Chapter 3

Keiran’s POV

4 years later…

I’m in Hell and this is definitely not where I belong. No really, I’m in the lower level of Heaven & Hell, a gay club in downtown Chicago, which is absolutely not where I’m supposed to be working tonight.

“Jerry, look at me,” I say to the bartender as I gesture at my outfit of strappy sandals, silver hotpants, white wings, and glitter. Lots and lots of glitter. I couldn’t look more out of place if I tried. “I’m supposed to be working the floor upstairs.”

Jerry glances down at the schedule clipped to the bar. “Says you’re down here tonight.”

“But…” I turn around and point at my back. “I’ve got fucking wings.”

He shrugs. “Take ‘em off then.”

I let out an exasperated sigh. Jerry isn’t going to budge. He’s one of those ‘do what I’m told’ type of guys and he won’t go against whatever’s written on that stupid schedule without someone much more important than me telling him it’s okay. If he were a shifter instead of a human, he would make some Alpha a damn good second with that attitude.

Alphas love that kind of blind obedience, but it really sucks for me.

I don’t mind working down here, not exactly, but I make much better tips upstairs. Being small and pretty, something I don’t think I’m ever going to grow out of unfortunately, makes me much more believable as an angel than as a demon. The servers in Hell tend to be taller and bulkier and the clientele expects that body type down here. I’ll have to make do, though.

Jerry doesn’t look like he’s budging and I can’t afford to miss a shift if I want to make rent.

“Here,” says Jerry, holding out a headband adorned with tiny red horns that he pulls from beneath the bar.

Grabbing the headband, I sigh again, then shrug out of my wings and stash them behind the bar before putting the horns on. “I look like a Halloween party reject who forgot what his costume was supposed to be.”

Jerry smirks, and I can tell he’s holding back a laugh. “Eh, if anyone asks, tell them you’re an imp. Those are like tiny demons, right?”

I scowl at him and grab a tray, then move toward the tables along the wall to take orders.

Jerry’s hand comes down on my shoulder without warning and I almost jump out of my skin, fighting back the urge to snarl at him—or maybe whine in submissiveness. It’s been…a while since I shifted and my wolf’s instincts are closer to the surface than I’d like.

“You’ll do fine, Keiran,” says Jerry. “Might even find you like it down here.”

“Yeah. Sure,” I say as I head off through the crowd.

Most of my customers tonight are fine, but I could do without the table of three drunk frat bro types, complete with polo shirts and backward ball caps. Generally, I don’t care what category people fall into. Femme, masc, bear… whatever. But these guys are total assholes and I highly doubt I’m getting a tip from them.

They make no secret of their disdain for me. One of them—who I’ve decided to call Douche One—goes so far as to bitch about wanting to be serviced by a ‘real man.’ Of course, they’re still more than happy to grab my ass and Douche Two even asks if bathroom blow jobs are included in the cover price.

No, shithead. They very much are not.

I plaster on my customer service smile and ignore their barbs, but they grow more and more belligerent—and handsy—as the night wears on. After a couple hours of their nonsense, my temper is rising. I’d love nothing more than to show them exactly how much I hate bullies like them.

Omega or not, I’m still a shifter. I could throw them across the room if I wanted to, but going furry in the middle of the club would not be a good idea. I’m trying to avoid the attention of other shifters, not draw it. So, to prevent myself from breaking the next hand that tries to find its way into my hotpants, I walk to the bar and set my tray down.

“I’m taking a quick break,” I say.

Jerry nods in acknowledgment and then returns to making drinks as I head to the back.

I slump into a chair in the staff room and take a few deep breaths. I really, really don’t want to go back out there. My feet are killing me and so far this shift has been absolute hell. Pun intended. I’d love nothing more than to go home and crawl into bed, but if I want to continue to have a bed to crawl into, I’ve got four more hours on my shift.

I allow myself five more minutes of rest before I plaster my customer service smile back on and head out to the floor. One of my tables calls me over and I take another round of drink orders, ring them up at the bar, then wait for the drinks to be made. Glancing around the room to check on the status of my other tables, my gaze snags on the frat bros.

There’s someone new at their table. It seems they’ve gotten over their aversion to twinks because there’s a very cute one sitting at their table with something pink in a martini glass on the table in front of him. He’s got a head full of blond curls and a baby face that make him seem out of place down here. He appears happy enough sitting and talking to those jerks, though, so I’ll keep my nose out of it.

After delivering the other table’s drinks, I head over to the frat bros to see if they need anything—and maybe just a little to check on their out-of-place guest. The blond is even cuter up close, his loose curls making him look downright cherubic and even more like he belongs with the angels upstairs.

He’s a little bigger than me, but still looks barely legal. They check IDs at the door though, so he must be at least twenty-one.

The frat bros grunt out their orders, but no grabby hands come in my direction and there are no obscene comments. Maybe they’re worried about scaring off Blondie?

Whatever. At least they’re off my back.

The next two hours pass uneventfully and I’m about to take another quick break when I notice Blondie sway in his seat. His head lands on one of the frat bros’s shoulders before jolting back upward. His behavior isn’t exactly strange, not in a bar. But it is strange behavior for someone who, as far as I can tell, hasn’t had more than two drinks. The guy is small for a human, but not small enough to be knocked on his ass by those watered down cocktails.

As I continue to watch, Blondie sways again. Douche Two slings an arm over his shoulder and pulls Blondie forward until his curls are practically buried in the guy’s armpit. Ugh. Douche One taps Blondie’s cheek, saying something I can’t hear even with shifter hearing. When Blondie does nothing but mumble and burrow his face closer, Douche Two smirks and his buddies mimic the expression. Douche One tilts his head toward the back door. His buddies nod.

Douche Two casts a quick glance around the room, then he stands up and leads a stumbling Blondie to the back door. His buddies wait maybe thirty seconds before following and all of them exit into the alley behind the club.

Oh, fuck no.

“I’ll be back,” I mutter to Jerry, dropping my tray, then making my way to the back door. I’m not letting those assholes get away with this. I’m going to show those bullies—and potential rapists—some teeth.