Bad Wolf (A Breed MC Book Book 5)

by Anne Marsh

  Her eagerness to leave should be all the explanation I need, but… I keep replaying her words, looking for another way to interpret them. She can’t go. We can’t be done. If I just shake the Magic Eight Ball and rephrase my question, it’ll be do-over time and I’ll have a second chance.

  Don’t count on it.

  I don’t know what to do. Going after her seems like a good idea except that she’s definitely right about one thing. I’m drunk. I could call an Uber or a Lyft, maybe get one of the brothers to drive me, but that doesn’t feel like white knight material. Hi, honey. Here I am. Might have whiskey dick, but you love me for my pretty face, right?

  Rain never said I love you. Not the words. But if she hadn’t cared, then she wouldn’t have looked sad. I think. Christ, I suck at this relationship thing.

  Sucked.

  Past tense.

  Pretty sure my girl just broke up with me.

  So I go on. I’ve got what I want, right? I pick up the pieces of my life. I ride, I fight, I hang with my brothers. I don’t drink or fuck though. I’m not in the mood. I do draw, but my villain’s all mope-y and acting like a sad sack of shit. He must have the flu. Or maybe it’s an evil ploy to trick the good guys into coming closer. Or he just flat-out lost his mojo and had an attack of conscience. I’ve heard that can sneak up on you, kind of like a disease. I’m… lonely.

  I miss Rain.

  Maybe I just need to bang her one more time?

  I think about that, and one thought leads to another until somehow my head’s not flashing frames of the Kama Sutra for me and my dick to enjoy. Instead, I keep thinking about what Rain likes and how she acts and feels when we’re together. I might think about babies. Rings. Impaling myself on a nice, sharp piece of white picket fence. Karma definitely wants her pound of flesh and she’s starting with my balls.

  I pick fights with the brothers, the prospects, with anyone who gets within punching distance. My ribs shriek when I bend and my knuckles are perpetually bruised and bloody, but it doesn’t help. I can’t hit my way out of this. Sex isn’t what I want, either. A couple of weeks after Rain dumps me, a pass-around hanging at the clubhouse during our Friday night party offers to show me a good time. She used to be my favorite kind of amusement. She has long legs, enormous tits, and she’s super bendy. That ponytail of hers is usually my Kryptonite—I love to fist a girl’s hair as I do her. And from the look on Ms. Bendy’s face, I could do whatever I want with her. Hot and rough, dirty and slow. She’d take whatever I gave her.

  Except I don’t want to give her a thing.

  All my things are Rain’s.

  Yeah. Chew on that for a minute.

  I give up on the party and head on out to hang by the bonfire. Ware’s sprawled in a chair, poking the flames with a baseball bat. There’s a beer bottle by his right boot but it’s mostly untouched. He’s not a big drinker, which has always come in handy when I needed a designated driver.

  Gator straddles an enormous log next to him. He’s staring silently at the flames, ignoring the party raging around him. He’s not much for company, and only partly due to the scars slicing up his face. Girls tend to give him a wide berth because he’s a straight-up scary bastard, which makes his company practically a pussy-free guarantee. Plus, both he and Ware are mated, so their chick-magnet days are over.

  Misery loves company so I drop down onto the log next to him.

  Ware’s gaze flicks to the dancing crowd inside. “Running solo tonight?”

  I shrug like it’s no big deal.

  Gator angles a glance at me. Fucker might be trying to hold back laughter. “What happened to the midwife chick?”

  “We split.”

  I cross my arms over my chest and pretend the flames are fascinating. There’s silence, or as much silence at any rate as you get when there’s a club party raging fifty feet away, which means that even though the three of us are saying nothing at all, there’s still lots of hardcore, thumping bass punctuated by male shouts and the occasional feminine shriek. Fun shit, nothing to worry about, but I still don’t feel like going back inside.

  Instead, I check my phone. It’s stupid because I already know Rain won’t text me. It doesn’t stop me from checking about a thousand times a day.

  Ware reaches over and grabs my phone. “Inter-fucking-vention”

  Gator shakes his head and rumbles something too low for me to catch. Pretty certain he’s commenting on my terminal stupidity, though.

  “You want me to get Marly to talk to Rain? She and Poppy are doing a yoga retreat this weekend but she’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.” Ware shoves my phone into his back pocket, which is probably for the best. I’ve only had one beer tonight but I suspect I’m working up to an epic drunk text to Rain that will leave me cringing in the morning.

  “What good would that do?”

  Ware shoves to his feet. “She’s an old lady. Maybe she’s got the magic touch. At the very least, she can find out what’s got Rain’s panties in a bunch.”

  I stab a finger in his direction. “I don’t want you even thinking about her panties. And I know what she’s upset about—I don’t need a fucking interpreter for that.”

  Gator stands, dropping his arm around my shoulder. The man’s built like a fucking tank and my ribs protest the new weight. He’s a goddamned Atlas shouldering the goddamned rock instead of just pushing it up the mountain.

  “Let’s go for a ride,” he rumbles.

  Since I’m sober and therefore don’t much care what I do, riding sounds good to me. I elbow Gator in the ribs—not sure he notices—and head for the bikes. We drive up to Grand Isle, hitting the road hard and fast. I open up the throttle and I fucking fly, the air tearing at my hair and face because helmets are for pussies and for guys who have a happily-ever-after to come home to.

  We ditch the bikes by the edge of the sand. The ocean’s hidden behind a ton of dunes and bunches of green plants that I’ll bet Rain could name. Tall, spikey plants are followed by lower, thicker clumps with tiny flowers on them. I catch myself wondering if I could dig a couple up for her garden before I remember that we’re not a thing.

  We don’t bother looking for the entrance. Instead, we ignore the sign announcing that the place is closed after dark, hop the fence separating us from the beach, and kick off our boots. There’s no point in getting good leather wet. The beach here is a narrow strip of sand. The waves roll in, white and lacy on top, cold as fuck underneath. The sun’s long gone, which doesn’t help the comfort factor any. My feet are icicles before I’ve covered more than a few feet. The ocean won’t heat up until July or August.

  Fuck it. I strip down, dropping my clothes at the foot of a sand dune, and shift. Ware and Gator do the same, and a fast run up the beach turns into a swim. Afterward, we shift back, make an illegal fire, and lounge on the sun-warmed sand. Gator’s brought steaks in his saddlebags, and after we finish giving him shit for being a picnic-packing Martha Stewart, we heat the meat up for all of five minutes before we tear into them.

  “Coulda gone fishing.” Ware cocks a brow at Gator.

  Guess he’s not done giving him shit, or maybe all that chewing’s given him ideas.

  Gator doesn’t look like he cares. “You want shark sushi?”

  “Yeah.” Ware frowns thoughtfully at the waves. “Might have been slim pickings out there.”

  He tosses me a bottle of water because we’re driving back and you don’t drink and drive, not on a public road and not where someone else could get hurt. The pack has two golden rules: don’t go furry in front of the humans and don’t hurt anyone by accident. What we do, we do on purpose.

  I don’t think I hurt Rain, not much at any rate.

  Ware pulls my phone out of his pocket and looks down at it. “You sure you and Rain aren’t together?”

  “Did she text?” I snag my phone from him, but the screen’s still locked. Fucker. I’ve been played.

  My chest hurts. Must have been bitten by a mutant jellyfish or maybe that s
hark got a nibble in. I rub it like a pussy, which doesn’t help.

  Ware smirks. “Feeling a little banged up?”

  I flash him the bird. “Think you broke a rib last time you kicked me.”

  Gator grunts something and we both turn to look at him. “Not your ribs.”

  Unless he’s been doing that online medical school in the Caribbean, I don’t see how he can possibly know. “Are you a fucking doctor now?”

  He shrugs and answers my question with one of his own. “You fight for everything, so why not fight for Rain? She’s pretty great.”

  “She’s the best.”

  “And?” Gator stares at me expectantly.

  I have no clue what he thinks I’m gonna say next. No one shared this script with me. I shrug.

  “He’s fucking clueless,” he says to Ware. “We should toss him in the ocean and use him as shark bait.”

  “She’s human,” I point out. You know. In case they’re as terminally stupid as they look.

  Ware’s smirk gets deeper. Fucker’s gonna have wrinkles before he’s forty. “Marly’s human. Poppy’s human. Think we’ve got room for another female in the pack. Jace might draw the line at a harem, but seems like that’s not where your dick’s at these days.”

  Yeah. I run through my mental spank bank, pulling out all my favorite fantasies. Where my head used to be Porn stars-R-Us, now it’s 24/7 Rain and I fucking love that channel.

  Gator starts shoving shit back into his saddlebags. “Lemme sum up. You like her.”

  I’m gonna have to start calling him Captain Obvious.

  “He wants to have a conversation about feelings,” Ware says to Gator. “He’s definitely in love.”

  I open my mouth to protest. Shut it. Brother may have a point. My problem isn’t a couple of broken and bruised ribs. It’s my heart.

  I try saying it out loud. “I love Rain.”

  “You’re supposed to tell the girl,” Ware points out helpfully.

  My phone buzzes. It would be super helpful if Rain was actually omniscient and she’s texting to let me know she’s discovered a mad, passionate love for me. I look down.

  Fuck.

  She’s answered my last text, the one where I asked for another chance.

  We’d never work.

  I chew on that while we crunch back to the bikes. When we reach the parking lot, I’ve got sand in my boots but no magic answers. Gator throws a leg over his bike. “You never were good at using your words.”

  You know what?

  He has a point.

  And if actions speak louder than words, Imma deafen Rain.

  I once told a brother that he had to do the woo if he wanted to win the girl. Blade didn’t appreciate my stellar words of wisdom, and I laughed my ass off at him. Now it’s my turn and Karma’s bent double, having hysterics. Now I’d rewind time and give him less shit. I’m a serial banger, not a lover, so this is all new territory to me. In another fifty years I’ll have it figured out, but right now I need practice.

  Problem is, Rain’s not talking to me.

  I need to go for the grand gesture. To make a statement. To use my words. The way I see it, Rain doesn’t know that I love her, so my job is to tell her that I do. Thing is, I know another word I think she’d like even better. Please. If she wants me to ask instead of take, I’ll ask. As many times as it takes. So I draw and text her dirty cartoons, with me pleasing her. I hire a fireworks specialist to light up the night sky with pleases in bright, sparkly colors. I spell out the word please with 72 multi-colored throw pillows in Rain’s front yard. And after I send in a caterer with an enormous fucking tray of chocolates that spell out please (the girls in her office love me for that one), she texts me.

  U win. One date.

  Best fucking day ever.

  Worst fucking night ever.

  I’ve made actual, honest-to-God reservations at a French restaurant that has a billion-star rating. It’s one of those places where a meal costs more than a major appliance and you have to dress up to get in. Imagine the mutant love child of the Eiffel Tower and Versailles and you’ll get the idea. Red roses spill out of window boxes and there are lots and lots of candles. It looks like the set for one of those chick movies—you know, where there’s lots of love and happy at the end. It’s special, which is perfect. I want Rain to feel special.

  She won’t let me pick her up, so I’m straddling my bike, waiting for her at Le Something Something when she pulls into the parking lot. I’m sure you’re not surprised when I tell you she drives one of those little eco-friendly electric cars in a bright, sunshine yellow. Still, you gotta smile just seeing it—although I’m grateful as fuck Prius doesn’t make a motorcycle because she’d be all over me to convert.

  “Hi,” she says, when I saunter up and pop her door for her. I step back some so she can slide out and I can appreciate her. I offer her my hand and she takes it after a pause.

  “You look beautiful.” I hang onto her fingers and give them a little squeeze. Beautiful is a fucking understatement. She’s wearing a dress. I’ve seen her undressed, sure, but never in an actual dress. The hem stops two teasing inches above her knees and it’s made out of a pink, floaty fabric. There are sparkles on the little straps and she’s piled her hair up on top of her head in some sleek, braided twist. I kind of miss the ponytail. She looks like a princess, except that I’m no prince. Which is too goddamned bad because now I understand why guys bother with prom, with dances, and with weddings. There’s something magical—and really fucking erotic—about Rain all dressed up. I put date night right at the top of my mental to-do list. Gotta make sure I take my girl out weekly for the next fifty years or so.

  She doesn’t say anything and she doesn’t squeeze back. I try not to be disappointed. I’m not quite as chick-flick worthy as the restaurant, but I’ve done my best to clean up. I’m wearing an actual suit, one where the black jacket matches the black pants and you can’t toss the lot into the washing machine at the end of the night. Although a tie is a step too far, I’ve traded in my usual T-shirt for a white dress shirt open at the collar. Still got my boots though because no way I force my feet into a pair of pansy-ass leather loafers. And yeah, my ink’s visible at the open collar of my shirt. The host gives my throat a quick glance before he leads us inside to our table.

  We’ve barely sat down before I shuck the jacket and roll the sleeves up. The waiter brings over a bottle of iced champagne, pours, drops us some menus, and leaves.

  Rain sits there politely.

  The silence grows louder.

  I should say something.

  Anything.

  Who knew nothing was so loud? Wish to hell I knew what she was thinking in that gorgeous head of hers.

  “You look beautiful.” Lame. It was true in the parking lot and it’s still true but I need a different adjective. My fingers itch to draw her.

  “Thank you.”

  And… more silence. I’ve got nothing but hope. No words, no big plan, no fireworks and balloons. Probably should have scheduled a few explosions or maybe one of those Mexican mariachi bands because I need the help.

  The waiter comes back to recite a list of specials. I’m not sure what he’s on about—pretty sure it’s a random list of French words and they’re yukking it up in the kitchen—so I stab my finger randomly at a couple of things on the menu. The printed shit’s also in French and I’m not here for the food anyhow. Rain orders a salad. Great. I’m not even gonna get three courses with her.

  She sits across from me, eying me over the candles and obviously trying to decide on a safe topic of conversation. The baby wins and she lobs a softball question at me about my newest pack member. I tell her about Margie’s love of dancing and the cute little habit she has of scrunching up her face and winking. Then I field a bunch of questions about how Keelie Sue and Jace are holding up. I’d rather be talking about us, but I get that I need to lay a nice, safe foundation first. Make sure Rain’s feeling good about her choice to share an evenin
g with me.

  The waiter delivers Rain’s salad and a steaming casserole of meat parts for me. Rain looks over and makes a face.

  “You’re really going to eat that?”

  I poke my fork into the mess. Pretty sure that’s a former frog swimming in there with a few of his snail buddies. And while I’ve eaten plenty of hoppers and sliders in my pup days, there’s not a whole lot to chew on.

  “Broadening my horizons,” I tell her, scooping up a generous spoonful. The gravy stuff isn’t bad, but that’s definitely frog and a skinny one at that.

  Rain nods and crunches her lettuce leaves. I demolish my bayou friends. Eventually, the waiter returns and deposits a plate that turns out to be some kind of beet risotto with duck innards. The bird part’s great but the rest of it’s straight-up weird. Plus I’d need a bird the size of a pterodactyl to fill me up tonight.

  A small smile touches Rain’s mouth. “Did you actually read the menu?”

  “Sure.” I set my fork down. I’ll catch a real meal later. I snag a roll from the breadbasket. The bread is awesome here. “I just didn’t realize I was gonna need Google Translate to choose.”

  Her smile gets wider and that’s my cue.

  “We need to talk,” I say. I’d like to hold her hand, do some romantic shit while I say my piece, but the risk of third-degree burns is high. There are way too many candles on our table.

  “Sure,” she says slowly. “I don’t think we’re on the same page at all.”

  Fortunately, I’m a creative thinker. I scoot my chair around to Rain’s side of the table.

  “Why did you ask me out?” she asks. “I’m sorry if you thought we weren’t done, but we were never going to be a long-term couple. I don’t think we have much to talk about, to be honest.”

  My knee bumps hers. I’d rather be down on my knees, kissing my way up her thighs, but even I know there’s a time and a place for that shit—and Le Foo Foo isn’t it. She turns her head, meeting my eyes.