Firecracker (Last Call, Book Six)
Copyright
Information
Firecracker
Copyright © 2013 Moira Rogers
http://www.moirarogers.com
Smashwords Edition
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of
the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is
purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion
thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher except for
the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Table of Contents
Firecracker
Too hot to handle. Looking for a fireproof
lover.
Phoebe stood on the curb and watched another
human walk past Last Call without giving it so much as a sideways
glance, even when the door pushed open to release two drunk pixies,
one of whom glowed independently of the neon sign above her
glittery pink hair.
A neat bit of magic, hiding a popular club
for supernaturals in the midst of the city. Whatever spells wrapped
the building must have extended to the sidewalk in front of it,
because passers-by seemed wholly uninterested in the giggling,
glowing duo.
The bouncer wasn’t as inattentive. He caught
the girl’s arm before she could step off the curb. “Do I need to
call someone to sober you up?”
“
Oh, whoops.” The pixie in
the green dress leaned in to her friend and whispered loudly enough
to be heard three blocks away. “You’re glowing.”
“
Damn it!” The girl
scrunched up her nose, and the pink aura surrounding her
vanished.
The bouncer released her, and the two spilled
into the street in a sea of giggles. As they melted into the night,
the bouncer turned his attention to Phoebe. “You torn,
sweetheart?”
Torn—the perfect word. The club wasn’t the
sort of place she usually visited. Loud music and grinding dances
were diversions of the young, and after one hundred and
thirty-seven years on the earth, she hardly considered herself
that.
But Last Call had another purpose. “Do you
have one of the menus I could see? The specials?”
It must have been a common question, because
he reached behind him to produce a glossy menu without comment.
Taking it, she found nothing but plain black text on an off-white
background, a long list of drinks under headings that marked the
most common supernatural species.
Nothing common about her problem. She almost
gave up before realizing the back held more drinks, each one
assigned a meaning in elegant italics. Halfway down the page, her
breath caught as longing and hope set her heart to pounding.
Firecracker. Too hot to handle, looking for
a fireproof lover.
As if he’d seen the reaction a hundred times,
the bouncer pushed open the door. “Welcome to Last Call.”
She’d ordered a firecracker.
Jarrett watched the delicate looking brunette
as Bernie mixed her drink. She seemed nervous—and with good reason,
if she’d somehow been walking around, inadvertently setting her
lovers on fire.
“
Damn, I’d hit that.” Beside
him, Andy lifted his beer and watched the woman smooth her prim
black skirt down her legs. “Too bad I’d die trying. You wouldn’t,
though.”
Jarrett hesitated, then
shook his head. “She’s dressed like she’s on her way to play the
lead in
Breakfast at
Tiffany’s
. That’s out of my
league.”
“
Not tonight, buddy.” Andy
leaned forward and gestured with his beer bottle. “What are you
going to do, leave her to the psychics? She wants a man who can
handle a little fire, and you’re a fucking hellhound.”
She
was
pretty, the kind that didn’t come
from hours of getting ready. The kind that would still be pretty in
the morning.
Jarrett rose without thinking, drained his
beer, and tossed a bill on the table. “Take care of it for me,
would you?”
Andy laughed. “Go get her, you lucky
bastard.”
The brunette was watching the floor as she
sipped at her drink, and her gaze snapped to Jarrett as soon as he
drew even with the two psychics who were arguing over which one got
to have her. The taller one had just about decided he’d be okay, so
long as he maintained his concentration while he was getting her
off.
Jarrett shook his head. “How about you get
the next one and leave the firecracker to me?” He didn’t wait for
answer, just pushed past them and made his way to the bottom of the
dais.
She didn’t take her eyes from him as she
rose, her purse clutched in one hand and the plastic key to one of
the upstairs suites in the other. Even her heels were modest, and
they clicked smartly on the floor as she crossed to the top step.
Her brow furrowed as her gaze slid over his tattooed arms and back
to his face. “What are you?”
He could be charming when he needed to be. “A
hound of hell. Want me to nip at your heels?”
As if hypnotized, she descended two steps.
“Fire truly won’t burn you?”
“
Well, considering the hell
thing... If it did, I’d be fucked.”
Her cheeks turned pink, and she held out the
key. “And here I thought that was rather the point.”
“
Smartass.” At least she
liked what she saw. “Want to finish your drink?”
“
Not particularly.” She
looked self-consciously at her outstretched hand. “Am I doing this
incorrectly? I thought I was supposed to offer you the
key.”
“
You are.” He accepted it,
but forced himself to move slowly. “I can see you’re not the kind
of lady who comes to places like this a lot, though, so I’m going
to take my time.”
“
A considerate hellhound.”
She looked momentarily baffled, but then a smile curled her lips as
she stepped off the stairs. “I don’t need a drink, but I wouldn’t
mind a dance.”
She wasn’t just pretty, not
when she smiled. She was
beautiful
, and Jarrett wrapped his
hand around hers. “What’s your name?”
“
Phoebe.” Her hand was as
cool as a human’s against his own. “And you are?”
“
Jarrett Chance.” Instead of
shaking her hand and releasing her, he pulled her close to his
chest.
She gasped and closed her eyes, which spared
her from the curious looks of the crowd. Most people who shelled
out money for a room got straight to the fucking, but Phoebe was
obviously starved for a little touch. He had plenty of time, and if
he played his cards right, she’d be burning before they ever got on
the elevator.
Maybe literally.
On second thought.
“One dance, sweetheart. Then I want to see what’s
under this proper little dress.”
“
Proper underwear,” she
murmured, wrapping her arms around his neck. Her purse bumped the
back of his head, and she laughed. “Boring underwear. I didn’t wear
anything I would have minded lighting on fire.”
“
That’s a shame.” Jarrett
touched the nape of her neck, and her skin heated under his
hand.
“
I know.” She traced the
tattoo winding down his arm. “I’m out of my league.”
He couldn’t help but laugh. “Me too, Phoebe.
Me too.”
“
People are staring at us.”
Her fingertip edged up under his sleeve. “Would it be breaking the
rules if I kissed you?”