Demon Fire (The Angel Fire Book 3) by Marie Johnston (top 10 novels of all time TXT) 📕

The tattoo labeled him as a disciple. Harlowe and Urban had assured him that most club-goers went there to flirt with the dark side and get laid, heavy on the getting laid. Boone wasn’t going that deep into character. He’d have to come up with some other reason to lurk around the club.

He tossed a leg over the seat and pushed the button. The engine purred to life, not as obnoxious as the last one he’d owned. His nerves thanked Urban.

It took a block or two before muscle memory took over and he got comfortable enough for him to relax. He eased back and roared down the street. Memories of riding through Chicago, the thunder of engines around him, flooded his mind.

Today he was alone. And he preferred it that way. He’d never thought he’d be back on a motorcycle again. Now he could see himself doing a lot again. Things that he’d not only thought he couldn’t do again, but wouldn’t. Like falling in love.

He had to save Sierra. He refused to believe that she had been dropped in his path for no reason. For so many years, he’d wondered why. What was the reason for any of it? For his wife. For his son. For the job he’d loved but that had cost him everything.

He’d never get an answer, but that shouldn’t keep him from living. From doing his part to make the world a safer place. He’d been attracted to law enforcement, had lost himself in the work. He wouldn’t make the same mistake. He wasn’t going to lose himself—or Sierra.

Riding up on the club, he studied his surroundings, cars lined along the streets close to the club. He had no issues figuring out which place was the club: the three-story building with a long line of people out front. The sign out front stood out like a lighthouse in the middle of the quiet, dark block.

He found a spot big enough for his bike one street over and took his time walking back. The end of the line was full of giggly girls half his age. Three of them took at least four selfies apiece before he reached them. When one spun around with her back to him and her phone ready to click, he glared into the screen and shook his head.

“Take one picture of me and I’ll stomp that damn thing to dust,” he growled.

He’d expected fear, but she giggled. “Ooh, are you already possessed?” She reached for his arm, but he jerked it back. “I don’t see a barbed wire tattoo.”

A tall man dressed in a black suit with a black shirt and black tie marched down the line toward him. “Hey, man. Go on in.”

The three selfie girls inhaled, their mouths dropping. He’d thought they’d be incensed, but they stared at him like he was a celebrity.

Had he been busted already? As he walked toward the entrance behind the bouncer, he thought back to Alma’s house. No, Jim hadn’t seen him. The accident? No again. Was it from the sporting goods store? Was that how he’d been busted? He’d been wearing a puffy winter coat and a stocking hat and his beard had been out of control.

The bouncer ushered him. “Our pussy count is way too high.” He leaned in. “Gotta throw ’em some sausage.”

Okay . . . “Thanks, man.”

The bouncer gave him a knowing nod, like he lived for the power of pulling people from the back of the line.

Laughter and loud voices competed with the deafening music pumping through Boone’s eardrums. He’d have a headache for a week after this. Bodies bumped into him on either side as he wound his way through the throng at the bar.

He grabbed the first open stool he could find. A bartender wearing a crisp white button-up shirt with suspenders spun toward him. He took the whole ensemble farther with a gelled handlebar mustache. “What can I get you?”

“Whiskey sour.” Boone would sip the drink slow, and he’d eaten a burger and fries before he’d left the house. If he lingered in the club for two hours trying to determine whether Sierra was here or not, he’d only have to nurse two, leaving a little in the glass each time so he didn’t get the full load of alcohol before he had to drive.

But unlike when he was an agent, he was drinking on this mission. The first two minutes of trying to deceive someone were the most important. Ordering water or a Shirley Temple was as good as hanging a neon sign over his head that read FAKE.

A few minutes later, the bartender slid the glass in front of him. He took a sip, wincing. Heavy on the sour. Juiced-down drinks were even better. He could go for three and stay longer.

Spinning on his seat, he propped an elbow on the table. The dance floor was packed. A cage at each corner had a body writhing to the music in it.

He missed his quiet mountain cabin.

Each minute crawled by. Women walked by. Some looked him over, a few gave him demure smiles. One licked her lips. But, thankfully, they all passed. He finished his first whiskey sour and ordered another.

A woman in a tight black cocktail dress and a barbed wire tattoo circling her bare right arm sidled next to him and shoved herself between him and the guy next to him. “Heya, handsome. I see you have a loneliness problem.”

He didn’t look at her, but took a slow sip. “Maybe I want to be lonely.”

“Then you wouldn’t be here,” she purred.

“Why’s that?” He finally looked at her. She was pretty enough. Long lashes, lush auburn hair. She was closer to his age than many of the women in here, but her body helped her jump the line. Still, nothing stirred inside of him. She wasn’t a petite blonde wearing a pea-green shirt and ugly brown leggings.

“Loneliness, anger, desperation, jealousy. Same deep dark feelings that drive us