Page 5 of To Hunt A Wolf
I almost snort out loud at the thought.
Crigger doesn’t even know what brownie points are.
Still, if I don’t bring Dirk in, there’ll be hell to pay.
Better get it done.
I scan the club again, concentrating this time.
It doesn’t take me long to spot him.
As predicted, thanks to the intel I was given, he’s at the bar, clinging to a longneck bottle. I watch from the shadows for several minutes, assessing. The crowd is older in this place. I’m probably the youngest by a decade. No one my age parties at Inferno—well, except for my high school bullies evidently—so it makes sense the bouncer recognized my mother’s name. Most of these people will too.
I have to be careful.
Do this right.
My brain thrives on strategy and logic, and the next five minutes go by with me calculating possible exit points, counter-attacks, and contingencies. Every single scenario I run ends with me dragging Dirk’s ass to the meeting point Crigger instructed. Though, one stands out as easier than the others. Fewer potential casualties.
The place is packed by the time I make my move—perfect for blending into the shadows. I weave in and out, head down. No one stops me. In my dark jeans and ball cap, I’m not eye-catching enough to become a target. Not with so many scantily clad women to choose from instead. I make it through the crowd with only two ass-grabs to my name. My wolf rears up at them both, pissed as hell and gunning for revenge, but I force her back down again.
Teaching these assholes a lesson about consent is not on the agenda for tonight.
Another time.
At the bar, a woman in a leather vest cackles loudly at something her friend says and leans into him. I use the opening to slide in between her and Dirk, deftly pulling my cap off and tucking it into my back pocket.
Despite the anticipation of what’s to come—or what could happen if I’m caught—my heart thuds at a steady rhythm. My tendency for adrenaline, or worse, fear, died a long time ago. A drunk dissident at a bar isn’t nearly enough to make me sweat anymore.
“Hey.”
My voice is quiet against the chaos and noise, but in a club full of wolf shifters, it’s enough.
“Hey, yourself, darlin’.” Dirk’s eyes are glassy and unfocused, but he manages to leer at me.
Perfect.
I lean in. Just a bit. Barely anything at all, really. Then I flutter my lashes. “Can you tell me where the bathroom is?”
Disappointment clouds his eyes. Then they spark again with exactly what I expected from a guy like him. “Kinda loud in here. How about I show ya?”
I nod, and he gets up from his stool, but not before he drains the rest of his beer. Waste not, want not, I guess.
Dirk leads the way, pushing through the bodies that stand between us and his destination. I quickly realize he is not, in fact, taking me to the bathroom. Mostly evidenced by the fact that we’ve already passed the doors marked with the restroom signs. He doesn’t even try to hide the fact, either. Like he thinks I won’t notice. He’s either stupid or drunk—or both.
Finally, at the very back of the darkest hallway, he pushes through an unmarked door.
Night air washes over my skin, and I shake my head at the utter predictability. Not to mention the audacity. Don’t get me wrong, I expect nothing less from Black Moon scum, but seriously? Is chivalry really this fucking dead?
The door shuts behind us, and Dirk whirls on me.
I widen my eyes and let my lips part in feigned surprise.
“Um, I think we took a wrong turn,” I say.
Dirk offers what I think is supposed to be a disarming smile.
“Sweetheart, if this is wrong, I don’t want to be right.”
