Five Weeks (Seven Series #3)(13)

Denver leaned forward on his elbows and gave a tight-lipped smile. “Enjoying the band?”
I ignored him, lost in a nebulous of memories. “I need a Zipper.”
Denver turned around and began mixing the order. “They change names when their act gets stale and people want a fresh sound,” he yelled over his shoulder. “I know all about you, Izzy Monroe.” He slammed the glass in front of me and pointed his finger. “You’re the bitch who almost killed my brother.”
When he turned away, I lurched across the bar and grabbed a fistful of his shirt, yanking him back. “What did you just say?”
“First, I called you a bitch, and I think we both know where I’m coming from.”
Yeah, I did. Not in the derogatory sense, the way humans used it, but Denver knew I was a wolf.
“Second, you left my brother to rot in a hotel room from a drug overdose. I was the one who had to pick him up at a human hospital,” he emphasized. “Jericho almost died because of your apathy.”
“Overdose? What?”
“I’m a nice guy, Izzy. I get along with everyone. But I don’t forgive anyone who leaves my brother dying on the floor of a run-down, sleazy hotel.”
I gasped, furious and horrified all at once. What had Jericho told them?
Before I could speak, someone jerked me around, slapped his hands over my thighs, and threw me over his shoulder. After a few pats to my behind, I heard him say, “Taking my old lady home.”
I recognized that flat ass. Handlebars.
“Put me down, you jackass!”
The music roared and nobody heard me; they were engrossed with the sexual sound of Jericho singing about pain to the wailing cry of a guitar. Darkness blanketed the room. The only exception was the bar area. I looked up and saw Denver leap over the bar, his legs sliding across the surface as he moved out of sight. Jericho’s voice tumbled in my head, which was quickly filling with blood from being upside down.
I reached beneath my attacker’s shirt and pinched his skin as hard as I could. He shouted in pain and I straightened my back, trying to grab his hair. Handlebars swung me around, using me to block Denver’s punches. When he lost his grip, the singing abruptly stopped. I didn’t know which way was up and I fell backward, striking my head against the edge of the bar. The shouts faded to murmurs, and my eyes closed as tiny pinpricks of light lured me into unconsciousness.
“Izzy?”
***
Jericho didn’t feel a shred of guilt when he showed up late for their gig at Howlers, because it drew out the suspense. The owner, Jake, didn’t seem to mind and was pleased to have him; most places were. They pulled in serious cash, even with the frequent name changes.
He walked onstage with a black guitar pick clenched between his teeth. This particular song began with a slow beat, but then midway through, they’d hit the gas and bring down the house with their adrenaline-pumping performance.
Jericho’s eyes settled on a blonde in the front row working her fingertips around her nipples, twisting them until they poked through her white shirt like bullets. Unable to concentrate on the lyrics, he steered his attention toward the back of the room. He saw nothing but a sea of faces in the dark, except by the bar.
Some action was going on, and Jericho continued strumming his guitar as the song built momentum. A large man with a long mustache had thrown one of the waitresses over his shoulder, and it looked like things were getting rowdy. Nothing he hadn’t seen before, but the red hair snagged his attention as it swung around.
Denver slid over the bar and hit the guy in the face. That’s when the girl straightened up and smacked her assailant in the head. Pack instinct kicked in when he saw his brother throwing punches, and Jericho buried the primitive urge to fight by Denver’s side.
He kept playing, singing into the mic, but suddenly not feeling in the moment. His heart raced unexpectedly, and he didn’t know why.
Then Jericho saw her face.
Isabelle Marie Monroe.
“Fuck,” he said into the mic.
“Yeah!” a woman shouted. “Fuck me!”
He lifted the strap off his shoulder and threw the guitar down. Feedback from the amplifier screeched, and those standing near the speakers winced. His band stopped playing for a few beats before picking back up without him.
Christ. It couldn’t be.
He leapt off the stage and pushed his way through the crowd—fought his way through.
Women desperately clung to his shirt, and the men were giving him shoulder bumps.
By the time he reached the bar, the young woman was sprawled out on her back with one leg bent at the knee. A blanket of wavy red hair surrounded her head like a fiery halo.
Jericho stood catatonic. It was her.