She turned, ready to leave, ready to put this entire nightmarish scene behind her. More than ready to act as though she'd never set foot on The Honey Pot's front landing. Suddenly she was stopped, restrained. A hand, five fingers, had curled up around her thin arm, gripping her powerfully, and she froze, eyes wide, scared out of her every wit.
“Well, hello there, love... Spying on us, eh? Why don't you come on in for a drink?”
Her breath returned to her, and she could feel herself beginning to hyperventilate. But no matter how hard she tried to pull away, tried to tug herself free of the vice-like grip of the man inside, she couldn't manage to wriggle an inch. Or at least, not without his powerful fingers coming within a hair's breadth of snapping her wrists clean off.
The man yanked her inside, into what she assumed would be her final resting place. She screamed, fought, cried out in terror as she was escorted within feet of the two snarling grizzly bears, still clawing it out tooth and nail. She was spattered with blood and saliva, could feel their body heat and that of the men around her as the pub's bouncer persisted in pulling her on, on, on.
“No, please, stop! I'm not a spy! I'm not a spy! I swear to God, I'm just a delivery girl! That's all! A delivery girl, from... From... From...” Oh God, her mind was swarming, emptying- she couldn't even dredge up the name of her own damn workplace in the back of her mind.
The bouncer smiled at her forgetfulness, nodding. As though Elle, in her forgetfulness, had just proven his point for him, on no uncertain terms. “Mm-hmm... Mm-hmm... Very convincing, young lady... Why don't you and I head to the back, spend a little bit of alone time together. We'll see if we can't get you to remember things...”
Her heart was thumping in her head, her temples aching. In spite of herself, she turned her head back over her shoulder to peer at the brutality of the warring grizzlies. Ripping, shredding, attacking one another... Seeming as though at any moment the beautiful, horrible creatures may bring about one another's deaths. And it seemed preposterous that any fate short of this should lay in store for her in the back. That her alleged “spying” should be punished by anything less than death. The most brutal torture, she thought, was about the best she could hope for under present circumstances.
And the bouncer, his grip just kept tightening and tightening... And the eyes of the men surrounding her were leering at her, perhaps desiring Elle herself as much as her looming death. And the door toward which she was being paraded was getting closer.
A voice called out, devoid of brutality. Not to mention, seeming far more human than the chants of any of the other animalistic men surrounding her, wishing for the death of the bears. “Aye, Roland! What the hell are you doing, dude? Where are you taking that poor girl?”
Roland froze, then turned to face the man, who was sitting at the bar. Elle did as well, and her eyes went wide at the sight of him. He was... He was stunning, she decided, at first glance, and in spite of the terrors facing her. She couldn't explain it, really... How the hell he seemed to rob her of all fear, and put her at ease in spite of the dire circumstances facing her. He had broad, powerful shoulders, mussed brown hair, and a rather sly grin on his face. He seemed as though he was in complete control of his situation, not to mention whatever situation he happened to stumble his way into. And on either side of him sat two similar looking gentlemen, silent for the time being, but invested in the situation as much as himself. One was blonde, one had jet-black hair, and the three of them, standing side by side with one another, seemed like a matched trio.
And then, she noticed something else about the men. And at catching sight of it, she whipped her head around the bar, looking from face to face to face. And she realized that all of them, every last patron in The Honey Pot, shared this same, defining characteristic.
Gold irises...
So then, that must mean- and those grizzlies, fighting in the middle of the pub- but...
God, could it be? She'd always heard rumors about their existence, but never known them to be real... Could it be true?
The sight of the man at the bar, coupled with the sudden realization of his shared features with all those around him, stole Elle's breath away. But she was snapped back into reality by the harsh tug of her captor on her arm. He yanked her in the direction of the bar. Forcing himself, against his sincerest desires, to acknowledge the protest of the cheeky bloke beckoning to him.
Roland, apparently, was the man's name. “Poor girl...” he spat at the handsome stud, as though the notion was absurd. “This is no poor girl, my naïve friend... I caught her, sticking her damn nose through the door of the pub, peering in at us, studying us...”
“Yes!” Elle burst, at last speaking up for herself. She was, perhaps, fueled now by the presence of the stud at the bar, hoping to make a good impression on him above all else. It was peculiar, the way a person's head can work sometimes... “I was peeking in the door, because I heard the hellish noise of these two animals trying to kill one another! And by the time I'd gotten a good eyeful and convinced myself I wanted to get the hell out of here, I was just turning around to leave you in peace. Or whatever you want to call this...” She waved a hand at the sight of the two grizzlies duking it out, and as if on cue, one of them sank their teeth into the other. “But then you came and grabbed me, pulling me into the thick of it...”
“Animals!” Roland roared, as though this, of all that she'd just gotten through saying, was the only thing he'd picked up on. Elle recalled her hypothesis about what it was these men were. She realized, startled, that calling them “animals” might not have been the best choice. Or at the very least, it wasn't helping her much as far as the prospect of staying alive was concerned...
Throughout this exchange, the stranger at the bar had not once taken his gold eyes off of Elle, seeming to take her in from her head to her toes. He didn't believe Roland's assertion that she was a spy, or was up to any sort of treachery in her presence at the pub. But he seemed intent on figuring out just what it was she was doing here, so out of place, so vulnerable in the presence of all these violent men. And that was when he caught sight of the basket in which she'd transported the bread here. It was swinging from her arm, ready fall at any moment as Roland man-handled her. And everything seemed to click into place in his head.
“Roland, you paranoid bastard... All you've just managed to do is scare the baker's girl shitless... This poor creature is no spy, you asshole. Look under her arm!”
Roland seemed not to want to believe that he'd been mistaken. He snarled, lifting up the flap of the breadbasket, inspecting the wares concealed therein. Even going so far as to reach in and place his dirty mitts all over a loaf, squeezing it, ensuring that it wasn't made out of plastic or something. He still remained adamant in his assertions that Elle was some saboteur of the most devious nature.
“Clearly she's deceiving us... These are just... Decoys! I mean, they're real, but...”
“Damn it, you dumbass...” He could tell, it seemed, that talking sense into this man was as vain an effort as any. He decided he might be better off to try and get the answers he was seeking straight from the horse's mouth, as it were. He turned to Elle. “Miss, if I'm not mistaken, you work for Konrad's Bakery in town, is this correct?”
“Yes! Thank you!” said Elle, nodding. “Yes I work for Konrad! He's very busy this week, and he sent me to make this delivery on his behalf.”
Elle smiled over at Roland, as though gloating to him that she'd at last proven herself. And Roland, despite himself, seemed to realize his mistake- though he was far from about to admit it, of course. He gripped her tighter than ever now, almost in a fashion that was reactionary. He had nothing on her, nothing whatsoever. And he knew it, but his stubbornness, his resolve to pin some manner of treachery on her, was evident in his disgusted face.
The man at the bar, could see this, and he gave Roland a chastising look. “Now, Roland, let her go... I'm not going to ask again... Take your hands off this innocent girl, and go back to
your post like a good little teddy bear... Try keeping a lookout for something that might be of actual danger to us this time, like werewolves, hunters, vampires... And maybe, next time, you could let be the harmless looking young damsels armed with nothing but a basket full of bread.”
It was clear that Roland didn't want to let Elle go- he seemed to cling to her with an angry passion, in fact. But at last, it seemed as though he had no excuse for holding on any longer. His grip slackened, then slipped away, and Elle stumbled forward, longing to put some distance between the two of them. They glared at one another as Roland stepped back toward the door, pissed at her. And Elle, in turn, seemed a little bit contemptuous for all that she'd just been subjected to.
“That's a good boy,” said the man at the bar, once Roland was back out of earshot above the roar of the two grizzlies, still battling it out. And Roland, for the longest time, refused to take his eyes off of Elle.
“Aw, eff him,” said the man at the bar, waving his hand dismissively at the bouncer. “Come on, have a seat, love...”
Elle glared at the man for a moment. She was grateful, of course, for the helping hand out of that rather prickly predicament. But she still wasn't wholly sure she could trust him. In particular, in the event that he happened to be what it was she suspected him of being...
“I'm not a damsel, you know,” she said, dredging up what he'd said a moment before.
The man, for a moment, seemed to have forgotten what she was referring to. But then it dawned on him, and a smile stretched out across his lips in recollection. “Ah, I know... My apologies for that, miss... I didn't mean to offend or belittle... Roland, you see, he paints human beings with a broad brush. I just needed to appeal to the right sensibilities, in hopes of getting him to piss off. And it worked didn't it?” Elle didn't answer, still trying to get a read on this strange man- or half-man, rather.
“Marco, why don't you scoot down one, and clear a space for our guest, here? There, that's it... Come on, ma'am... Why don't you join us?” he patted the barstool. “Those beasties over there may bite, but we don't.”
“Oh- no,” said Elle shaking her head, but the temptation an inviting one. “No, I... I'm just here to make a delivery...”
“Oh, come now, love... After what you've been through? After that bastard ripped your little arm off? You have time for just one drink, don't you? Might ease you up a bit, relax you... I'd say that's something you could use, right about now?”
Elle's good sense would have prevented her from accepting such an offer. But she starting to feel something for this man, in spite of herself. She couldn't say with any real certainty what she might be about to get herself into. But she managed to justify it to herself with the excuse that, yes, she was feeling shaken up after the events of the last few minutes... And one drink couldn't possibly do anything but help, now could it?
And so, in spite of her own best impulses, she took a seat beside the man. She smiled, but still showed signs of confusion and uncertainty.
“That's a girl,” said the man, contented at her decision. And then he turned to the man behind the counter, whistling to him. “Seymour! One honey beer for my guest here, if you will... And put it on my tab, please. Also, she's got a delivery for you here, once you get her drink for her. Konrad's assistant, she says, says he's swamped with business and couldn't make it today.”
Seymour, an old man behind the bar with similar gold eyes but a much smaller frame, nodded at this. Then he went about preparing Elle's drink for her.
She was distracted, taking it all in, when the man sitting beside her caught her off guard, extending a hand. Once she came to her senses, she reached out a hand, and shook it, not wishing to offend.
“Name's Nate,” nodded the stranger, making himself known at last. He then proceeded to introduce his companions. “That's Marco.” (The black-haired man who'd moved, “Hello.”) And “That's Argyle.” (The blonde, nodding, “Miss.”)
“I'm Elle,” she said in return, nodding to all three of them, feeling strangely awkward.
Nate smiled at her. A moment of silence hung over them, heavy and uncomfortable, each of them seeming as though they were in need of something to say, but no words coming. Then Seymour appeared once again, setting a glass of frothy, honey colored liquid on the bar. Elle accepted, looking at the stuff.
“You say you've got something for me?” said the old man, continuing to hover, and looking at the basket, which Elle had sat upon the countertop.
“Ah, yes,” Nate answered for her, lifting up one of the lids so that the man could peer inside at its contents. “From Konrad's, a batch of fresh bread...” He paused, though, for a moment. Then he pulled out the loaf that had been squeezed by Roland. It was all squashed and decorated with a particularly grimy-looking handprint. “Mm, except for this loaf here... Pay the girl the full price for the basket, and just take this particular loaf out of old Smiley's pay over there... He's the one responsible for this particular mess...”
Seymour smiled, took the basket, and headed back into the kitchen for a moment to unload it. Elle heard the thud as he dropped the ruined loaf into the trash. A waste, she thought, but of course she had nowhere near the sort of nerve to say such a thing.
A moment later, the old man reemerged, payment for the loaves in trembling hands. Elle nodded at him, accepting the notes, and thanking him for his business. Then she brought the basket back down to her feet, out of the way for the moment. She caught Nate's eyes, staring at her, studying her for signs of something.
God, those eyes of his...
“Not thirsty?” he said at last, and Elle remembered her beer.
“Oh... Yes, I'd forgotten...” She turned back to the beer, staring into it, curious, but uncertain. She sniffed it. But then again, she'd already come close to getting herself killed once over the course of this delivery, hadn't she? So she figured there was no such thing as too much caution. Then she brought the mug to her lips, taking a generous swig of the stuff down her throat. She let the warm, foamy stuff heat her insides, sloshing down her throat in delectable waves.
“God... That's delicious,” she said, surprised, upon pulling the mug back away from her mouth. Not that she'd known what to expect, exactly. She wasn't much of a drinker. Not a teetotaler, nothing like that... But she had a preference for wine when she drank anything at all. Her only experience tasting beer had left her going away disgusted, the taste gross and uninviting. But this- this stuff was sweet, comforting... Cozy, she thought, if that was an appropriate term one could use to describe a flavor... “What did you say this was again?”
“Honey beer,” said Nate. His chest swelled with pride, as though he had been responsible for it's production. “It's a unique alcoholic beverage brewed by our kind...” And all it had taken was this sentence, this slipped line, for the elephant in the room to take a spot of the utmost prevalence in the air above them. “I... I take it, by now, a clever young girl such as yourself has deduced what 'our kind' refers to?”
Elle began to feel awkward again, and she found herself pulling her eyes away. First, they flitted to the sight of the two grizzly bears, still mauling one another. Even the crowd seemed to begin tiring over the extreme duration of the fight. She moved and caught Roland's angry eyes, having never moved from Elle at the bar. The sight gave her chills, but then the bouncer's eyes were pulled from her, his attention redirected. A new patron was attempting to slip in the door, the wood slamming into Roland' backside. Roland moved out of the way, in order to let the newcomer inside.
Then, Elle returned to Nate's eyes, gazing into them, and taking a last, deep swig of her beverage before answering. She needed something to keep her afloat through this most unusual, not to mention stressful, of situations, after all.
“Yes, I-” she replied, then paused, then continued, “You're were bears, if I'm not mistaken... Or bear shifters... I've heard both terms used, I don't know which you prefer...”
“That's correct,” nodded Nate, still grinnin
g. Then he added, “And either term is acceptable... Thanks for being considerate though.”
Elle smiled again, loosening up a bit. “To be honest, I- well, I've never met a bear shifter before... Until your- your bouncer over there...” (She wasn't familiar enough to these folks to refer to Roland by his name just yet.) “Brought me in here, I'd only ever heard stories... For all I knew, that was all your kind was... Stories...”
Breakwater: Rick (BBW Bad Boy Space Bear Shifter Romance) (Star Bears Book 2) Page 132
