Page 12 of The Vampire's Werewolf Bodyguard

Cody

Pulling into the parking garage, Cody wishes he had a larger team. The garage is looming and shadowy. The Broken Cross will be even worse—clubs are nightmares to scout in the best-case scenarios. Returning Simon to the literal scene of the crime goes against Cody’s every instinct. Especially since Simon isn’t fully recovered.

Then there’s… everything else about this outing.

“You’re brooding,” Simon muses from the passenger seat. “We never did establish brooding protocols.”

“I’ll add that to my calendar.” Cody cranes around to back into a parking space. Avoiding looking at Simon is easy. Can’t look at Simon while he’s parking.

“I appreciate you escorting me here,” Simon says, with such sincerity that he has to be facetious. “I know you aren’t thrilled. But nobody knows I’m here. Even Kimiko isn’t expecting me on a certain night.”

“Just stay alert and stay by me.” Cody turns off the car, still not looking at Simon. “Wait here for a minute.”

“Of course,” Simon says cooperatively. Why does he sound so suspicious when he cooperates?

Cody slips out to inspect their surroundings. Not many vehicles on this level—makes sense, the fee is exorbitant. But it’s across the street from the Broken Cross, and Tobias was able to get the blueprint, which is what matters. Cody knows the location of every stairwell and elevator.

Bracing himself, Cody raps the passenger window. “All clear.”

Simon pours gracefully out, and Cody can’t look away this time. The vampire’s dark gray tank top is tight enough to be painted onto his slender form. His red leather pants are, impossibly, even tighter. Combined with the obnoxious combat boots…

He’s distracting as hell, and Cody looks way too old for him.

Cody’s own wardrobe can’t match the ‘painfully obvious vampires’ vibe of the Broken Cross, so he opted for jeans, a black tee, and his leather jacket.

All right, maybe the jacket isn’t far off the mark. It had been a statement piece when Cody bought it at age twenty. He’d wanted to look badass and thought an excess of buckles and zippers would help. While he’d been wrong, the jacket had worn to his shape over the years, and nostalgia won’t let him part with it.

Besides, it covers up the gun strapped to his side.

“Ready?” Simon asks, stretching his arms. His profile has an ethereal edge in the artificial light.

Cody yanks his gaze away. “Stay close,” he says unnecessarily, and leads the way from the parking garage .

The Broken Cross looks almost subtle from the outside. Just a battered brick building. The white neon sign above the door reads simply BC . A shuttered ticket booth boasts a banner about concerts on Friday nights.

Tonight is Saturday, but heavy music still pulses from within. Red spotlights flash erratically through the open door. Half a dozen people wait in line outside, human by the smell of them. Makes sense—there aren’t enough vampires, witches, or werewolves in the city to support a nightclub without more mundane patronage.

Some of the humans look like they’re cosplaying as vampires, though. Simon cuts to the front, and nobody complains.

The bouncer is human too, but she smells of incense and electric magic. A witch. Her eyes narrow at Cody’s approach, no doubt recognizing his nature. Cody hangs back a pace, scanning the line, the streets, and the rooftops.

Simon whispers to the bouncer. Whatever he says works. The bouncer waves them through without further questioning.

The music pounds louder indoors. Wincing, Cody keeps his senses primed for any hint of danger. The club is spacious, warm with the heartbeats of at least a hundred people drunk on alcohol and adrenaline. Most of the heartbeats are fast and human. A handful are slow. Dead. The crowd clusters towards the bar and spreads out on the dance floor and plush booths.

Too many eyes turn towards Simon. Cody bristles.

Simon arrows to a side door, blocked by another employee. A vampire this time, wearing fishnets, blood-red lipstick, and a Security lanyard.

Her glare at Cody is bone-chilling. “ Who is this?”

If Cody was in wolf form, his hackles would be rising. But the woman’s animosity is directed towards him, not Simon, so that isn’t a problem.

“My guest,” Simon answers sharply. “Nice to see you, Andrea. Is Kimiko available?”

“No.” Andrea’s expression doesn’t change. Maybe that’s just her face. “Ten more minutes, probably. She took a couple of blood-bags downstairs an hour ago.”

Simon seems unphased by her attitude—except for the tension just below the surface. “Tell her I’m here when she’s ready, please.”

“Of course. Per Kimiko’s orders, you don’t need an appointment,” Andrea says. “But your guest will stay upstairs.”

Cody bites back his protest, because Simon is already snapping back, “Would you say that if he was a vampire? Or even a human?”

His voice has a cold, imperious quality that Cody’s never heard before. He’s much shorter than Andrea but seems to tower over the entire crowd. An ancient, vicious presence—standing up for Cody. Like a baby bird defending a wolf.

Andrea flinches back. “Does that matter?”

“You tell me,” Simon says, his smile razor-sharp.

Without another word, Andrea turns on her heel and exits through the side door.

Simon glares after her, still clearly angry. His ire is more endearing when it isn’t directed towards Cody—but de-escalation is probably smart. Curious eyes still peer from the crowd.

“No need to be angry,” Cody says, leaning closer and speaking quietly. “I’m not here to make friends.”

“You don’t get to decide whether I’m angry!” Simon’s brow furrows. Anger looks too appealing on him. “Just like a child barely a fifth of my age doesn’t get to insult my guests. You’re with me, and I want you here, and that’s what matters.”

Unavoidable math dances through Cody’s head. “I’m one sixteenth your age. What does that make me?”

“Insufferable,” Simon answers without missing a beat.

Cody bites the inside of his cheek, trying not to laugh. “We should find a booth. People are staring.”

“I’ll show them something to stare at,” Simon mutters darkly. He extends an imperious hand. “Dance with me.”

Cody must have misheard. The music, the crowd, the blended scent of wine and bottled blood tugging his sense of danger. But his ears are too keen, his attention on Simon too sharp to misunderstand.

“I’m on the clock,” Cody says, falling back on the easiest response.

“So?” Simon wiggles his hand, which is ridiculous. Then he licks his lips, which isn’t. “You’re my bodyguard. Guard my body.”

Red light spills over Simon’s bare arm. The line of his clavicle. What would it be like dancing against Simon’s cold, undead body? Cody is tempted to find out. Which is yet another reason to shut this down.

The foremost being that Simon doesn’t mean it seriously. He wants attention. He wants to make a scene. Cody has proven that the bratty antics won’t drive him away.

Atwood Security policy is a distant third reason in Cody’s swimming mind.

“That’s not appropriate,” Cody says stiffly, hiding behind protocol.

Simon tenses, then relaxes into a smile Cody can barely see through. “My apologies.”

“I can’t be distracted,” Cody explains.

Simon perks up. “Am I distracting, Mr. Weston?”

There isn’t an answer that won’t get Cody into trouble. “You’re a fucking brat, Mr. Caley.”

Simon beams with terrible glee, and yeah. Distracting is the least of it. Cody suddenly, desperately wants to know what kind of dancer Simon would be. What have the centuries crafted him into? Calculated, frenetic, intimate, or free?

Movement hooks Cody’s attention. He steps forward on instinct, then back in recognition.

“The boss is ready,” Andrea says, still glaring daggers at Cody.

Simon’s good mood holds. “Lead the way.”

The crowd is light, but Cody instinctively touches Simon’s shoulder to keep him close. A mistake. He isn’t supposed to touch Simon.

But Simon leans closer.