The entrance to Lobo Loco was located down a narrow backstreet just off Mission, neatly disguised in a brilliant mural of the Virgin of Guadalupe sitting on a sea turtle.

Only the low pulse of bass behind the wall signaled the presence of a club. MacMillian followed Daniel’s instructions, and knocked on the turtle’s head. For a moment, nothing happened.

Then an invisible door swung inward. A deafening blast of music flooded out. A massive bouncer peered at them. A black leather choker enclosed his thick neck, gleaming with sharp metal studs. MacMillian thought he saw his eyes flash blue, but it was gone before he could look closer. The man barely glanced at their IDs before waving them inside.

MacMillian hooked a hand under Lena’s elbow, as much for his benefit as hers. He’d left his cane in the Fury, a calculated decision. It took all his control to keep the limp out of his walk.

She matched her pace to his without a hitch. Together, they walked down a narrow corridor lit only by strange blue floodlights. They passed a coat check, then a set of gender neutral bathrooms.

The hallway emptied into an expansive dance floor packed with bumping, grinding bodies. A glance upward revealed a second level, also brimming with clubgoers. Blue and red lights strobed overhead. On the far wall, a screen stretched from floor to ceiling, playing a silent music video that didn’t seem to match the song blaring from the speakers.

Bass pulsed low in MacMillian’s gut. Synthesized notes hummed behind his forehead. The lyrics were in Spanish, but he had a feeling they were entirely besides the point anyway.

He leaned down and shouted into Lena’s ear, “Daniel said he spends most of his time on the second floor.”

She nodded, leaned up and shouted back, “Guess we’d better find a way up.”

MacMillian pointed at a staircase, half-hidden in the opposite wall. A vast section of crowded floor sat between them.

Lena nodded again, shrugged, then took his hand and led him into the fray.

They were halfway to the staircase when the music overtook her. Her hips swayed. Her shoulders shimmied. MacMillian’s mouth went dry. He tried to tear his eyes away. Couldn’t.

Lena’s hand slipped from his. The white pearls of her teeth flashed as she laughed and twirled. Her hair rippled around her shoulders like liquid silk. Her low-cut tank framed every movement to torturous effect.

Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. Music swelled around them, bodies too, but all he could see was her. The overhead lights turned her hair electric blue and made her fair skin look like it was lit from the inside.

Madness seized him. He caught her hand again, and spun her into his chest.

Her laughter died instantly. Wide blue eyes stared up at him. She stood, stiff and still in his arms.

Then she relaxed. Warm curves melted against him. MacMillian froze. Mistake. Even as he tried to convince his treacherous hands to release her, his gaze dropped to her lips. Damn those perfect lips. Every fantasy he’d ever had about them jostled for space in his brain.

What if he tasted them? Just one taste. It would add to this game they were playing… except that it suddenly didn’t feel like a game anymore.

Instantly, he was ashamed of himself. He unlocked his hands from her waist, avoided her eyes and nodded at the staircase directly behind her. When had they made it across the floor?

He had no idea.

A new problem presented itself. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d attempted stairs without the help of his cane. Anxiety tightened around his chest. Was there an elevator? A ramp?

Lena threaded her fingers through his again. She stepped up onto the first stair, and MacMillian found himself looking her straight in the eyes.

She leaned forward. His heart stopped. Her hair dusted his shoulders as she said into his ear, “Use me.”

It wasn’t what she meant. He knew that, of course. It didn’t matter. All the blood in his head rushed south with an urgency he hadn’t felt in years. MacMillian weaved a little, caught himself. He was fairly certain his voice would strangle him if he tried to speak, so he only nodded.

Lena turned and climbed up another step. His eyes dropped to her ass. He quickly tore them away again, but not before a tendril of need licked through his balls.

MacMillian gritted his teeth. One step at a time, he followed her up.

By the time they reached the top of the stairs, he was desperate for a drink. He scanned the floor, noted with relief a bar along the back wall. This time, he didn’t stand on ceremony. Lena’s hand still in his, he elbowed and excuse-me’d his way across the dance floor.

Two stools opened up just as they reached the bar. MacMillian lowered himself carefully onto one, ignoring the sensitive bulge behind his fly as best he could. He turned to offer the other to Lena.

She ignored it, instead slid into the space in front of him and angled her body between his legs. MacMillian forgot to breathe. A bolt of molten need shot from his belly to the tips of his toes. He had the sudden sense he was about to melt straight through the floor.

He was still trying to work out how to avoid such a fate when a familiar voice spoke from the other side of the bar.

“Mr. MacMillian? The hell you doing here, mundano?”


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