Alpha’s Bane

by Renee Rose

  No! My boot connects with a chunk of pavement, and when I kick it with more force than necessary, it flies off and almost takes out one of the wannabe greasers.

  “Watch it, sister,” he barks, patting his hands over his perfectly slicked back hair as if checking for damage.

  I bare my teeth at him. His gaze sweeps down and up my corseted form and he forgets to obsess over his coiffure. Appreciation lights his dark eyes, and his lips start to form a whistle.

  “Don’t do it,” I snap, and he blanches. My Lily Munster makeup must be super scary. “If I wanted to be hooted at like a pinup girl passing a construction site,” I inform him gently, “I’d have taken off my jacket.” Then, lest men complain that I’m never nice to them, I peel out of the butter-soft leather, revealing the tight green-and-black satin corset underneath. It’s Scarlett O’Hara tight and does wonders for my boobs. Not that the girls need any help.

  I spin on my heel and strut away to a chorus of cheers.

  By the time I get to the club door, I feel marginally better. Without slowing, I put out both hands and shove, hoping some bodies fly on the other side. They’re shifters; they can handle it. Sheridan in the house, bitches. And studs.

  As I slam my second door of the night, everybody in the dark space turns. I stand with hands on my hips, a queen surveying my new kingdom, giving everyone a chance to take me in.

  I’ve outdone myself with my outfit. I’m in a corset dress with a tiny tulle skirt, which showcases my fantastic bust and hips and hugs my waist. The lace of my stockings tops my knee-length New Rock boots. More punk than biker chick, but it works. I brought them with me on a wild hair, thinking that this trip away from my dad and pack might give me more chances to party. The boots are perfect for the fight club—steel-toed and satisfyingly heavy. No way am I breaking another heel in this pit.

  I head straight to the bar, and everyone shifts out of my way. A harried-looking young man rushes around behind the polished wood, tossing my jacket onto a shelf beneath the counter. Without a word, I head to the sink and start washing glasses.

  A few minutes later, the rushed bartender appears at my elbow. He’s dark and slender and smells faintly of fur. Jaguar, if I’m not mistaken. “Hey, I’m Luka. Can you pour?”

  “Nice to meet you, Luka. Yep, I’m here to help.”

  “Thank the fates. William Wolf, neat. Cheetah at the end of the bar.” He points out the whiskey bottle and the customer before rushing off.

  I grab a clean glass and the correct bottle, and strut to my first customer, a burly biker-type. His eyes fasten on my upthrust breasts and he stills. I smile. I smell a good tip.

  My eyes settle on a tall, tall guy a few feet behind him, and my smile widens. Grizz the grizzly bouncer stares at me, then shakes his head and turns away, rubbing his head like it pains him. He doesn’t come over and throw me right out. Good sign. My plan is working: get in, get behind the bar, and get people to talk about the leeches and their potential drug dealing.

  So far, so good.

  “You worked here long?” my customer asks, still staring at my chest. He looks a bit dazed. I tilt the bottle and let whiskey flow, leaning forward a little to give him a better view. I’m not about to let my best assets go to waste.

  Then I see him. Standing next to Grizz, chin down, eyes ice, face frozen. Trey Robson watching me flirt with a club patron, and he can do nothing about it.

  My night just got better.

  “Just started, actually,” I say. “Am I doing a good job?” I shrug my shoulders and his eyes follow the movement of my breasts. I knew this corset was a great idea.

  “Uh, huh,” the Cheetah murmurs. “I think I’m in love.”

  “Mmmhmmm,” I murmur noncommittally. A wave of scent hits me, like the first wave of rain, hard and potent. I’d recognize this scent anywhere.

  Trey storms towards me, thunder in his expression and lightning in his eyes. He’s filled out since high school. Now he’s massive as a mountain and beautiful as a god, and every molecule within me quivers as he closes in.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Slinging drinks.” I pretend to be unaffected by him, even though every hair on my arms stands up, electrified in his presence. Bowing my head, I putter around and search for a cocktail napkin.

  “We need more napkins,” I tell Luka as he rushes past. Meanwhile, Trey looks like he’s about to explode and rain fire down on the premises.

  Excellent.

  “You said you needed a bartender.” I polish a few glasses briskly, my smile turning cool.

  “I was just showing her the ropes—” Luka offers, and falters when Trey turns on him with a stormy expression.

  “Office. Now,” Trey orders me. His big hand closes on my arm, but I shake it off, giving a thumbs up to poor Luka as I head to the back.

  As soon as I’m inside, Trey gets in my face. “What the fuck are you doing back here? I tell you to leave and you show up to serve drinks?”

  “Can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.” I shrug. Yes, it’s a calendar quote.

  “I know you’re spying on us.”

  “Yep. Like my disguise?” I prop my hands on my hips and do a Wonder Woman pose that shows off my girls. Trey’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. Poor guy, he’s never seen me like this. After we broke it off, I had to let my wild side out somewhere. Can’t do much under my dad’s nose, but once in awhile, I like to dress up and party, and when I dress up, I do it right. Sexy clothes, crazy makeup, outrageous shoes—like Halloween. I run around looking like a slutty extra from The Rocky Horror Picture Show, howl at the moon, and stuff it all back down into a suit when I head to the office on Monday.

  “No,” he lies. The hunger in his eyes says otherwise. “Sheridan, what the fuck are you wearing?”

  “This?” I fiddle with the satin ribbon set neatly between my breasts. “Just something I had on hand. Should be good for tips.”

  His eyes fix on my fingers a moment. “You can’t wear that,” he rasps. He drags his eyes away, rubbing the back of his neck with a big, tattooed hand. His fingers twitch. I wish he would touch me.

  “You told me to wear a skirt,” I say in a saccharine voice. I know it’s stupid, but I press closer to him. The peaks of my breasts are dying for stimulation, but when I brush against his hard chest, it only amplifies need through the rest of my body.

  Trey’s eyes flare but he doesn’t back up. His head drops so his lips are an inch from mine as he growls, “If you’re bartending, I’m your boss.”

  “Oh and you have a dress code?” I give the piles of papers on his desk a scathing look.

  Trey rears back, shoulders shrugging as he removes his jacket. His arms come around me and he tucks me into the heavy leather. “We do now.”

  I open my mouth to make a smart-aleck comment about ‘dress code’ and ‘discrimination’ and ‘HR’, but I can’t talk about company policies when his lips are close, so very close to mine.

  His jacket is still warm from his skin. Not about to mention I left my own jacket behind the bar, I pull his tighter around me and shiver. The world falls away until it’s just me and Trey in this black box. No space, no time, just a heady scent rising between us and his dick prodding my belly. Yes, please.

  Then he clears his throat and takes a step back.

  What? No!

  “Thanks for helping out. Luka’s wanted us to hire help since the night crowd picked up.” He walks to to the door and holds it open without meeting my eyes. “I’ll let you get back to it.”

  I’m frozen, too shocked to even glare at him. I strut in here like a goth’s wet dream and he’s just gonna...pass?

  Not that I expected him to pull me in here, strip off my naughty outfit, and fuck me against the wall. I did not want that. No way. I learned the hard way that Trey’s a player.

  I stand there, biting my lip, and after a few seconds I realize I’m staring at his belt. Specifically, several inches below it. Several looooong inches.

&
nbsp; “Fuck,” Trey growls, and stomps off, leaving me even more horn-gry.

  So. Very. Horn-gry.

  * * *

  Trey

  I step straight into the walk-in cooler. Maybe it will chill me the fuck out. Seriously, I am not going to make it through this night. Sheridan Green dressed like a playboy bunny hopping around Fight Club?

  My wolf is growling.

  He wanted me to claim her back in high school, and I never did. Every damn time we had sex he wanted to mark her. But we were just kids, and she had a bright, shiny future waiting for her. I wasn’t about to saddle her with my sorry ass before she even graduated high school.

  Probably the only reason I didn’t go moon mad was because I was still growing. My hormones weren’t those of a fully grown male yet. I didn’t reach this height and size until long after she left for Stanford.

  Long after she got us thrown out of the pack.

  I have a full-on boner from our interaction back there, but my chest’s tight, too.

  Being this close to her, seeing how her wolf still responds to mine—it makes the loss of her so fresh. She was beautiful as a teenager and she’s a fucking knockout now. Like a thirteen on a scale of ten.

  I pop the top off a beer—yes, it is a Wolf Ridge pale ale—with my teeth and guzzle half of it down.

  Jared walks in and stops when he sees me, then leans a broad shoulder against the walk-in door and chuckles. “You gonna survive this?”

  “Fuck, no,” I spit out.

  He jerks a thumb toward the club. “Did you hire her?”

  I chug the rest of the beer and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “I was kidding! I didn’t think she’d take me up on it. I also told her to get the fuck out and never come back, but she didn’t take that part seriously, did she? Fuck.”

  Jared’s expression grows serious. “What’s she doing here?”

  I meet his eye. “You know.”

  “Spy?”

  I nod. Emmett Green has been sending spies since the day he threw us out on our asses. Hell, Garrett’s second, Tank, was originally a spy send by Alpha Green. He didn’t think we’d survive on our own. Big packs brainwash you to believe that—shifters have to stick together or they won’t survive—that kind of bullshit.

  The Wolf Ridge pack never imagined we’d land on our feet. But all the young pups left with us—they’d follow Garrett to hell and back. After the charges were reduced to misdemeanors, we moved to Tucson. Garrett got us work flipping houses. We put in sweat equity and started making money fast. Once Alpha Green saw we were a success, he ponied up investment capital. Now Garrett owns half the real estate downtown. Take that Wolf Ridge brew-fucks.

  “She’s got her eye on Fight Club?”

  “Says she can shut me down.”

  “What a bi—” Jared swallows the rest of the word when he sees my expression.

  Even after everything, I never let them talk shit about her. In fact, she became an untouchable subject around me.

  She may have ruined our lives, but I know her actions were born of pain. I ruined her first. She was only fighting back the one way she could.

  And while part of me is still pissed off that she didn’t know me better—didn’t keep believing that I’d never willingly hurt her—I know that’s bullshit. I made damn sure she’d walk away from me and never look back.

  So I guess we’re probably even. Or at least I thought we were.

  But her showing up here and throwing her weight around—squeezing her body into that depraved fucking outfit?

  I have to question her motive. Is she looking for revenge? Or does she just want to rub my nose in what I missed? Because I sure as hell don’t get the peace and reconciliation vibe from her. Unless this is foreplay to her and she’s hoping we can wipe the slate clean with an epic fuck session.

  Well, if so, I’m in. My wolf’s been in since the moment she breezed into town.

  I toss the empty beer bottle into a recycle bin and walk past Jared. He thumps me on the back. “Stay strong, man.”

  Yeah, right.

  Resisting Sheridan’s an impossibility. At this point, it’s just a matter of how soon I get her pinned beneath me. And whether this time she’ll escape my mark.

  Chapter Five

  Twelve Years Ago

  Sheridan

  I haven’t seen Trey all week, which is beyond strange. He’s never given me any reason to feel insecure about him. About us.

  In fact, since that night on the beach when I made the first move and plunked down beside him at the fire, all his focus has been on me. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t hang with his buddies, Garrett and Jared, but that’s usually if I’m too busy.

  This week, though, he’s been working on motorcycles and hanging out at Garrett’s every day after school. He told me he wouldn’t be able to give me a ride home today when I ate with him at lunch, and he’s been distracted and quiet—not that he was ever Mr. Talkative.

  It’s Friday night and I text him after dinner. A bunch of kids are going up on the mesa to drink and hang out. It’s the usual weekend scene and if he and I don’t do something just the two of us, we often meet there.

  Me: You heading to the mesa?

  Trey: Nah, I have some shit to do.

  My stomach knots because I sense the lie straight through the screen. He’s never lied to me before. Never been anything but up front. Why would he? Does this have something to do with selling dope for Garrett? Maybe they’re in trouble. I’ve never liked that Garrett, Jared and Trey are the pot dealers for Wolf Ridge and the nearby ‘burbs like Cave Creek and Scottsdale. It’s sort of that thing we’ve tacitly agreed not to speak of.

  Yes, they are wolves, which means human dealers and potheads would have a hard time hurting them, but a bullet to the head would still kill a wolf. And they’re not above the law, either.

  And with Trey’s history—after what his dad did—he’d be out of the pack in the blink of an eye if the cops ever pulled him in for anything at all.

  Because I’m not one to just roll over, I call him on it.

  Me: Why don’t you tell me what’s really up?

  Trey: …

  He doesn’t answer for five minutes. Then:

  Trey: Meet me at our table.

  I know what table he means. The picnic table where we first made love. I grab my purse and head out, my heart thudding. I imagine all kinds of bad scenarios—Trey’s already been caught by the cops and no one knows, they’re being hunted by a dealer, someone’s hurt.

  I drive straight to our picnic table and find Trey already there. He’s looking over the side of the mountain toward the city. The sunset casts pink and orange hues over the earth, reflects off the Saguaro needles, making them glow.

  Trey doesn’t turn around, which shoots another spike of fear through my chest.

  I walk to stand beside him. “What’s up?”

  “Hey.” He doesn’t turn to look at me.

  Goosebumps stand up on my arms. What in the hell could be so wrong?

  “Trey, what’s going on?” I demand.

  His throat bobs in a swallow. “I think we should see other people.”

  Air comes out of my lungs in a choked laugh. Not that I think he’s joking. Not at all. It’s just so far from what I expected that my body chooses the wrong reaction.

  “What are you talking about?” My voice cracks. I ball my hands up because they’re shaking so hard I don’t know what to do with them. I want to punch him, to push him down the hill. To make him take it back.

  “Yeah. You’re leaving at the end of the summer, so I just figure we should cut our losses early. I’m ready to play the field again.”

  “Play the field?” My brain can hardly compute his words—they are so out of character. Trey never was a play the field kind of guy to begin with. This makes no sense.

  “Are you trying to make sure I go to Stanford?” I croak.

  He turns, finally looking at me, and I swear I see nothing but pure agony
in his gaze, but just like that, it disappears and his expression hardens. He shrugs. “You’re going. I’m seeing other people. That’s how this works.”

  I stumble back.

  This isn’t Trey talking.

  Not the Trey I know.

  Trey would never be so callous, so cruel.

  “It’s for the best, Sheridan.”

  I shove him. “Just tell me what this is about, Trey. Tell me.”

  Pain flickers over his expression. His lips tighten before he opens them to speak. “I’m letting you go.” He flips his keys around his finger and walks to his motorcycle.

  I run at him, shove him from behind. “You’re fucking everything up!” Tears choke my voice, spill hot down my cheek.

  He bows his head, barely turning his face toward me. “I know.” His voice is so quiet, a human ear wouldn’t hear the words. Before I can answer, he’s on the bike and moving, away from me.

  Away from us.

  Away from everything I thought had meaning.

  * * *

  Present

  Sheridan

  “You okay?” Luka asks.

  I set down the bottle with exaggerated gentleness even though I want to yell and scream and cry. It’s amateur night at the club, and a bunch of biker cats surround the cage, yelling for or at one of their friends. Trey’s nowhere to be seen. Since our meeting in the office, he’s avoided me.

  And even though I’ve spent the night peering into dark corners, looking for evidence of vampire/drug activity, I’ve seen nothing. Not even a flash of fang. I’m busting my hump pouring drinks and laughing at lame pickup lines, and I won’t even have something to report to my pack. I need a t-shirt: I visited Shifter Fight Club and all I got was beer spilled on my corset dress.

  “Fine.” I smile a little when he pours me a shot. Luka’s not a bad shifter bartender—a job that requires finesse and speed and a sense of shifter politics, particularly when dealing with drunken, fight-ready big cat bikers. But he really can’t make change. He’s desperate to keep me.