have you been doing? Rolling around in the dirt?” Nick brushed Killian's shoulder and bits of soil fell to the Persian rug.
Something like that.
He had to give it to Tierra de Moray. The woman knew how to make a lasting impression. In all his years, he'd never had to dig himself out of the ground before.
“And what's up with meeting here instead of Sirens?” Nick continued. “The service here sucks.”
“Get your own fucking drink then,” Dru said. He handed the glass of scotch meant for Nick to Bane.
He took it and tossed it back, relishing the burn, but not the woodsy aftertaste. He needed something…else…to bury his day.
Bad choice of words.
He headed to the fully stocked bar near the wide windows that looked out over the evergreen forest that were the color of Tierra's eyes. Shit. He reached under the cabinet for the bottle of Patrón. Sharp and bitter. That's what he wanted. Hopefully, the tequila would burn the sweet, earthy, floral taste that Tierra had left in his mouth. Taking the bottle with him, along with a tumbler, he dropped into a seat not giving a shit that he was filthy and probably ruining the fabric.
“Let's hurry this along.” He needed a shower and then he would to track Tierra de Moray down. He didn't know what he'd do when he got a hold of her, but it would be epic.
She'd buried him.
Him.
“What happened?” Julian murmured, from where he sat in the large corner chair. He saw more than the others, which was his way. He studied, analyzed, dissected, while Nick and Dru were all about formatting a plan and seeing it through to the bloody end.
The first shot of tequila burned a hole in his gut. “I slept with Tierra de Moray,” he ground out through clenched teeth. And he would again if given the opportunity. Somehow, someway, he had to devise a plan for that to happen.
Soon.
“You've been in town how long?” Julian asked dryly.
“Apparently long enough,” Dru added. “Son of a bitch.”
“They are witches, seductresses. We warned you, and yet you fucked one of them!” Nick exploded. “We can't sleep with them—just have to kill one of them—but you can?” Nick swore a length of curse words that would make a sailor cringe.
“He's sexually frustrated.” Dru took a swig of his fresh Johnny Walker Red. “Moira hung him out to dry.”
“And who got his sword stolen?” Nick sneered, lacing fingers over his chest as he stretched and crossed his ankles.
“How long has this been going on?” Bane slid a glance toward Julian who regally sipped his vintage wine.
“The bickering? A while. We all have something we…want…in regard to the witches. They each have a flavor, if you will, that appeals to the man in each of us.” He cocked a brow. “Which it seems, is also true for you, brother.”
Bane downed another shot of tequila and refilled his glass. At this rate, he'd need more than one bottle to dull his senses, forget this afternoon and how she moved, smelled, came for him. He feared Tierra was etched into his memory forever. “I didn't know who she was,” he admitted.
“Like that makes it okay,” Nick said.
“Hey, I'm sure he's sorry.” The sarcasm was heavy in Dru's tone.
“He looks sorry. Pathetic really. Ever going to explain the dirt?”
“No.”
“Let me take a stab at it.” Nick leaned forward in his chair. “Tierra de Moray meets Death in a bar. Yeah, the whole town is talking about her leaving on a pale motorcycle that looked like it just arrived from the depths of Hell with some strange, dark man. I'm thinking the two of you got down to nature. So did the dirt come after the sex or before?”
“Fuck you,” Bane growled.
“Don't you understand what is happening here?” Julian tried to add a voice of reason. “Four of them, four of us, and an attraction that we find nearly impossible to resist. We are being tried by the powers that be. Tested, perhaps.”
“Gods, haven't we been tried enough?” Nick fell back in his chair.
Julian slowly gained his feet, elegantly dressed in a suit even though it was the end of the day. Was he wearing an ascot? It did go great with the smoking jacket. The man could have walked out of a London men's club from the eighteen-hundreds. Bane wondered if he owned a pair of jeans.
Julian uncorked another bottle of wine. “It doesn't matter what we feel, humanity is at stake.”
“Fuck humanity,” Nick grumbled. “Or at least