Prickly Business

by Piper Vaughn

  “Pray tell, why are you here? Not that I don’t enjoy the view.” He ogled Avery.

  Dylan growled, and Victor laughed, obviously baiting him.

  Avery started talking before Dylan could lose his temper. “I’m looking for information.”

  “Oh? What kind?”

  “I need to know about a missing girl, Lacey Acker, and a possible sex trafficking ring. Can you help?”

  Victor lifted a shoulder beneath his white suit jacket. “I might know a thing or two. But it’ll cost you.”

  Avery nodded, unsurprised. Of course it would. He and Dylan had both anticipated demands for payment. It was why Dylan had insisted they stop at the bank before the meeting. “How much?”

  Victor eyed him like Avery was Little Red Riding Hood lost in the woods and he was the Big Bad Wolf preparing to take a chomp. “You could come work for me.” He leered and laced the word “work” with so much suggestion Avery would’ve had to be blindfolded and deaf to miss his meaning.

  “I don’t fucking think so,” Dylan snarled. His voice sounded thick, as if his teeth had lengthened, a clear sign he was on the verge of a shift.

  Avery squeezed Dylan’s arm, praying for him to be calm. He hadn’t quite understood how much Victor got under Dylan’s skin before now.

  Victor laughed again. “My, my. Down, killer.”

  “Sorry, Vic.” Avery kept his tone light. “I already have a job. But if you’ll take cash, maybe we can work something out.”

  Victor shrugged. “One thousand.”

  “Five hundred,” Dylan snapped. Victor opened his mouth, looking like he’d refuse, but Dylan continued before he could speak. “Five hundred and I won’t tell the alpha about your little setup here. I’m sure he’d love to hear about everything you’ve been doing.”

  A long, tense moment passed as Victor stared at them, narrow-eyed. The guard behind him pulled aside one of the bottom flaps of his jacket, revealing the butt of a gun in its holster.

  Finally Victor spoke. “Show me the cash.”

  Dylan pulled an envelope from his back pocket and withdrew several bills. He held them up for Victor to see. Avery knew he had more in the inner lining of his coat. Dylan had withdrawn two grand, just in case.

  Victor held out a hand. “Give it over.”

  Dylan shook his head. “Not until you tell us what info you have.”

  Victor sighed and rolled his eyes. He gestured for his guard to step back. “I’ve heard some stuff about a sex ring, but this is Portland. No shock there. There’s been an increase in activity lately, though. I’ve caught wind of an influx of teenagers being pimped on the streets, and about some private auctions and parties happening in the suburbs. You can buy anything you want. Boys, girls—for a price. Word on the street is there’s a demand for rarer features. People putting in requests. Redheads, green eyes, that kind of thing.”

  “What else?” Avery asked. “What about Lacey?” She had auburn hair.

  Victor shrugged again. “Don’t know. I can’t give you specific details. I don’t deal in people. Despite how it might appear, I do have some morals.”

  Dylan snorted and mumbled something indistinct.

  Victor ignored him. “I can direct you to someone who knows more, but it’ll be another five hundred if you want his name. I wouldn’t suggest tangling with him, though. His people aren’t as nice as mine.”

  Avery shuddered at the memory of his wrist snapping in Josiah’s grip, of his fear and panic as he ran through the woods. As if sensing his distress, Dylan turned his arm and linked their fingers together.

  Dylan tossed the cash onto Victor’s desk. He stood, pulling Avery up with him. “We’ll be in touch if we want his info.” He turned to leave the room.

  “A pleasure, boys,” Victor called after them. “Always happy to help a fellow shifter.”

  Avery nearly snorted. Yeah, for a fucking price.

  “I trust my activities will remain between us?”

  Dylan didn’t answer Victor. He strode into the hallway, hauling Avery behind him.

  Avery tried to free his hand from Dylan’s hold. “Wait. Don’t you think we should get that guy’s name? What if—”

  “No.” Dylan’s tone said he wouldn’t brook any further argument. He seemed so close to the edge Avery didn’t dare protest. All they needed was for Dylan to snap and rip Victor’s throat out. Then they’d both be killed. Dylan might be the strongest wolf there, but they were outnumbered, and Avery knew he’d be Dylan’s vulnerability in a fight. Best to let it go. For now.

  Avery let himself be dragged from Victor’s house.

  “JESUS FUCKING Christ.” Dylan stretched his arms above his head and yawned, his jaw popping. The tilting motion had his office chair reclining. The thin padding, far from comfortable to sit in for long, suddenly seemed as inviting as a makeshift bed. He was beyond exhausted. Keeping his mate distracted was a full-time job on top of his actual fifty-to-sixty-hour a week job.

  Dylan exhaled and closed his eyes. Just a few minutes of peace and quiet. Enough time to catch a quick nap. That’s all he asked.

  A bass chuckle sounded to his right, and Dylan cracked his eyes only to close them when he spied Lucas. A grunt was his response.

  “Your little hedgehog wearing you out?”

  “You have no idea,” Dylan deadpanned, sucking in a deeper yawn. Never thought he’d need a nap this early in the day.

  It wasn’t all bad. Shit, it wasn’t bad at all. Avery was his porn fantasy come to life and then some. He was so goddamned passionate, throwing himself into every part of their newly forming relationship full force. And the sex was…. Well, it was perfect—hot, dirty, and plentiful. Beyond all of Dylan’s expectations.

  The whole situation was his own fault and he knew it. It didn’t help that Avery wanted to talk about what had happened with Victor, but Dylan wasn’t ready to go there. Wasn’t sure how he felt about it. Not yet. What he did know was, having Avery out there hunting down a guy worse than Victor himself left Dylan queasy. It was the only reason he hadn’t pushed for the name yet. He worried too much about Avery rushing in and getting hurt.

  He had nothing to complain about, except that was exactly what he was doing. He needed sleep. He’d even settle for an hour or two if that’s all he could get.

  Fucking Victor and his fucking offer to help if Avery would work for him. Work for him. Like Avery was his plaything, or could be. The slick bastard was lucky Dylan hadn’t broken his nose and simply offered him the money instead. Christ. What the hell was Avery thinking getting involved with that slimy asshole? And that wasn’t even what pissed him off the most.

  Standing in the middle of Victor’s turf with the dickhead leering at his mate like he was a plump, juicy T-bone ready to be tossed about like a free-for-all, it was the first time it hit Dylan how afraid he was to lose Avery—to Victor, to his parents, to the life he used to have. His mate. His. His other half in every way.

  Dylan was trapped. Never mind his hesitancy to solidify their mate bond, he wasn’t sure he could be anywhere else but at Avery’s side voluntarily.

  The hell if he was going to put a name to it. That was too much… pressure.

  Fucking fate.

  Lucas’s loud snort ripped him from his thoughts. “That good, yeah?”

  Another grunt came from Dylan’s throat because, yeah, it was better than good, but he’d be damned if he discussed the boneless way his mate moved, with the grace of a dancer, or the way he surrendered every bit of himself to Dylan, like he trusted him with his very soul. Jesus. His cock gave a hard throb behind his zipper.

  Lucas inhaled, smelling Dylan’s arousal, and laughed. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “Fuck off, Luc.”

  “Hey, don’t get all broody with me. You’re the one getting laid on a regular basis, remember? Isn’t that supposed to put you in a good mood?”

  “My mood is fine, dick. What do you want?”

  “Nothing. Just checking on, erm, thi
ngs. Have you thought anymore about talking to Victor’s dude?”

  Yes, he had. Every day since they’d walked out of that place. He knew his mate, and Dylan had no doubt that he’d rush in all half-cocked, demanding answers to questions that bordered dangerous territory. Enough so that it could get him killed.

  Dylan couldn’t have that. The thought of losing Avery left him breathless—and not in a good way.

  He loved Avery’s passion and persistence. It made him as beautiful inside as it did out, but he wasn’t indestructible, and Dylan couldn’t seem to get that through his hard head.

  After the meeting with Victor, Dylan had needed somewhere to cool off. Victor had intentionally needled him, and fuck if he didn’t fall for it, but the thought of Avery within reaching distance of that asshole made Dylan’s skin crawl. So after he’d fucked Avery into a coma and left with too much nervous energy to sit still, he’d come to the shop. Working on the Flathead soothed him in ways he couldn’t explain. Not that Avery didn’t soothe him. Fuck, Avery was becoming everything, but sometimes Dylan needed the monotony of building a bike to blank his mind.

  Lucas had been there, heard him banging around and muttering to himself. He’d waited quietly until Dylan had spilled his guts in the emptiness of the shop—Avery’s investigation, the meeting with the alpha, the warning from the detective, and Victor’s offer. Son of a bitch.

  Lucas cleared his throat, and then Dylan was back in the here and now.

  He sighed. “Yeah, man. Of course, I’ve thought about it. Fucking can’t sleep thinking about it.”

  “What about this other guy? Victor’s contact?”

  “Don’t know. Not sure I want to. If Avery knows who the guy is or where he is, he’ll want to find him.” The idea of Avery facing a thug even Victor was afraid of weighed like lead in his stomach. “Not happening.”

  Lucas shrugged. “Don’t tell him.”

  It was a good thought, but…. “I like getting laid—thank you very much.”

  His best friend laughed. “Yeah, yeah. I don’t blame you. That little hedgehog is pretty, that’s for sure.” At Dylan’s growl, Lucas held his hands up, fingers splayed. “Whoa, calm down, Kujo. It was an observation. I’d never poach what’s yours.” Lucas narrowed his eyes, a calm smile still plastered on his face. The wolf never lost his cool. “You know that.”

  He exhaled a long, heavy stream of air. Then another yawn caught him by surprise. “Fuck, I know. I know.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “Dude, it’s just—”

  “He’s yours. Don’t worry. I got it. It’s fun to push your buttons.”

  “Hmm… I wouldn’t let Avery hear you talk about pushing my anything.”

  Lucas smirked. “I’ll keep that in mind.” But the teasing lilt in his tone told Dylan that his friend was planning to see how far he could take it the next time he was around Avery.

  Your funeral.

  “I’m just saying,” Lucas said, dropping all pretense of levity, “find out who and where this guy is, go talk to him, find out what you need, and then tell your mate. Hell, we’ll go with you.” He motioned to the doorway of the office as if the rest of Dylan’s crew were standing right outside the door. They probably were.

  The idea had merit. Avery would have his balls for it, but… well, they already belonged to him anyway. And in the end, Avery would be safe.

  Dylan held back another yawn. “Fuck, fine.” He picked up his phone from the desktop. “Might as well get it over with.”

  Then he needed a nap.

  “SNOWFLAKE?” KIRK laughed, as he threw his leg over the tricked-out, solid-black Softail—damn, it was a beautiful piece of machinery. “The name of the guy who cows the big, bad Victor Llewelyn is Snowflake?” When he pulled his flat black helmet off and shook out the dark curls underneath, Dylan could see he was barely holding back the majority of his humor. His face was beet red.

  “Fucking Victor,” Dylan groused under his breath but not quietly enough, since the rest of the guys busted out into a chorus of loud, raucous bellows of laughter. Even Sawyer was chuckling and that took a lot.

  His lips twitching as well, Dylan turned around to scope the neighborhood. King neighborhood wasn’t the best part of the city in daylight—not even remotely—but after dark it was rough, gritty. Not a place he wanted Avery near. Ever.

  Then he turned to assess the building before him. Dylan imagined it had been a thing of glory in its heyday—two stories, large, a Victorian structure. What had once been baby-blue paint with white trim had faded into spotty, chipped grayish-blue with dirt-colored trim. All of the windows were broken and boarded up. The porch leaned to the left giving the house a lopsided look. It didn’t speak of residents looking to socialize. Shit, Dylan was surprised the door didn’t have a Condemned notice nailed to it.

  “Kirk,” he said, without looking at his crew. “Keep lookout here.” When Dylan spoke, his friends listened. He did the same for them. It’s why they were family. “Luc, Sawyer—with me.”

  Dylan headed to the door.

  A cold gust of wind whipped around them like a warning as they stepped on the front landing. One Dylan wouldn’t heed. This asshole—Snowflake—didn’t scare him. Dylan could handle himself. What scared him was the thought of his mate attempting to find this guy on his own. That forced a chill up his spine. Dylan was cutting that off before Avery even got the idea in his thick head.

  The door, a weathered piece of wood, barely stood on its hinges. No sense in knocking. Not that Dylan had expected to walk up and ask to speak to the Lord of the Manor.

  Too late he realized he didn’t know what Snowflake looked like. Without hesitation, he pushed through the door. There was no delicate way to go about this. Bowling over the first few guys that came at them, he fisted his hand into the T-shirt of the next guy to attack, a young, scrawny, coffee-skinned kid, his long limbs flailing and battering against Dylan’s hold. The lighting wasn’t the greatest in the dingy hallway, but from what Dylan could tell, the kid’s amber eyes didn’t hold any fear, only anger and stubbornness. Good.

  “Snowflake.” Christ, Dylan wanted to kick his own ass for saying the dumbass’s name aloud. “Where is he?”

  The kid tilted his chin defiantly and still nothing came out of his mouth.

  Dylan shook him slightly. “Look, kid, I’m not going to hurt you.” Not that he couldn’t. He glanced back at the three guys passed out on the floor, then back at the kid. Dylan’s strength far exceeded any human’s. He just didn’t want to hurt the kid. “I only want to talk to your boss.”

  The kid still wasn’t talking, but Dylan didn’t miss the flick of his gaze at the stairway. He wasn’t sure if the young thug didn’t realize he was giving Dylan exactly what he needed or if he was purposely telling him. Whichever. It didn’t matter as long as he found the guy.

  Shoving the kid away, Dylan led the way upstairs, mindful of the missing boards and wobbling banister. The disrepair of the house was as bad on the interior as it was on the exterior. He wasn’t so sure it wasn’t a crack house. It would be his first and hopefully last to ever see. On the upper floor, the mauve and flowered wallpaper peeled at the corners and seams, rolled up and barely covered sheetrock long ago molded black. The planks of the landing on the second floor creaked and threatened to drop him and the guys back to the first floor. They kept to the sides of the hallway. It seemed more stable there. Not that any of it felt safe. The landing was long, narrow, and as dimly lit as the main floor. Six doorways—three on the right and three on the left—lined the hallway. It was almost… spooky.

  Sensitive to most noises in wolf and human form, Dylan picked up the sound of squeaky springs and what sounded like a bed knocking against a wall. Dylan smirked back at Sawyer, the usual scowl on the man’s face softening with a twitch of the lips.

  “If the bed’s a-rockin’,” Lucas singsonged.

  With a shake of his head, Dylan twisted the doorknob and walked in, no fanfare needed.

  The room match
ed the rest of the house—peeling yellow-and-cream striped wallpaper, loose boards, and bare except for the box springs and mattress in the center of the wall opposite them. And the couple fucking away on that bed.

  There’s nothing like walking in on a lily-white ass midair, and a woman striving for the fakest orgasm known to mankind… or womankind. Some things couldn’t be unseen.

  “Oooh, Snowflake,” the chick moaned, breathless and with all the enthusiasm of a bored housewife. “You know how to—” Then she cough-belched.

  Jesus, even calling out the name while fucking sounded ridiculous. Sawyer and Lucas both snorted. Dylan rolled his eyes and cleared his throat.

  Halting his forward thrust, Snowflake changed directions and swung around, a Glock pointed at Dylan’s chest, likely retrieved from under one of the stained pillows.

  This he hadn’t anticipated. Why? He couldn’t say. It’s not like he should’ve expected anything less from human thugs. He’d kick Lucas’s ass for the spur of this moment idea later. Truth be told, things like this happened to too many shifters—relying to their superior strength, speed, and senses. Not taking into account the involvement of actual weaponry. Despite myths and the many tales that romanticized werewolves and shifters in general, silver didn’t kill a werewolf unless it did irreparable damage to vital organs. Being shot could mostly be healed, but sometimes it was an iffy thing. Although there was no coming back from a head or heart shot.

  “Yo, D,” Sawyer said low enough that Snowflake wouldn’t hear. “We’ve got company.”

  Dylan nodded. Lucas and Sawyer wouldn’t make a move unless they were threatened or given the signal.

  Three clicks echoed in the silence as several of Snowflake’s men flanked them from behind. And they all had guns.

  Fuck. Wolves could outrun a lot of things. Bullets weren’t one of them.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Snowflake spat, twisting a sheet around his waist, the aim of his weapon never faltering. He ignored the woman on the bed, splayed and naked to the world—not that she looked like she held any interest in the change of events. She rolled over, and a second later Dylan heard sawing snores.