I take my time entering the room behind our lead singer, Michael, who makes a grand entrance of throwing his arms up in the air as if to say, “These are my people!” Everyone cheers. Nobody seems to mind that he’s a cheeky bastard.
I’ve been in America less than a year this March and not much has changed from when I lived in London. My life is still a blur of drums, sex, and food—the Kaifecta—the only things worth living for in this fucked-up world.
My fingers are in the pockets of my black denim jeans and the front of my hair covers one of my eyes, but I can still see through the strands of brown. In one quick moment I scan the room and find three girls from the gig with red-hot auras, eyes glued to me. In half a minute I’m able to gather all I need from their auras, their body language, and the whispered conversations they’re having, which I hear clearly with my Nephilim senses.
“I am all over that. . . .”
“. . . heard he’s amazing . . .”
“. . . probably a jerk. He’s way too hot. . . .”
That last one is far more innocent than the others, and she is the one I choose. A cute brunette. I send her a nod. When she stares and slowly blushes, I look away. Then I turn and follow my mates into the kitchen for a drink.
The first seed has been planted. She will pursue.
In the kitchen a girl with short blond hair laughs at something some bloke is saying. He’s the nice guy, comedian type, wearing an oversized T-shirt. The moment I walk in, her attention wavers to me and her happy yellow aura turns to a fog of surprise, a flame of orange excitement, and then an uprising of red. The bloke tries to get her attention back, but I’ve friend-zoned him. Poor guy. I do feel bad for the ones who have to try so hard. If only they’d act like the sexual beings they are.
Any bloke who seems not to think about sex all day and night is a right liar. Or he’s attempting to train his mind for sainthood, which is idiotic.
Trust me on this.
When the blond chick turns to grab her drink, sending a fluttery-eyed glance my direction, the seemingly nice guy ogles her arse, as he should, and his aura goes thick as red mud. When she turns to him again, he quickly retrains his face into the quirky smile.
I know all the tricks. Don’t bother with the polite, shy bit. It’s not what most birds go for—though I have had to put on the witty, good-guy act to win over a few. I’m willing to play whatever role will put them in their comfort zone—their ease leads to their nakedness. And nakedness is my comfort zone. It is what I seek.
Something soft brushes against my arm, and I look down to see the brunette from the other room sliding purposely against me as she edges through the crowd toward the drink counter. Our eyes meet and I give her a smile. She tucks her hair behind her ear and glances down before looking back up at me.
“Sorry,” she says. “I’m just . . .” She points to the drinks on the other side of me.
“May I get you something?” I ask.
She stares for a moment, as if my voice and accent were unexpected. Her chest is pressed against my upper abs, and the crowd jostles us together. A cloud of red surrounds her, and I open my senses to let in the peachy scent of her pheromones.
Right. That’ll do. I’m ready to shag her. Thankfully I’m a pro at this next bit. Getting someone into bed is an art. A dance. It’s crucial not to misread her.
Without asking, I whisk her cup from her hand and turn to make a fresh drink. In moments I hand her a full glass, ice clinking.
“I hope rum and Coke is all right?” I already know it is because I smelled the remnants of her drink with my supernatural senses.
Her eyes go wide. “That’s what I was drinking!” Her smile is huge, as if this is a sign that I am her Mr. Right.
“Brilliant. What’s your name, then?”
“Brittany. And you’re Kayden, right?”
I smile. Nobody can seem to spell or pronounce my name. I’m used to this. “Close, luv. It’s Kaidan.”