She swept a hand over her cheek to wipe away tears, her chin quivering. She turned on her heel, haughty spine ramrod straight, and stalked out of sight.
His gaze swept the room one more time, but he couldn’t hear the rustle of Shadow trees. The place was gray and empty. Only a ghost remained—himself.
Being apart from Annabella sent a current of anxiety over his skin. The loft was rife with shadows, and he’d managed to piss her off enough that she might put more space between them than was safe.
Why in hell had he tortured her with his past?
He found her at the elevator, grazing her fingertips over one of the bullet holes. It was much better that she thought he bought it that way.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “We can go now. We shouldn’t have come.”
She didn’t say anything, wouldn’t so much as look at him. Maybe she thought he was in her head again, stealing her thoughts. The suspicion wouldn’t be too far off base; he’d stolen a lot in his life. He didn’t have the kind of family money that Adam had access to, but he’d attended the same schools. Basic needs, and extraneous ones, had to be met somehow, and odd jobs here and there never remotely came close to paying for them. And he wasn’t about to beg a buck from Adam.
He was a thief, but he wouldn’t steal from her again. From this moment on, her thoughts would be her own.
She hit the button and the doors slid open. A charged silence carried them back to the night-soaked curb. He didn’t try to hold her, but he stayed close and alert. Every living thing was a potential threat.
The cab had gone, but a black Segue SUV stood waiting.
The coded entry would have signaled a breach of the building at Segue. This particular building would have probably popped up as an alert. Damn Adam for knowing where he was, what he was doing, for making everything so easy by delivering a car when he needed it.
He needed one fucking Segue-free, Adam-free night, and this was it.
Custo opened the passenger door for Annabella, who climbed in with her stony silence. The driver shot him a questioning glance. “Out,” Custo commanded.
“Sir?”
“Out,” Custo repeated.
The driver climbed down while Custo circled the SUV. The man, Matt Becket, was security from the old days, before all the soldiers, the governmental cooperation. He didn’t really deserve to be stranded in the middle of the city, but then, a lot of people didn’t deserve a lot of things. “Tell Adam I gave you the night off.”
“But, sir—”
Custo took the driver’s seat and slammed the door on the rest of the question. The driver was still standing in the street as Custo pulled into traffic. Annabella was in a bad mood, he was in a bad mood, Matt might as well be, too.
Annabella was doing her best ice princess as he turned onto Houston and headed for Thompson. Alley Jack Bar and Club. Custo glanced at the clock on the dash, 10:43 P.M. Unless the wraiths had sucked the soul out of the club owner, Jack Stampos, then the Tuesday open mic would start in seventeen minutes.
If Adam and Segue had been Custo’s home away from nonexistent home, then Alley Jack was his church, where he went to weekly meetings when the mood suited him. Attendance had been sporadic at best that last year before Spencer beat the life out of him, but no tour through the life and times of the bastard Custo Santovari would be remotely complete without a stop there. If he were lucky, Jack might even have a room for the night.
Custo had to park three blocks down from the club, and though Annabella was still giving him the silent treatment, he wrapped an arm around her as they walked in case the loitering groups of tall shadows got any ideas. The scents of ginger and Asian spices from the nearby Chinese takeout place reminded him how hungry he was, and that Annabella still hadn’t eaten.
Annabella’s profile in the streetlight was smooth and cold as marble. He liked a girl who could hold a grudge in the face of all the shit they’d been through. That kind of constancy took nerve and dedication. All those years of ballet discipline exercised to shut him out. Sucked for him, but good for her.
They reached the narrow concrete steps to Jack’s. They were wicked steep for loading and unloading gear, and probably miserable on high heels. He’d just have to hold on to her some more. Good for him, too bad for her.
“I’m not going down there,” she said.
“Sure you are.” Custo gave her a little nudge. The street was bright with traffic, but he didn’t trust the staggered blind corners of the buildings. A wolf lurked somewhere in this city, watching and waiting.
Annabella bitched all the way down, something along the lines of being dragged from one crap hideout to the next only to die by falling and breaking her neck on a freaking flight of stairs. When she wrenched open the door to the club, a rain of tenor sax finally drowned her out.
“It’s too dark in here,” she shouted, stopping in the doorway.
The wolf hid in shadows, so her fears were understandable, but the creature had no problem with light now either. She had to get over it.
Custo half pushed, half carried her into the comparable pitch of the club. The music was so loud, he could almost feel it vibrating on his skin. “We won’t be down here long,” he said into her ear. “It’s a place where we can be off everyone’s radar.”
He waited for his eyes to adjust, the darkness taking on depth and variation until he could make out the block of the bar, to his left, attended by hunched men. Others sat at small tables crowding the long, crooked rectangle of a room. Various instruments cluttered the small spaces between the tables. The room culminated at a slightly raised platform where a trio played—drums, upright bass, and sax. Old cigarette smoke poisoned the air, leaving an acrid, bitter taste in his mouth. He took a deep breath of the wretched stuff, more at ease than he’d been since he’d scraped his bare ass outside that friggin’ theater.
Custo was two years dead, but Jack Stampos was still at the bar. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Custo dragged Annabella over to the bar and shook Jack’s hand. “It’s been too long.”
Jack looked older: his hairline had taken two dips on either side of his forehead and the reluctant light of the club made deep creases of the man’s wrinkles.
“This is Annabella,” Custo said, yanking her hard up to his side, and just to tick her off some more, he added, “my sweetheart.”
She gave an angry but cute grunt, grumbling “not likely,” loud enough for Jack to hear.
“Nice to meet you anyway,” Jack answered. He shot Custo a look that said,
He was done with mind reading for the night anyway. It cost him too much.
Custo leaned into the bar, pitching his voice to both suggest and carry. “You still got that room upstairs?”
Annabella stiffened, then planted one of her pointy elbows in his gut.
Jack chuckled. “Yeah, I still got that room, but it’ll cost you.”
That was new, but Custo was willing. He reached for his wallet. “How much?”
“Put your damn money away,” Jack said. He moved away to refill a drink, then stepped a bit farther, stooping, and drew out a guitar case from under the bar. “Play me a song, and I’ll get you both supper as well.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Annabella said. “I’ve got a monster after me and these heels are killing my feet. I want to go to bed.”
“Oh, we will,” Custo said, taking the guitar. The “we” had her scowling again. He was certain a whole new level of violence was added to whatever was in her head. Anything to distract her from the wolf. “Suppers, too, eh?”
“You were always hungry, if I remember correctly.”
Jack referred to the days when Custo was just out of school. Adam had offered him a job in his father’s company, but pride wouldn’t let him take it. Another handout would have cost Custo way more than any paycheck could cover. It had been time to make something of himself, show his father what he’d thrown away so many years before.
