Greyriver Shifters
KRISTINA WEAVER
Copyright © 2018
All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. All characters appearing in this work are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to events, businesses, companies, institutions, and real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
BOOK ONE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
BOOK TWO
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
BOOK THREE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
BOOK FOUR
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
BOOK FIVE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
BOOK ONE
Chapter One
Meek
The coffee shop is doing a pumping trade by the time I’m four hours into an eight-hour shift that includes an extra four afterward—thanks to all the time off I took last week to go and see Mom in the nursing home.
I’m so tired I can barely conceive that I’m still standing, but I hustle out from behind the counter and shake a leg towards the front, where my section is crammed full of customers yelling at me to bring more sugar, milk, and cake.
Leave it to Bess to choose today to set up her “specials” campaign—a free slice with every large coffee that is bought—because damn, I am pooped already and I still got another eight hours of this shit before I can drag my ass home and start searching for Daddy’s old buzz saw to lop off my feet.
“Yo, Meek! Table four is complaining about time!” Bess yells, as I pass by, my arms groaning under the weight of a tray laden down with so much cake and coffee I am convinced I’m going to look like a body builder by closing time.
“I only got two hands, Bess! It’s been like three minutes!” I yell back, thanking God I braved Bess’s ire and put on a pair of sneakers instead of the heels she usually insists we all wear.
Holly stumbles by me, wobbling precariously in her four-inch heels and rolls her eyes, the bright blue marbles making me giggle when they almost reach the back of her skull.
“You tell that bitch! I lost a tip cause some asshole in my section was crapping himself over a two-minute wait. What’d he think? I got the coffee machine resting on my fat ass just waiting for him to roll in?”
I giggle and hear Bess cackle before the two of them start arguing in Spanish. Yeah, Bess is that kinda boss. She’s a ball buster for sure. Hell, she kicked me in the vagina one time just to prove that balls aren’t the only thing that can make a bitch win a fight, buuuuut, she’s more of a mom to us than an actual boss, which accounts for the fact that I’ve had this job for four years now.
Look, ain’t no one ever gonna keep my snarky ass around for that long unless she loves me, and even I’m big enough to admit it. I’ve been working for Hot Buns since I just barely scraped through senior year after Dad died and Mom went into her depression.
This job saved my ass, literally, when we had to bury Dad and Mom went all catatonic on me. Most days, I’m grateful as hell, seeing as I make enough on tips to afford a place with Holly and Jo—roomies are great, and even better when their half of the rent means I won’t be homeless—and I also scrape enough together to keep Mom in the assisted-living place.
“Meek! Goddammit! You’ve been standing there for a full minute all spaced out, girl! Get your ass moving and deliver that coffee! Table seven just filled up.”
I snap out of my waking sleep and sniff, throwing Bess a filthy look before stalking toward my table and delivering the order, letting Mister Impatience know I don’t appreciate his attitude with a look meant to kill.
Jesus, I hate college guys and their bimbos, and I hate them even more when the little shits sit at one of my tables, all puffed up with a false sense of self-importance. These kids are all daddy’s little demons, spoiled, bratty, and so high on the easy life that people like me are amusement.
“Oh, come on now sweet peach, I was just teasing.” The blonde behemoth I’ve been sneering at for the last half hour crows, grinning when he runs his meaty paw up my thigh while his friends laugh and hoot. “How about I sweeten that sour up some and take you out?”
I groan internally and keep my face devoid of all expression before turning to stare directly into his eyes, my entire body poised for all-out battle if this little shit doesn’t get his filthy act together.
Swear to God, some days—like today—I so hate being pretty.
Yeah, yeah, I get how that sounds, and yes, sometimes I can be a vain sow, but it’s just a fact, I ain’t bad looking. I have blonde, waist-length hair that is thick and shiny—thanks to Mom’s lessons on hair care when she was still lucid enough to be my mom—and eyes that are neither green or blue or grey. They’re…arresting, I guess you could say, and yeah, I get that guys like how I look.
Personally, I could give a crap since my looks don’t do jack but get me harassed by little assholes like the one I am now dealing with. Pros and cons. I swear, on days like these, I wish I looked like Amanda Plummer, or that weird chick from “Teachers”.
“Get your hand off my ass, college boy.” I warn, swiping at the offending appendage with a frown while pursing my lips and despising the short skirt and tight tank top that Bess makes us wear.
He chuckles, setting off the hyenas beside him, and I feel my hackles rise a little more when what is obviously his next girlfriend-wannabe scowls and gives me a disparaging once over.
“Troy, come on, I thought you said you were done slumming.”
Okay, now see, I should totally not even imagine myself popping her eyeballs out of her pinhead and smashing her face into the table a few…hundred times, I can’t help but think.
Problem is, I inherited my dad’s temper, and right now I feel as if my head’s about to blow off when she sneers at me and lets out a soft giggle.
“I mean, look at the size of her ass!”
“Cindy, stop being an idiot. Guys like big asses.” He laughs, making her scowl even deeper and hiss at me beneath her breath.
The din of the coffee shop is almost enough to drown out the insults—it’s so busy—so instead of standing around and taking the abuse and contemplating how I’d afford to keep Mom in her home if I slam a spoon into Troy’s eye—big ass, my…ass—I decide to smile, turn on my heel and walk away, not giving a shit that Troy keeps calling me back or that I’m liable to lose the tip I so badly need.
“Christ in the manger! I hate college kids. I really do!” Holly yells, as I pass her on my way to the table that just filled up.
I roll my eyes and grin, shaking back a laugh when she starts muttering French curses under her breath on the way to her own table of hell. This next group is…
All male, but for one tiny little redhead seated among them, and Jesus—I say it with a Mexican accent because I so do not want to go to hell for blaspheming—they are all so good looking that I stumble a little before reaching the table.
The first guy, directly to my left is…hot. Look, it’s clichéd to use that word when drooling silently, but there’s no other way to say it. He is so good looking with a head full of coffee brown, thick, lustrous, totally shiny…he’s got great hair, okay?
It’s all messy, sexy messy, falling around his face in one of those celebrity styles that men wear and can never pull off. This guy pulls it off. Hard. The sides are shaved shorter with the top just sort of falling in this messy, glossy sweep that reminds me of that guy from that Haven movie. Hot. His eyes are silver grey, intense and so mesmerizing it takes me a good long minute of totally inappropriate staring just to get my fill.
The rest of him is perfect, and I usually don’t ever think this when a guy is stacked with muscle and tall enough that I won’t reach his nipples, but it’s true. He looks like he could bench press a two-hundred-year-old tree trunk and not break a sweat.
Beside him sits the redhead, and she’s tiny in comparison. She’s got grey eyes, too. Her face is perfect in that poreless, peaches-and-cream way that only the super-rich can afford to achieve.
Something about her, maybe her kind smile, makes me feel immediately at ease. It’s only because of that smile that I don’t turn and run when I scan over the other occupants of the table.
Three more men sit around her, almost as if protecting her and caging her in, but these three are all completely different from hottie number one. They’re blonde, green eyed—except for one—and not as intense looking, as one of them proves by smiling and clearing his throat politely while my own hottie just glares and scowls at me.
“Morning, sweetheart.”
I clear my throat, finally snapping out of the “oh my God, I am so wet” daze I almost slipped into, and turn to stare at the blonde, begging Jesus not to let me blush when I feel embarrassment scorch my cheeks.
“Uh, ahem, good morning. My name is Mika. I’ll be your server today. What can I get you folks?”
“Just five large coffees and some of the pecan pie.”
“Um, okay. Yeah, uh, are you aware of this week’s special? Customers get a slice of cake with every large coffee. The flavors are on the card by the sugar shaker,” I mumble, doing my best not to look at the dark-haired man again—because if I do I won’t be functional.
The man smells…amazing.
I can’t describe what he smells like, but it’s just…good. So good—in fact—that I feel my sex clench and throb, heating so fast I almost gasp when intense and immediate arousal hits me.
I have never, ever felt this way before, not to this degree, so I’m holding my breath to stop a pant, as I swallow and keep my thighs squeezed tightly together, doing my best not to make a fool of myself by melting into a puddle.
My heart is hammering in my chest, my palms are sweating, and if that isn’t bad enough, when I slowly and silently let out a breath, I almost moan when that scent hits me again.
Oh sweet, sweet Jesus, help me.
My breasts, now tingling and heavy, go tight at the tips, and the heat between my legs goes molten, as arousal gushes a stream of moisture where my panties meet the heated throb at my core.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I do not ever feel this way. Never.
Not even that one time I went to a party with Holly and that model hit on me.
Jake was more than good looking. He was built like a wet dream and nice and, and all I felt when he offered to take me to dinner was a fizzle of interest because I wanted to find out what shampoo he used on his hair.
“Mika?” the blonde asks, frowning when I blink and look back down at him, my mind foggy and fighting against images of hot, sweaty, naked bodies writhing together on a bed.
I have to fight to clear my mind and calm my breathing, everything inside me screaming out and yelling at me to look back down at the man to my left and never stop looking. It’s so intense I almost whimper, as I force my eyes to stay on the blonde, unblinking in case I lose control.
“Uh, yeah sorry. Um, so five large coffees? Would you guys like to order cake, or do you wanna forego the special for the pecan pie?”
The words feel like hot coals dragging up my throat because everything has gone dry the longer I stand here and pant like a dog out in the hot Montana heat wave.
Blondie narrows his eyes at me, glances at my—No, not mine! Bad Mika, bad, bad girl!—at the man and then seems to consider me for a long minute before grunting and pursing his lips.
“Pie.”
“Bear. Dammit.” The man hisses, his nose thinning for the split second I see him, before my gaze moves to…
Bear?
Oh my God, I think I just had an O! I love unusual names.
Bear grunts, gives me one flicking glance of irritation, and then turns away as if I’m not worth his while. His tone, though unpleasant, is a rich, deep gravel that makes the lust slamming through me all the worse.
Man. Man. Man.
The man is just so, manly, I think, swallowing on a groan when that smell hits me again, this time so strong that my knees threaten to buckle.
“Why are you being so rude?” the woman asks, throwing me an apologetic look before frowning at Bear.
“Jules, just order your pie an
d coffee and let’s go. I got things to do.”
“Things to do! You just wanna run back to your house and sit and brood about that whore-stain Hannah! Mom made things clear this morning, and by God, I am not going back home to tell her that you were out of your house for five hot minutes before slinking back into your stinking man cave to sulk! Jesus, Vazques! What is in Hannah’s crotch, gold?” she snarls, making me puff out a whining giggle when the need to laugh overcomes me.
With the amusement, a smidge of my arousal, thankfully, dissipates, and on the heels of that relief is a hurt I cannot explain. The devastation hits me so hard I can barely breathe. I’m practically blinking to stem tears that fire my temper anew.
I have no effing idea what the hell is happening to me, or why I feel as if my heart just shattered into a million pieces. But what I do know is that this, this Bear, is being a dick, and while my emotions are out of control, I am no weakling.
No one gets away with being rude to me.
Just ask Bess how many times she almost considered firing my ass and the point is made.
Bear’s head whips around at the sound of my amusement, and I school my face, wiping it clean of whatever the heck hurt is coursing through me. He scowls, his jaw clenching, and growls when I snort. It’s a forced sound since I’m on the verge of tears.
Must be my period, has to be, I tell myself, praying that it doesn’t happen in the next eight hours because my skirt is white and I had to wear butt floss this morning because I forgot to do laundry last night.
“You think that’s funny?”
I should really just walk away and put in that order. I know walking away would make things easier for myself and my now unmanageable body, but as his eyes meet mine, that silver grey swirling with an almost perceptible light, I find myself caught and desperate to stay just a moment longer.
Here. With him.
“Yes? Er, I mean, is that a confirmation on the pie? Okay, good.”
Trying to force my feet to move, I swear on my future offspring, I almost melt into a puddle of goo when he grabs my wrist to halt me, those eyes drilling holes into my face.
I should slap him silly, leave and tell Bess to prepare for another complaint. That’s me. I don’t take shit. Instead, I sigh when his skin touches mine and sparks of awareness tear through me.
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