Page 49 of Devil's Azalea

Which one is Eric? I frown, recalling the vague description I was given: tall, dark hair, very handsome. That doesn’t exactlynarrow it down—there are four male bartenders, and at least two of them could fit that bill.

Of course this isn’t going to be easy. When has anything ever been easy for me? Fucking Eric.

I weave through the crowd and pick one bar at random, cutting past the line. “You Eric?!” I shout at the bartender over the thundering bass.

He spares me the briefest glance before jerking his chin towards the bar across the room. “Thank you,” I mutter, though I doubt he hears me. At the bar he pointed to, there’s a guy and a woman working, sobingo—Eric is the dude.

I raise my arms and start elbowing my way through the crowd. Yeah, it earns me a chorus ofhey!’s andwatch it!’s, but whatever, it’s quicker this way. Asking nicely in here is a waste of breath.

When I make it to the bar, I’m sweating. I fan myself with one hand.NowI get why every girl is in crop tops and halters. It’s a sauna in here, despite the early December chill outside.

There’s a short line of five people waiting for drinks in front of Eric. Time for creative problem-solving. “Find another line to join!” I yell as I push past them. “I need to talk to my brother! Go find another line! Move it!” I drop my elbow to the counter, catching Eric’s attention. “Hey, little brother.”

There’s some grumbling, but thankfully, the line disperses, moving to the other bars.

Eric narrows his eyes on me. “Oh don’t tell me—another bastard from my philandering father?”

I can’t tell if he’s joking or not, but I chuckle anyway. “What can I say? Papa Bear tookgo forth and multiplya little too literally. You Eric?”

He smirks. “What kind of sister doesn’t recognize her own brother?”

“The kind that isn’t really his sister,” I deadpan.

He snorts. “Yeah, well, I’m an adopted only child, so wasn’t expecting any surprise siblings. What can I get ya?”

I start to decline—alcohol and fieldwork make for a dangerous mix—but I quickly change my mind. I don’t have to take more than a little sip, and it gives me a legitimate reason to stick around longer. More time means more chances to get what I need. “Give me the best cocktail you serve.”

“Coming right up,sis.” He winks and starts mixing a bunch of drinks.

“I heard shaking up delicious cocktails isn’t the only talent you have up your sleeves,” I start as he works, hoping he gets the hint.

He flicks a glance around the club, then leans in close. “Sorry, sweetie, I don’t deal weed. But I have a solid plug. I can hook you up.” He finishes my drink and slides it towards me. “That’ll be twenty-five bucks.”

“Pretty expensive cocktail,” I mutter, fishing some wrinkled bills from my pocket and handing them over.

“You chased away my paying customers. Gotta cover the loss somehow.”

“Iama paying customer,” I huff, then make a show of lifting the drink to my lips and faking a sip. “Mmm. Delicious. And no, I’m not here for weed. I’m looking for something else—something more important.”

He frowns. “I’m not following you, lady.”

Shit. Of course he’s going to make me spell it out.

I motion for him to lean in. He does, and I lower my voice. “I need some Ozempic. For my diabetic aunt. It’s been hell trying to get it on my own, and I heard you’re the guy who can.”

His gaze sharpens, and for a second he just watches me. “I could–” He stops mid-sentence, his gaze shifting to something behind me. A tingle rolls up my spine, prickling the back of my neck.

Then I see it in his eyes—pure fear. He pulls back instantly,putting distance between us as he suddenly busies himself behind the bar. I don’t have to look to know who he saw. I already know. Still, I sigh as I do anyway.

Fucking Rafael. He’s cutting through the crowd like a predator, barely restrained fury radiating from every line of his body.

“What the fuck ishedoing here?” I mutter, more to myself than anything.

Eric answers anyway. “He owns this club.”

Of course he does. Whatdoesn’the own in this city?

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