Between Two Wolves and a Hard Place: (BBW Paranormal Shape Shifter Romance) (Honeycomb Falls Book 4)

by Cassie Wright

  Instead here I am driving home, tears streaming down my cheeks, with Marv back in our hotel room, no doubt calling hookers to come celebrate with him. Worse, mingled with my shattering hatred is shame. Humiliation. My mind keeps shying away from this one basic truth: Marv would never have gotten away with this if I had been a better businesswoman. If I had taken the time to read the small print. I can blame him, but in the end, the real fault is mine.

  Which is why I slow down as I drive by Fool's Gold, my old hangout bar from the summer before I left home. I almost can't believe it's still open, its yellow neon sign lighting up the night. Reflexively I press down on the brakes and pull over onto the side of the road. I stare at the bar's reflection in my rearview mirror.

  I don't think. I do a U-turn and pull into the parking lot. There's a decent amount of cars there. I park next to a beat-up pickup truck and kill the engine. Wait. Should I? You can't revisit the past, can you? I used to come here with Dean and Drake, my two best friends during my teenage years. Right up till everything went bad, and we stopped talking. Right up till I fled home for that glassblowing workshop in Venice.

  So many memories. I get out of the car and shiver, hands thrust in my coat pockets, shoulders up by my ears. It's early spring, which means there's still a mean chill in the night air. I can hear muffled music. Borne along by nostalgia as much as anything else, I cross the parking lot to the door, and pull it open.

  I can almost see my teenage self right before me. My curly brown hair wild and untamed, laughing and wearing the cowboy boots that were my call sign that summer. Dean and Drake right behind me, grinning, ready for another wild night.

  Or as wild a night as you could pull off in these hills.

  I smile wistfully and enter, moving to the bar. The owner, Max, went for the Alaskan theme in a big way, and everything is made of varnished wood. A huge stuffed polar bear stands in one corner, and black and white photographs of 19th century gold diggers are framed on the walls. Two pool tables are set in the back, and a small stage is raised off the ground in one corner.

  "Evening," says the bartender, and I feel a flash of disappointment when I don't recognize him, followed immediately by amusement at my own ridiculous expectations. He's a good-looking guy, his smile practiced and easy. "What can I get you?"

  I almost ask for five shots of tequila, but at the last second I smile and say, "A beer and a shot, thanks." Then I sit on one of the stools and simply look around. A tapestry of memories appears before my eyes. Memories I've forgotten, suppressed, even. These past few years everything has revolved around Iron and Roses. My travels to different workshops. My laser focus on my art. I've had no time for my past. No time for the difficult feelings, the pain and raw emotions I ran away from. Thoughts of Dean. Thoughts of Drake.

  I'm halfway through my beer, having washed down my shot, when the front door opens and three people enter. Something about them draws everybody's eye. Two men, one woman. All of them are breathtakingly attractive. Now, I've been in my share of fancy New York restaurants, bars, and clubs. I've seen models walk in through the door, seen how they draw people's eyes. But this is different. These three are more than just attractive. There's something predatory about their intensity. Something dangerous. And - something familiar?

  The man in front is tall, broad-shouldered, his hair shaved close to the scalp so that it's little more than a dark shadow. His face is ridiculously handsome, almost harshly so, his eyes brooding and dark. I feel a flush of desire. He's wearing a black jacket over oil-stained jeans, a white shirt hugging his obviously muscled torso.

  Just one step behind him is a taller man, thick black hair falling to his shoulders, square-jawed and pale-skinned. His eyes are a searing blue, the kind of blue you only see in the hearts of glaciers or the bottoms of California swimming pools, yet there's something kinder about him, his expression more open, less guarded than the first man. And oh. He's just as smokingly hot, with large, strong hands, and oh-so-kissable lips.

  I can't breathe. I get that tunnel-vision thing, where the rest of the bar seems to recede, and all I can see is these two men. I faintly register the gorgeous woman standing behind them, but I can't tear my eyes off their faces. Then they turn. And look at me. And their eyes go wide with surprise.

  Oh shit.

  Dean and Drake.

  I spin back to the bar, heart hammering like a crazy asylum inmate trying to break free. The bartender looks at me in surprise, and I raise a finger. "Tequila," I whisper. "Please. Now. Double."

  I take a long pull from my beer. I can escape. Forget the tequila. I can just sprint to the ladies' room and escape out the window. Would I still fit? I've put on a little more weight since the last time I used that window to get away. I take another gulp from my beer, and then take my shot and throw it back, wincing and chasing it with the rest of my beer. Please no. Not tonight. Not now.

  Back in the day, when Dean, Drake and I were inseparable, I developed the ability to sense when they were around. I could tell when one of them came up behind me. It became a game - they would try to surprise me, and I'd always turn at the last moment, knowing one of them had crept up on me.

  I lower my beer. That sixth sense hasn't left me, it seems. I can feel them both stepping up to me. I bite my lower lip hard enough to wince, wish I could dash to the bathroom at the very least to check my hair and makeup, and then sigh and turn around to face them.

  There they are. My childhood werewolf friends. Dean's glaring at me, while Drake's smiling, and of course Drake speaks first. "Kiera?"

  I raise a hand and give a little wave. "Hi." Oh, how they've grown. How many years has it been since I saw them last? I do the math: one year in Venice, two in Seattle, three in New York. Six years.

  Dean's voice is hard. "What are you doing here?"

  I raise my chin. "Actually, I was enjoying a beverage." I take up my beer and turn it around as if to read the label for the first time. "Heineken."

  Dean's face darkens. Some things never change, it seems. Even during our golden summer, he was prone to bad moods, imperious and tempestuous.

  "Hey," I say, peering at his neck, where I can see ink spiraling up in a gorgeous design. "Is that a tattoo?"

  Before either man can speak, their companion steps forward, insinuating herself between them and sliding her arm through theirs. "Dean? Drake? Who is this?"

  Something about her voice rubs me the wrong way immediately. There's a calculated and utterly false tone of lightness to it. She's tall, statuesque even, with gorgeous ash brown hair falling down her back to the small of her spine. Her face is that of a model, her lips bee-stung, her eyes almond shaped and mesmerizing. She looks like a Hollywood actress, and I immediately feel dumpy, fat, and awkward in comparison.

  Dean's still glaring at me, as if my presence here at Fool's Gold is a personal affront, so Drake answers. "This is Kiera."

  "This is Kiera?" Her tone of incredulity is so insulting that my eyes go wide and I have to restrain my impulse to wallop her across her pretty-model face. Ooh, a thousand insults come flashing to my mind. My mother always told me to bite my tongue, to not give in to the impulse to cut into people. Just as I resolve to take the high road, she turns to Dean.

  "Funny. I thought she'd be prettier."

  The tequila must have hit. That and the exhaustion, anger, bitterness and shame all come together in the worst possible way. I came in here to find a little respite from the cruelties of the world, and instead I get this?

  I take my beer bottle by the neck and smash its base against the corner of the bar. The glass shatters, sending the last of the beer splattering, and I raise the jagged edge to the woman. "Glass knives, bitch. Get the hell out of my face."

  Absolutely everybody in the bar is staring at me. I see a large man from beside the door begin to hustle over. I only have eyes for the woman, whose eyes have gone wide. This she clearly didn't expect. Then, to my horror, she leans forward with a wicked smile. "You don't have the balls to cut me
. Do you, Kiera?" The way she says my name is so derisive and mocking that I see red.

  "You know, normally you might be right. But tonight? Bad call." Part of my mind is screaming at me to stop, to put down the beer bottle, to act like a sane, rational person. But that part is currently very small and completely overwhelmed by the uncivilized, crazed, grief-stricken and slightly drunk part of me that has just been pushed over the edge. Marv. Iron and Roses. Dean and Drake. My loss, my pain, all of it comes together and finds focus in this woman's face. I draw back the broken bottle and swing, intending to rake it across her chest.

  Dean stops me cold, his fingers clamping around my wrist with iron strength. I glare at him, and his gold eyes are flared wide. Oh god, I forgot how beautiful his eyes are. How utterly captivating. I just stare into his face, the woman temporarily forgotten.

  "Drop the bottle, Kiera." His voice is tight. Commanding. Absolute.

  I do so. There's no winning against Dean. I learned that early on as a kid during wrestling games that always ended up with my being pinned underneath his muscled body, my chest heaving for breath, and him smiling quietly, not even having broken a sweat.

  I open my fingers, and the bottle falls to the floor.

  "Let go," I whisper, and slowly he does so, one finger at a time. I snatch my wrist back, rubbing at my skin.

  "Well," says the woman, smirking. "This has been... interesting. Dean. Drake. Shall we?"

  I stare at her, eyes narrowed. "Who the hell are you?"

  "Oh, haven't you heard?" Her smirk turns into an innocent, wide-eyed look. "I'm Leena. I'm going to be mated with Dean and Drake."

  Her words hit me like a fist to the stomach. Just as she knew they would. "Mated?" I turn to Drake, who's scowling. "Seriously? With her?"

  Leena straightens. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  The bouncer very, very carefully interjects. "Ma'am? I'm going to have to ask you to leave." With Dean and Drake there, he's not about to throw his weight around.

  Drake turns to the bouncer. "I got this." He looks to me. "Kiera. I'll see you out."

  Dean's already turned away, walking toward a booth in the back, Leena hanging off his arm. No goodbyes. I stare at his back and sigh, all the fury draining from me. My head is spinning. I feel exhausted. "Fine," I say, then dig two twenty-dollar bills from my purse and throw them on the bar as if I'm rich. I get off my stool and stride out the front door, ignoring the stares and whispers that follow in my wake.

  The cold air hits me like a tonic, helping to clear my mind. I take a deep breath and turn to stare at Drake, who steps out after me. We simply look at each other for a long, aching moment. I want nothing more than to step forward for one of his amazing hugs. Back in the day, he always played the peacemaker between Dean and me. I loved him just as much, but in a different way - Dean was dangerous, intense, unpredictable, while Drake was perfect for geeking out with over our favorite TV shows or simply grabbing a coffee at the Gypsy Cafe and kicking back.

  "Leena?" I search his handsome face. "Drake, you have to be kidding me."

  His expression hardens. Apparently that was the wrong thing to say. "Go home, Kiera."

  I've already put my foot in my mouth. Shoving it a little deeper at this point won't hurt. "Drake, but why? Why her?"

  "Why Leena?" He takes a step closer, and I'm reminded that while Drake was always the friendlier of the two, he is still most definitely a werewolf. I have to fight to not take a step back. "You don't get to ask that question. You don't get to ask anything. You left us, Kiera. You left, and you never came back." His voice is as cold as wind blowing off a glacier. "Go home. See your parents. Do whatever you came back to do. Then get the hell back to New York, and quit pretending you care."

  I don't know what to say. My mouth opens and closes. Drake shakes his head. "Drive safe," he says, voice bitter. Then he turns and strides back into Fool's Gold, leaving me devastated and even more alone in the dark parking lot.

  Chapter 3

  I drive up to my parents' house. I want nothing more than to sneak in the kitchen door, creep up the stairs to my old bedroom, and slip under my comforter and forget about the world. But as I kill the car headlights, I see that my dad's sitting out on the wrap-around porch, smoking his pipe. I sigh. It's not that I'm not happy to see him. It's just that I'm more than ready for this day to end.

  I climb out and close the door, and he looks over at me without surprise, almost as if he's been waiting for me to arrive. I walk up the path to the porch steps and smile at my dad. He's got a plaid blanket over his lap, a mug of something at his elbow, and looks so familiar and wonderful that I feel tears prickle in my eyes.

  "Hello, Kay." His voice is worn and soft like suede, and at the sound of his nickname for me, the tears overflow and I rush up onto the porch to kneel by his side and bury my face in his lap. "Hey, now," he murmurs, running his hand over my head. "Are you that happy to see me?"

  I laugh and sit back on my heels. "Oh, Dad." I don't know where to begin. There's a knot the size of a tennis ball in my throat. He's wearing his half-moon glasses, and there's a depth and wealth of kindness and wisdom in his face that smoothes over all the jagged edges of my life. I'm home. It's as simple as that, and for the life of me I can't remember why I've stayed away.

  "Everything's gone all wrong," I say. Tears well once more. "Everything."

  The one thing that always infuriated me as a child, but which I've come to cherish as I've grown up, is my dad's complete lack of judgment. I've never heard him condemn anybody else. Never heard him cut somebody down, or talk behind somebody's back. His eyes express his doubts, his misgivings, but his mouth, never. I remember telling him about Marv, trying to make my new boyfriend sound absolutely amazing, and seeing that look of doubt in my dad's eyes. I felt a chill, but I did my best to forget it. Now, kneeling before him, my heart broken and my life ruined, I look into his eyes and see no judgment. Just love.

  He reaches down to the boards by his side, and pulls up a second mug. I'm almost surprised, but my dad's always had this sixth sense. What I get in little touches here and there, he's lived with powerfully all his life. A presentiment of things to come. I know better than to ask how he knew I'd be coming home tonight. He simply did.

  "Here," he says, handing me the mug. He lifts his own. "Hot chocolate. Now tell me. What happened?"

  I cup my hands around the hot ceramic, and of course it's my favorite mug, tall and extra large, its surface covered with glazed rainbow colors. I take a sip. It's delicious.

  "Marv stole Iron and Roses from me." My voice is small. "When I restructured it for tax purposes? He changed things so that he gained a controlling interest. And everything I have belongs to the company. My apartment. Even my car. And, Dad." My outrage swims back up, weak and diluted, but still there. "He's going to sell my art for absurd prices. He's going to get rich over my art, and there's nothing I can do about it."

  "Hmm," rumbles my dad, and he sucks on his pipe. He leans back in his rocking chair, and blows out a cloud of aromatic smoke. "Would you like me to ask Mr. Hanscomb to get involved?"

  Mr. Hanscomb is dad's friend and attorney, in that order. An incredibly elegant and intelligent man, he's luckily had to do little work for my dad, but I know he'd be more than willing. "Sure," I sigh. The thought of legal battles exhausts me. I force myself to rally. It's exactly this disinclination to attend to details that got me into this mess. "Yes, please."

  "All right. I'll call him in the morning." My dad sucks on his pipe once more, and we sit there in companionable silence. I can feel myself slowly relaxing. It's weird to be sitting on this porch in my gallery dress. I feel like I should be in jeans and an old shirt. I sip on my hot chocolate, gazing out into the dark woods that surround our home.

  "Whatever course Mr. Hanscomb advises you take, this process is going to take awhile. Nothing moves fast in court." My dad's voice is soft. "What are you going to do in the meantime?"

  "What am I going to do?" I ask the qu
estion of myself, wanting to laugh. "I don't know. My plan was to come home. I hadn't thought beyond this point."

  "You're obviously welcome to stay for as long as you like." He's watching me over the top of his glasses. Rocking gently. "Perhaps a little down time would do you good."

  I immediately think of Dean and Drake. Of Leena. Being back in Honeycomb Falls might be more challenging and difficult than I imagined. "Yeah, maybe." A wave of depression washes over me. "I've got nothing left. All my art. All my work. It's all tied up with Iron and Roses." Years of struggling and creating. Gone.

  "You've still got your talent," says my dad. "Nobody can take that away from you."

  I want to protest, to say something nasty about myself, but I can't look in my dad's eyes and voice my self-pity. So I sigh and nod.

  "One way or another, everything is going to work itself out." My dad's smile is almost apologetic. "I know this isn't comforting to hear, but you're still so young. You've got your whole life before you. However big a speed bump this turns out to be, nothing will hold you back, Kay." His smile becomes wry. "Nothing ever has."

  I laugh and look down. "Yeah, maybe." The thought of kicking around the house for a few days, eating my mother's food and walking in the woods, sounds good. I'll avoid the wolf boys, keep my head low, and once I've caught my breath, then I'll head back to New York and face Marv. "Thanks, Dad."

  He leans forward and pulls me into a hug. "Welcome home, Kay."

  A feeling of warmth and security steals over me. I hug him tightly, and then stand. "I'll see you in the morning."

  "Sure thing." He looks back out at the dark woods. "Sleep well."

  I smile, then let myself in through the front door. For the first time all evening, I feel a mixture of resignation, peace, and contentment. I'm finally home.

  Chapter 4