,” he says with a sly grin.

“Don’t catch anything,” I mutter.

“Man, it’s just a hand job. What could I possibly catch? And if you change your mind, just ask any of the girls down here. A hundred bucks and it’s yours.”

“Sorry. I’ve never paid to have someone touch my dick and I don’t think I will tonight.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Sometimes it’s just easier. I don’t feel like charming some chick right now, and my guess is neither do you. But serve yourself.” He laughs and walks away mimicking jerking off.

Two thoughts hit me almost simultaneously . . . I need to enroll in Jedi training classes before approaching the ninja again and I have to get the hell out of here—out of both this club and this town.

? ? ?

I awake in the darkness, glancing quickly at my watch to see it’s eight a.m. East Coast time. After leaving the bar last night, I went to the bus, packed my shit, and left a note for the guys that said I wanted to check on River and Dahlia and I’d be in touch. That was all they needed to know. I took a cab to Dulles International and waited for the next flight to LA.

Sitting here, I remember I probably won’t have a car when I get back—I make a mental note to call Ena and tell her to do whatever she has to do to get my car out of impound and have it delivered to my house. I think today is Sunday, but I’ve lost track of the days. Once the wheels touch the ground I turn my phone on to check the date and there are more than twenty missed calls and messages. Fuck. I turn it back off. It is Sunday—a day of rest—and I think I’ll take advantage of it.

I manage to exit the secure area of the terminal in record time. There’s some kind of commotion in the airport. There are at least twenty reporters and photographers in the vicinity. Cameras are to eyes and microphones are in hands as soon as I exit security, and they all head toward me. A woman shoves her microphone in my face and asks, “Is it true that Dylan Wolf was your biological father?”

That stops me in my tracks. There are more strangers surrounding me, yelling out ridiculous questions that seem more like statements. It hurts to breathe. I swallow hard as cameras flash repeatedly in my face. “Come again. What?”

“Haven’t you heard? Josh Wolf passed away this morning, and his son Damon announced that you are his nephew.”

A sick feeling unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before overtakes me. Still, I just stand there and stare at her. What the hell is she talking about?

“Do you have a comment? Dylan Wolf died before you were born but were you close with Josh Wolf? How do you feel about sharing control of Sheep Industries with Damon Wolf? Are you in love with Ivy Taylor? Did your mother love your father . . .” Questions from all directions and of all kinds surround me and I can’t answer a single one. How is this happening? I only just learned Damon had a twin brother who overdosed and now I’m hearing his name again. Where the hell did this come from? What are these people talking about?