Boarlander Beast Boar

by T. S. Joyce

  Mason snorted and then cracked a slight smile. That’s when she got a really good look at his face. His beard had been taking up a lot of real estate, but from this close, she could make out the start of one impressive black eye and several gashes that were leaking slow streams of blood down his face. She flailed her arms, swatting at his paws. When he held his hands up in surrender, she asked, “What in the curse word happened to you?”

  Mason blinked slowly and lifted those animated eyebrows of his. “Curse word?”

  “Did you get in a fight?”

  The blue in his eyes cooled, and he stood smoothly, taking her totes with him. Without a word, he picked up her suitcases like they weighed nothing more than dandelion fluff and strode toward his truck.

  “Please tell me you weren’t in some bar brawl with the protestors,” she called, scrambling after him. One look down at her clothes, and she groaned. The puddle was a muddy one, and now she was smeared in dark water. She limped after Mason on a sore leg, gave up on looking professional, and pulled her sky-high heel off that foot so she wouldn’t roll her ankle again. She whimpered as shooting pain zinged up into her knee with each step.

  Mason threw her belongings—literally threw them—into the back of his truck. Her make-up was probably all broken now. She gasped out an offended sound. “Hey! Careful with the merchandise!”

  Mason cast her a quick glance, then drew up short and frowned at her limp. Beck lifted her chin primly and tried to look unaffected when she took the next step.

  “Humans,” Mason muttered as he made his way to her in three giant-man strides.

  “Humans what?” she barked out. He was being ridiculous and prejudiced, and even if he was the most striking, handsome, muscular, sexy… Stop it. Even so, he was being a pitstain.

  Mason bent at the knees and picked her up, hands supporting her shoulders and behind her knees. She yelped and drew her purse over her nethers because, yep, she could see her beige grannies practically laughing at her. “Put me down!”

  “I’m not watching you limp and whimper all the way to the passenger’s side, lady.” He lowered his voice and muttered darkly, “I have a dragon to skin.”

  Mason yanked open the door to his truck and dumped her unceremoniously inside.

  “Ow!” She swatted his hand as it brushed her boob. “You are the worst driving service on the planet.”

  “Oh, so you’ve used every driving service on the planet?” He reached across her lap with the seatbelt, but she shoved him back when his beard brushed her cleavage.

  “And furthermore,” she said, good and furious now, “a pig shifter would have zero chance skinning a dragon.”

  “Boar shifter,” he barked out, then slammed the door.

  Shocked by his brash behavior, she stared at him as he marched around the front of the truck and pulled himself into the driver’s seat.

  “And furthermore,” he mimicked her, “today is my day off of driving, I have a splitting headache thanks to some asshole doing his damndest to put a brick through my skull, my best friend thinks he’s a fuckin’ matchmaker, but he missed the mark, and wide, proof the one person in the world I thought actually knew me doesn’t actually know a thing about me! You aren’t my type, lady.”

  She felt slapped. “W-what?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he muttered as he turned on the engine.

  “You cuss a lot. And you’re wrong about your friend setting you up. I’m here on a job, you jerk, and besides”—she clenched her left fist and lifted her ring finger, the one with her wedding ring—“you aren’t my type either.” Lie, and even she could hear it on her voice. Big, burly muscle man with sexy eyes and triceps flexing as he gripped the steering wheel. He was exactly her type, though she hadn’t known until right now. So what if she was divorced and single? He needed to stop thinking the world revolved around him.

  He glanced at her ring once, twice, then slammed on his brakes at a red light and clenched his jaw so hard a muscle jumped there. “Fantastic. Thanks, Damon.”

  Pissed off, she swung her purse around to throw it in the back seat, hitting him in the side of the face on purpose. Beck scrambled over the console clumsily as Mason complained, “Don’t hit the driver.”

  “Driver, yeah. You know, you aren’t the only one who’s had a shit day,” she muttered as she buckled her seatbelt in the back seat.

  “That water puddle doesn’t trump a brick smashed against my head.”

  “And whose fault was that? You can’t be fighting, Mason! My job is to take care of the Boarlanders’ public relations. To take care public relations for all the shifters in Damon’s mountains, and minute one that I meet you, you’re bleeding from a fight! Please tell me you weren’t videotaped.”

  “I broke the phone.”

  Her mouth fell open, and she gasped out. “You can’t break people’s personal property!”

  He made a clicking sound behind his teeth and shook his head. “You wouldn’t understand, human. You’re safe. Your people are safe. The government doesn’t want to strip your rights, cage you, or sterilize your entire species.”

  Shaking her head, she huffed a humorless laugh and stared out the window at the town blurring by. He was so wrong. She had just as much worry about the vote as him, or she wouldn’t have taken this job. It wasn’t just his world that was burning. Hers was, too.

  Beck cast a quick glance to the back of his neck. There was a massive amount of bruising and a deep gash. Shifters healed fast, so he’d taken a beating to have marks like that. “I think you should eat,” she murmured.

  Mason ignored her, the stubborn man.

  “Fine, I’m hungry, and Damon assured me that you would take care of me.”

  “Chhh,” he huffed out. “I can’t take care of anyone.” He’d said that last part low, as if he didn’t care if she heard it. She knew that feeling.

  “Drive-thru is fine.”

  The steering wheel creaked under his grip. He inhaled deeply, then asked, “What kind of food do you like?”

  “Anything, you pick.” She pulled her phone from her purse as he pulled a U-turn. He could think what he wanted about her being some kind of blind date for him, but she was actually in Saratoga to work. To help. To relieve Cora Keller of some of the pressure on her and the Breck Crew and to make a decent wage because she had bills to pay.

  Beck called the printer back because she’d missed a call from them. She haggled prices to print calendars and settled on one that fit the budget Cora had given her. And after she hung up with them, she made yet another call to the head of Saratoga Parks and Rec because they’d been putting off her plans to include special events for shifters at the Lumberjack Wars, and she was not taking no for an answer.

  More than once, she caught Mason glancing at her in the rearview mirror, but when he adjusted his dick, she figured it was just because the low V of her button-down shirt had slipped to the side and was soggily stuck, exposing most of her lacey bra and left teat. Great. With a dirty look for him, she covered herself back up and agreed to have a conference call with a couple of the higher ups at Parks and Rec to discuss the Lumberjack Wars. After Beck hung up, she opened her daily planner and added the one o’clock call for tomorrow’s agenda. She was scribbling away at questions she wanted to ask in the notes section when Mason pulled into the drive-thru lane of a restaurant called Butters Beer Burgers and Shakes.

  Mason leaned out the window at the intercom and said, “I’ll have three number ones, no onions, a large vanilla shake, and one of those apple fried pies. No…two of those.” Mason twisted around. “What do you want?”

  “Oh, my gosh,” Beck said, cracking a grin. “That was all for you? What a pig.”

  Mason narrowed his eyes to angry little slits. “Boar.”

  “I’ll have a cobb salad with light Italian dressing.”

  “God, are you one of those dainty fancy-pants women always counting your calories? Sipping on water, and then you’re like, ‘I’m stuffed.’” He s
hook his head in mock disappointment. “So boring.”

  Actually, she’d eaten an airport burrito a couple of hours ago and this food run was more for him than her, but he could think what he liked. “I’m boring? You ordered a vanilla shake. Vanilla.” She shot him a challenging look but took the bait. “And I’ll have a small strawberry shake.”

  Mason smirked and put in her order, then changed his to a strawberry shake, too. Competitive much? She hid a private smile as she logged onto Cora’s shifter site from her phone. Beck was helping run it now that she was officially on the payroll.

  Yelling carried on the wind. A chant. “Cage the shifters…stop the epidemic…” A group of twenty or so walked a tight circle in front of the hardware store a couple doors down. Beck’s stomach curdled at the picket signs. One was of a bear with Xs for eyes and its leg in a giant trap. Get them before they get us.

  Mason had his head carefully turned away, too, but his shoulders had gone rigid. Before she could change her mind, Beck reached forward and slid her hand over his tense arm. He was even harder than she’d imagined. Mason froze under her touch, didn’t move a muscle for a moment, then leaned forward and out of her reach. “My people don’t like touch,” he said in a voice that was low and growly.

  How sad. She couldn’t even imagine a life without physical affection. Sure, her marriage had been like that, but she’d had Ryder, and he loved cuddling. Another deep ache cut through her stomach just thinking about him. Blinking hard, she hit her ex’s speed dial and waited for the tenth time since she’d come to Saratoga to hear it ring and ring until his voicemail came on. “Hey, this is Robbie. If this is a booty call, leave a message. If this is Beck, fuck off.” He’d always been so charming.

  She plastered an empty smile to her voice, because screaming never worked with him. “Hey Robbie. I really wish you would change your voicemail. And maybe pick up your phone because I’ve called a bunch of times, and this isn’t how it’s supposed to work. I’m supposed to be able to talk to him still, just like I always let you talk to him when he is with me.” She sighed deeply and prayed for patience. Robbie had been the worst decision she’d ever made. “Anyway, please call me back. I’m starting to worry. Okay, bye.” She hung up the phone and relaxed into the back seat. Another flash of blue, and she caught Mason’s eyes in the rearview again.

  “Your husband?”

  The last thing in the world she wanted to do was talk with Mason about Robbie and all the hurt and betrayal. She wasn’t even sure if he was nice yet, or if he would judge her.

  “You got a kid?” The SUV in front of them pulled forward, so Mason coasted up a car-length, too.

  “So, I was thinking we should do more in the community,” she said, typing away at her phone as she answered a question from the website about shifter hearing. “A bake sale or something, and give the profits to charity. I could call up the local news station and set up a couple of interviews—”

  “I’m not doing interviews. How old is she?”

  “I have a son, and why no interviews?”

  He turned in his seat and locked eyes on her. “Because trust me when I say you don’t want my people coming up into these mountains to retrieve me. It’s best if we stay quiet about my whereabouts.”

  “Why would your people come after you? Did you piss them off?”

  He chuckled darkly. “You have no idea.”

  “Do you have kids?” She’d tried to research Mason, but his page on Bangaboarlander.com had been taken down a month ago. Even when it had been up, the picture of him was grainy at best, and all it had said was, Good at fucking. Good at money. Great third best friend. Wow, she couldn’t believe she still had that memorized.

  “No kids.”

  “Ahhh. A happy bachelor, no attachments. I get it.”

  “No, it’s not like that. I want ’em. I just can’t have ’em.” A frown marred his face in the reflection of the rearview mirror. “I don’t know why I just told you that.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, hunching at the angst in his voice. “Why can’t you?” Good grief, what was wrong with her? That was so rude to ask a stranger.

  Mason swallowed audibly. “I’m what my people call a barrow. The Barrow, actually. With real pigs, that would mean a castrated boar, but with boar shifters, it’s just a title they give to males who are sterile.” He shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t talk about this stuff. Please don’t let this conversation leave the truck.”

  “Of course. Was it…?” Stop talking! “Was it from an accident or something?”

  “Nah. Bad genetics I guess.”

  “H-how did you find out?”

  Mason pulled forward another car-length and rested his arm on the open window. “Because I failed to breed my mate, and then I failed with two sows after her. Three strikes, and you’re a barrow.”

  Her voice dipped to a devastated whisper. “But why do they call you The Barrow?”

  Mason gave her a glance over his shoulder that clenched her stomach. His eyes had darkened to a soft, chocolate brown, but were now full of ghosts. “Because I was supposed to be alpha over all my people. No more questions, Beck. I’m not a fan of revisiting my past.”

  And with that, Mason turned around, closed down, and hit the volume on the radio to drown out any further conversation. Beck rubbed her palm where she’d touched his warm arm. It was still tingling and hot for reasons she couldn’t explain.

  And as she looked down at her planner with the chaotic scribbles, she knew this wasn’t just a job anymore. It was personal now. Mason had been through enough. He was a real person with deep, hidden aches. She couldn’t do anything for his past, or his childless future, but she could fight for reprieve from the muck that had been raining down on him and the other shifters in Damon’s mountains.

  Chapter Three

  Outside the window, the buildings, streets, and protesters had given way to backroads and pine wilderness. Beck had been on the phone for a half hour working, but now she was caught up and the quiet was starting to get to her. Mason hadn’t even eaten his food, so there was no crinkle of paper, no slurp of strawberry shake to fill the emptiness. He’d even turned down the radio, probably to let her talk on her cell easier.

  “Are you always the strong silent type?” she asked.

  “It’s part of the job description. I’m paid to drive, not carry on conversation.”

  “I have a car of my own, you know. It’s just in the shop. Cracked engine block and bad belt and a bunch of other things I’m pretty sure the mechanic just made up. Ripey’s Auto Repair should be called Rip-Off’s Auto Repair. My Explorer was just making a funny sound, so I took it in and, all the sudden, it wasn’t safe to drive and has a billion things wrong with it. And he’s charging me an astronomical amount. The mechanic says it’ll be another two weeks before I get it back, so I had to take a shuttle service to Saratoga, but the driver said he wouldn’t take me any farther than town because the mountains were haunted.”

  Mason kept his eyes on the road, didn’t respond in any way. Determined to get back to the chatty Mason she’d talked to earlier, she gathered all her paperwork in the back seat into the right folders, then unbuckled and crawled ungracefully into the front seat. Beck pulled the belt over her lap and clicked it into place. “I thought I was sterile, too. I had a big cyst on my ovaries when I was sixteen and had to have surgery, so only one side works, and even before that I had a condition that makes my cycles patchy at best.”

  Mason tossed her a quick, bland look, so she said, “Right. Too much information.”

  A few more minutes of quiet drifted by, and she had to stifle the urge to open the window just to hear the wind.

  “I’m divorced,” she blurted out.

  “Then why are you wearing that big ol’ sparkler on your ring finger?” he asked as he pulled off onto a muddy dirt road.

  “Because it’s kind of new.” She cleared her throat. “Actually, that’s a lie. I’ve been divorced for over a year, and before that w
e were separated for two. And when we were married…well…he didn’t come home much.”

  Mason pulled to a stop right before an old, creaky bridge, cut the engine, and got out. Oookaay. She startled when he appeared at her window and pulled open the door. Without a word, he yanked off her heels, unbuckled her, and scooped her up, then carried her to a wooden bench beside the bridge that overlooked a gently rolling river. “I’m hungry,” he grunted.

  “Oh, you don’t like people eating in your new, fancy truck?”

  “If I cared about that, I wouldn’t have let you sit on my seats in your muddy clothes.”

  She looked down at her stained pants. Well, he had a point. Mason jogged back to the truck and returned with the bags of their food. His burgers and fries had to be cold by now, but when he sat down beside her and dug in, he didn’t seem to mind. He gulped a bite and relaxed, one long leg stretched out on the soft earth. “You look young to be divorced.”

  Beck poured dressing over her salad and grimaced. “Divorces happen all the time now, don’t you know? It doesn’t care about age. I’m twenty-seven.”

  “How old is your boy?”

  “Five,” she said through a smile. She loved thinking about Ryder.

  Mason’s eyes were glued to the curve of her lips. Self-conscious under his gaze, she turned her attention back to stirring up her salad. “His daddy is no good, but Ryder is everything bright in my life. I had him when I was twenty-two. He wasn’t planned, nor did I plan on anything long-term with Robbie, but we got married because that’s what our parents said we were supposed to do.”

  “Ryder is a good name.”

  “You want to see a picture of him?”

  Mason’s lips turned up in a slight smile, the happy expression there and gone in an instant. “Sure.”

  Beck pulled her phone out of her back pocket and scrolled through her pictures to her recent favorite. In it, Ryder was squatted down by a patch of weeds, blowing dandelion seeds into the wind. She loved taking pictures of him. Mason stared at the screen, his expression unreadable.