Breaking the Alpha Beast

by Ana Felix

  If she hadn’t experienced the partial and complete transformation of Ian l’Argent from man to beast, Claire might have rolled her eyes and issued a derisive snort at such a theory. Instead, despite some residue of incredulity she offers a hopeful expression. “Well, I doubt that we can confirm that I’m related to this witch by researching on Ancestry.com…but I think enough evidence has been revealed that this might be true.”

  “No further research of your family tree required, of course,” Ian says, shaking his head with impatient exasperation. “I know it’s true—there can be no other explanation.”

  “I don’t meant to play Devil’s Advocate, but what if it isn’t true, and that I can’t help you in the long run? What if I’m merely a pebble in the road that stops only one wheel from moving forward?”

  Ian favors Claire with a lop-sided grin. The other persona briefly emerging. “Well, dove, there is only one way to find out, isn’t there? As we say in the biz, we may need a few more repeat performances to learn what works…and what doesn’t.”

  Claire reflects Ian’s smile in kind. “I think we may have a telepathic connection because I just read your mind,” she says as she unzips Ian’s jeans. His cock is already pressing its way through the partially open fly. She spreads the fabric apart and curls her hand around the thickening shaft. Ian’s prick, dark with blood, curves upward in her palm.

  Ian leans backward, pulls his shirt off and tosses it to the floor as Claire grabs the waistline of his jeans and tugs the pants until they’re off and laying beside his polo shirt. She sits up straight and quickly removes her own clothing: shirt, cut-offs, and underwear flying in different directions over the back of the sofa.

  Claire bends toward Ian’s crotch, but he grasps her shoulder and gently pushes her away. “No, it not about that. I’ve got to taste you first, then enter you. Sorry if it sounds a bit clinical, but there is an order to this ritual.” He leans forward, puts his palms upon her knees and eases them apart. He kisses each kneecap as he slides his hands down her thigh toward her groin. This simple movement deeply arouses her and her head lolls back in a slow, dizzying swing and she releases a weak moan. She scoots back upon the sofa, rippling her spine and pelvis, offering Ian her cunt.

  Claire feels her wetness trickle from her sex and into the crack of her ass, soon to form a musky puddle on the seat of her Scotch-Guarded leather sofa. She watches with lidded eyes Ian’s dark head bobbing between her thighs, hears a voice that is not quite her own: “It’s time.” She knows what this means.

  Claire draws her legs up in a reclining squat. Her voice is breathless with pleasure and desire. “You have to make love to me,” is all she can manage to say. She parts her thighs and takes him into her. Ian eases into a rowing rhythm, drawing his cock half out of her before driving all the way in. Claire grinds her pelvis to match thrust for thrust.

  Before they can finish Ian rolls Claire on top of him and she leans forward, pumping him as if she’s grown a penis of her own. She imagines she is a jockey riding a thoroughbred or trying to remain atop a bucking bull. She feels the anxious heaviness of a climax building deep inside her, an undulation traveling from her G-spot to her clitoris. In a nanosecond of delicious suspension, they both come together in tandem, bursts of orgasm exploding between them as if their groins are fused.

  Claire collapses upon Ian’s chest, hairs tickling her cheek and ears. She listens to his heart beating a staccato rhythm beneath his chest plate. He is still inside her. She clamps her vagina around his cock, releases, then clamps again. She feels him swell and harden and press against the tumid bean of her G-spot.

  They make love again and again.

  * * *

  Ian and Claire have had sex in every room in Claire’s condo: dining room table, kitchen counter, a bathtub (bad idea, they decided) and finally Claire’s bed.

  The sheets are twisted tight as cocoons, damp with sweat and kicked to the end of the mattress. They are lying on their sides facing each other, fully sated. Claire feels chafed and sore, but the ache is a pleasure in itself. When much time has passed between gym workouts, the resulting soreness in her muscles means the exercise was effective. She decides her coitus with Ian is no different: a good kind of soreness. She reaches out to stroke Ian’s temple at the hairline and twists a strand of dark hair round her finger, rubbing one curl with the flat of her thumb.

  “So,” she says, a loose smile curves her lips. “Ready for a nice hot shower?”

  Ian’s eyes twinkle with unspoken mischief. “We must shower separately, you know.” Winks one eye at her. “Else we’ll never leave your condo.”

  “And that would be a bad thing, I gather.”

  “Well, eventually Monday shall arrive and I suppose it would be quite…unprofitable for us to remain here in our little utopia.”

  “Ah, yes,” Claire says as she rolls onto her back and stretches like a contented cat. “One has to leave one’s domicile in pursuit of the ‘almighty dollar’.”

  Ian frowns in mock cuckold. “Hmm. Seems I’ve heard that paraphrased somewhere…”

  Claire grins at the ceiling. “When it comes to clichés, plagiarism is completely acceptable.”

  Ian rolls over on his back and puffs a forceful sigh between his lips. “Ah, Monday. So…what happens tomorrow?”

  “What do you mean?” Although, she admits to herself that she does know.

  Ian turns his head to look at her, then twists on his side and props his chin in his palm, elbow braced on a pillow. “It’s obvious that the dynamics of our…relationship…have changed. I’m now convinced that whenever we make love my lycanthropy will continue to shrink—to nothing eventually, I hope. You’re my chemotherapy, Claire—without the side effects, of course.” His eyes twinkle again. “I also know that love is part of the chemistry that makes it work, facilitating the cure. I hate sounding like a sopping romantic, but damn it, it’s the truth. I’ve lived with this bloody curse for most of my life, frightened of falling in love with anyone—afraid I’d rend them to shreds one day. As I mentioned before, I constructed barriers by developing this aloof and conceited persona: the dark and mysterious rock star. A recluse, actually. But that’s not who I really am. The only good to come of this damnation is that it delivered you to me.”

  Claire blinks, quickly then slowly. She is relieved that Ian has spared her from making that declaration first. She’d never really been in love with anyone before, only infatuated—often inspired by sexual attraction and the resulting horniness. But when she’d met Ian l’Argent face to face a thing was triggered deep inside her, but she’d decided that a combination of libido and physical attraction were to blame. Now she knew this was not the case at all.

  “Well…” she says, hesitant, trying desperately to stifle the burst of a giggle. Something in her psyche always seems to conspire to embarrass her in serious situations. Since early puberty a serious face could inspire a spontaneous chortle, causing the serious person to take offense. She still hadn’t outgrown that personality flaw. “I must confess that I share the same feelings, and I have to admit that my failsafe is to find every fault and flaw in the person I’m crushing on. Obviously, this defense mechanism failed once I met you. Initially, I tried to think of you as a jerk, but in my heart I knew it wasn’t true.” Pensively nibbling on her lower lip, she continues, “But here’s the thing. What about your performance on stage? It’s wholly dependent on your halted transformation from man to wolf. I’m thinking it’s all about the authenticity, even though you’re probably capable of acting like a semi-werewolf—if there’s such a thing.”

  “‘Semi-werewolf’—I rather like that term,” Ian says, a grin crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Fuck the ‘performance’ rubbish. I’m sick of the whole act—in fact, I’ve desired to quit this freak show since after the first few of years of it. I don’t need the income—I’ve got millions, here and offshore, to last several lifetimes if it came to that. Plus, I’ve been wanting to sell this mansion and move ou
t of L.A. altogether. I’m sick of the posturing, the selfie sticks, the duck lips…the whole ruddy lot of it. Perhaps I’ll move back to England…or build something rustic in the Pacific Northwest, surrounded by primeval ferns and conifers. I don’t require 80 degree temperatures and constant sunshine on my back.” Ian stops abruptly, smiling calmly as if reprogramming his rant. “Sorry for all of that, but I’ve only been able to yell at four walls as if I’ve lost my chum. All things considered, I’m hopeful you would join me in my new life.”

  “I’ll go anywhere with you; I think you must know that by now. I’m prepared to follow you to any of the moons of Jupiter—even the one with all the volcanoes. But seriously. What about your relationship with Mal Tranter? To put it bluntly, you’re his major cash cow. He won’t allow you to quit.”

  Ian sits bolt upright in bed, forearms resting on his bent knees. “I’m not going to worry about Mal Tranter at all. The bugger doesn’t own me, never did. I signed a contract long ago, but I understood every word of it. Had a solicitor with OCD look it over twice before I signed it. I can buy my way out of that contract at any time. So, what about Mal Tranter?”

  Claire leans into Ian, grazing the small of his back with her fingertips. “You know it’s more than about the money for Mal. He loves being in control of people. I may have only worked for him a few months, but you don’t need a degree in psychology to see that the man is a power-hungry egotist. And as for money, he stands to accrue a lot more it over time: the performances, the albums, the merchandising. You’re still young enough and so are your fans. I’ve read his contract with you and I know that he receives a huge percentage of the profits. He’s not going to be happy with a measly seven-figure buyout—not when he can triple or quadruple that amount in the next few years.”

  Ian feverishly runs his fingers through his hair and dips his head just below his knees. When he sits up again he tosses his hair back and rolls his shoulders as if centering himself. “Bollocks! I know you’re right. But really, what can he do to me? He can’t sue me because I’m offering to pay him to release me. I must do this. I want a life—a normal life, however long I’m supposed to live.” His words end in a choked sob and a single fat tear slides down his cheek to land on the sheets between his legs.

  Claire cradles Ian’s jaw between her hands and turns his face in her direction. She stares closely into his eyes and frowns. There is a ring of dark blue outlining Ian’s tawny irises, and another blue ring edging his pupils. She hadn’t noted this change when she’d looked in his eyes hours ago.

  “Ian,” she says slowly. “Something’s happening to your eyes—the color is changing. It’s subtle, but it’s changing. It’s really happening.”

  TEN

  Mal Tranter is only half listening to Ian l’Argent. He’s drumming his fingers on his knees over and over, an obsessive nervous habit since childhood. All he’s managed to process is “…quit…contract buyout…moving out of Los Angeles…” and all he can think of are the potential millions of dollars lost over time because this spoilt brat wants “a life.” As if Ian doesn’t already have a life most people would want. Well, except for the werewolf thing, of course. But, Mal thinks to himself, there are many who would gladly live with lycanthropy if millions of dollars came with it.

  “Excuse me,” Ian says, rapping his knuckles on Mal’s desk. “Are you even listening to me at all? What the hell? All you need to know is that I simply don’t want this imitation of a life rock star bullshit any more. Never wanted it. I could have just remained in the family castle and secretly rotted away with this curse. But now I have a chance to actually live and all you can do is worry about the lucre you’ll lose without my help.”

  “Ian,” Mal say calmly, folds his hands on his desk, clutching them tightly together. “Let us be reasonable about this fanciful notion you’ve got in your head. This curse-breaking sex you’re blathering on about—how do you know it’s even permanent?”

  “I dunno. I don’t claim to be an expert. But who gives a shite? You don’t give a crap about my happiness, that’s fucking clear. I understand that you don’t really have my best interests in mind, only your bank account matters. Well, I’m offering you whatever you want—you can have half my money if that’s what it’ll take to be done with this.”

  Mal shakes his head, closing his eyes patiently as if speaking to a recalcitrant child. “Now, Ian, you know it’s not all about the money. Surely you don’t want to disappoint your legions of fans. Like it or not, you mean everything to them. They worship you!”

  “Oh, come on! They have plenty of mp4 downloads in their iPods to listen to and DVDs to watch my videos endlessly. They’ll move on to someone else—perhaps a vampire next. Who gives ruddy shite.” Ian stands up, pushes the chair aside and looks down at his manager. “I’m through discussing this. It’s decided: I’m leaving this town and I’m taking Claire with me.”

  Mal gives Ian a lopsided grin and narrows his eyes, snorts derisively. “And you really believe you’ll shag Ms. Pomeroy into a normal life for yourself? That’s absolute rubbish. I would think you’re smarter than that.”

  Ian grins in kind and leans forward across the desk, puts his face directly before Mal, who leans back a little. “Look at my eyes. See anything different? Of course you do—don’t deny it. The amber is leaching away. My eyes are returning to the color I was born with. Yes, I was born with blue eyes that changed to dark gold after I hit puberty. And these are NOT colored contact lenses, by the way, in case you’re wondering.”

  Mal laughs, slaps his desk. “And that’s your proof, is it? Eye color change. Hmm. So, what lycanthrope expert did you manage to consult about this? Grow up, Ian. Really.”

  Ian straightens up, arches his back, turns to grasp the door knob. “You know, I don’t fucking care whether you believe me or not. The decision has been made and you must honor it. My personal solicitors shall draft an offer and have it on your desk on the morrow.”

  Mal Tranter watches Ian quietly shut the door behind him. After past arguments the rock star would slam the door so hard the locks might break. The “new” Ian l’Argent, Mal thinks to himself. It was his own fault. He was the one who found and recruited Claire Pomeroy to be his assistant. He was the one who ordered her to submit her cunt to Ian’s taste test. Mal covers his face with his palms and massages it from jaw to hairline and back. If just one of those stupid East Sussex girls had been a match… But he was desperate and rash, didn’t want to cancel a concert. Now that action will cost him dearly. He knew Ian’s solicitor would itemize his relationship with Ian down to the penny. They’d buy him out for a paltry low seven-figure sum, when he stood to earn three times that in the next five years alone.

  All because of that auburn-haired bitch. Had she planned all of this? Who knew. What he does know is that he needs to get rid of her. Only one full moon left, one more concert. Tonight. He has to do something tonight. If he waits another full cycle the curse that is Mal Tranter’s bread and butter will be gone—assuming he buys into this story. But he can’t afford to discount it; he is running out of time.

  He must get rid of Claire Pomeroy tonight.

  Mal calls in one of his young interns. The girl who enters his office has dyed blue-black close-cropped hair, nose ring, eyebrow piercing and tattoos on her bare shoulders. Typical, Mal thinks, rolling his eyes a little. Imitation goth.

  “Yeah…I mean yes, Mr. Tranter?” She’s chewing gum, rolling it around in her mouth like it’s tumbling around in a washing machine. He quickly fantasizes slapping the gum out of her mouth.

  He hands the girl a company credit card. “Here, take this and go to a Target or whatever and buy a size Large track suit.”

  “Umm…for yourself?”

  “No, in Ladies or Women or whatever. For a female.”

  “Okay. But…do you want workout wear or a fashion track suit kinda thing?”

  “For running along a canyon trail or something. Use your judgment.”

  “Color prefer
ence?”

  Mal glances down at his desk and rapidly scratches his forehead with the tip of his index finger. He wants to strangle this little mutant. “I don’t bloody care about the color—pick whatever you like.”

  “What about running shoes…?”

  “Oh, right.” Claire is a tall girl, big boned—probably a size eight or nine shoe, he guesses. “Pick shoe sizes from eight to ten. And I don’t give a shite about the color.”

  The girl smiles brightly. “Okay! I’m on the case!” Then, just as she turns to open the door, she whirls back around. “Oh, is this a gift for someone? Maybe I should pick up a card, too.”

  Damn it. He hadn’t thought of that. What a clever alibi, though; a point for the pierced and tattooed millennial mutant. “Well, yes, actually. An athletic niece. And I’d forgot her birthday, reminded by Facebook only this morning. Pick a card, whatever you think appropriate—she’s about your age. Don’t worry, I’ll handle the post.”

  “No problem! I’ll find a cute card and wrapping paper and…”

  Mal smiles tightly, closes his eyes and nods. “Just go, thank you.”

  When the door closes, Mal Tranter leans back in his chair and sighs. He knows he may be making another big mistake, but desperation is to blame once again and he is bound to deal with it.

  * * *

  “You told him? How did he take it?”

  Claire is with Ian as he conducts sound checks. She should be in her office instead of following Ian around the concert hall, but she is afraid to confront her boss after Ian’s bombshell. Ian seems happy to have her company and the crew notices his change in demeanor. Instead of dark glowers and monosyllabic replies, Ian favors them with genuine smiles and jovial banter. Claire watches as they look at each other and shrug their shoulders behind his back. They are clearly flummoxed by the change, but seem quite pleased with it.