Page 2 of Dirty Beasts: Chance

If only because he’s good-looking and if I’m going to jump out of the frying pan and into the fire, it may as well be in the company of a gigantic, handsome, damsel-rescuing sort. If I’m going to have to use my body to get out of trouble, I’d rather it be with a man I find attractive.

He’s staring down at me with those big, deep, brown eyes—they’re hard eyes. He’s a man who’s seen and done some shit. “Come with me.” His voice is equally deep, and equally hard as his eyes.

My temper flares, because Ihatebeing told what to do. “Maybe you could rephrase that as a question.”

He just blinks down at me, and then his enormous paw slides around my waist and pulls me into motion. I have no option but to move as directed or fall, so I start walking—I drop my cane into my hand and lean on it. Just the relatively short walk through the crowd without my cane left my knee throbbing something fierce, so I’m forced to lean on it rather heavily as I follow him through the crowd.Followisn’t quite the right word—accompany is closer. He stays right beside me and slightly in front of me, clearing a path through the heaving, shifting throng of dancing patrons with both his massive bulk and an outstretched arm. People take one look at who bumped them, then look up, and up again, see him scowling down at them, and clear out of the wayfast. His other hand remains at the small of my back, applying gentle but firm pressure. There’s no struggling through the crowd for me, this time, which I must admit is sort of nice.

We reach the bar running roughly parallel to the wall, and he lifts a section of the bar up, moves through, holds it for me, and then lowers it back in place. Once through, he fishes a keycard from his pocket, touches it to a reader on the wall, which turns green. The door, which was disguised as merely part of the wall, pops open. Again he holds the door for me and closes the door behind himself. The moment the door is pulled to, the noise and clamor and thudding music fades to a muffled throb. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, ducking my head and sucking in a breath.

“Chaotic out there, yeah?” His voice, here in the quiet of a service corridor, is deep, powerful, gravelly; from mere inches away, it thrums in my belly almost like standing too near a speaker at a concert.

“Yeah.” I straighten. Look at him. “What do you want?”

He just peers down at me, implacable, unreadable. “Got your breath back?”

I nod. “Yes. I’ll repeat, what do youwant?”

He doesn’t answer, just places that hand at my back again—and again, I’m six-three, so in no way am I dainty or small, but when he places that hand at the small of my back, his thumb extends nearly to my bra strap. It’s ridiculous, the size of that hand.

I’m propelled into a walk again, and I give a growl of frustration, pull away from his touch, and stamp my cane against the floor. “Stop—for fuck’s sake! Where are we going? What do youwantfrom me?”

He turns in place, staring at me without expression. “Get you somewhere you can sit down, get a drink, and relax away from the crowd till I’m off. That work for you?”

I narrow my eyes. “Don’t need to sit down. I’m fine.”

He laughs. “You’re gonna stand around until four in the morning just to be stubborn and prove a point?”

I huff. “No, I just meant—”

“I know what you meant.” He steps closer, into my space, until I smell him—sweat, an earthy, almost musky scent that’s likely his cologne. “What’s your name?”

“Annika,” I answer—AH-nick-uh.

“Last name?”

I lift an eyebrow at him. “What is this, an interview?” When he just stares at me, I snort a laugh. “Scott. My name is Annika Scott.”

“Annika Scott.” He muses. “Beautiful name.”

“Thank you.” I gesture at him. “And your last name is? Since we’re interviewing each other and all.”

“Kapule.”

“Chance Kapule.” I nod. “It’s a good, strong name. What kind of name is that?”

“Hawaiian.”

I notice his arms in more detail, now—there are tattoos all over both of them, down to his wrists. Black ink, frequently using blank space to artistic effect, with geometric designs, intricate, wave-like swirls, nearly abstract flower designs. They go up under the tight sleeves of his shirt, making me wonder how far over his chest they go.

“I’m half Hawaiian,” he says, after a moment of awkward silence. “My mother was from Mexico, my father from Hawaii.”

I notice for both mother and father, he used past tense, but I opt to not ask the obvious question. “Your tattoos—they have meaning?”

He nods. “Yes.”

Nothing else.

I gesture at the corridor. “Lead on, Chance Kapule.”