Bear Meets Girl

by Shelly Laurenston

  Barb dropped her lipstick into her giant purse and relaxed back into the seat, eyeing her daughter.

  “What?”

  “You and that very handsome, but decidedly lumbering bear? Do you expect me to buy that lie, Cella Malone?”

  “What did you expect me to do? Let her marry me off to my cousin?”

  “Or you could stand up to the old bitches and tell them to leave you the fuck alone.”

  “Ma.”

  “What? You let them walk all over you yesterday when you’re usually the one to beat them down.”

  Remembering what the bear had said to her the night before, Cella replied, “I’m trying not to beat up old women.”

  “I don’t mean physically, you idiot. You just never let them push you around. But yesterday ... you ran off and came back with that cop.”

  “I’m just trying to keep the peace.”

  “And the bear?”

  “The bear just happened to be in the right place at the right time. Would you rather it had been a wolf?”

  Barb shuddered. “It’s bad enough you spend time around that pit bull.”

  Cella chuckled, shook her head. “That pit bull has my back. God, you’re as bad as Meg about Dee.”

  “She has crazy eyes.”

  “Why don’t you just tell me the problem with the Smiths? Because that’s your issue, isn’t it? Any other wolf is tolerable, but not the Smiths?”

  “Do you know anyone who likes the Smiths?”

  “Do you know anyone who likes the Malones?”

  “We’re cats. We’re naturally adored and very low maintenance. Dogs need all that care, training, and long walks, or you have to call in that Dog Whisperer guy for help.”

  Cella laughed out loud, her mother joining her.

  The cab stopped and Barb paid the driver while Cella got out. She waited at the corner for her mother. Once Barb stood in front of her, Cella asked, “You’re sure you’re ready for this?”

  “This is what I do, baby.”

  With a nod, Cella took her mother’s arm and they walked into the restaurant.

  The hostess smiled at them even while sizing up Cella’s casual outfit. The Van Holtz chain was one of those snooty restaurants that the Malones didn’t really go to unless, of course, it was a very special occasion or someone else was paying. Mostly because, by nature, the Malones were hagglers and the Van Holtzes really weren’t. But, it was one of the best shifter-run restaurants around. They had a wild boar with mushroom sauce that was to die for.

  “Hi. We’re here to meet with Thorpe and—”

  “Ah, yes.” The hostess began to laugh before grabbing a couple of menus. “Right this way.” And she walked off ... still laughing.

  After frowning at each other, mother and daughter followed the hostess through the restaurant and down to a row of private rooms. She stopped at a set of double doors and opened them. Luckily, she was a fellow shifter, a wolf, which allowed her to step back before she got hit with someone’s purse. The hundred-dollar Chanel knockoff slammed into the opposite wall and landed on the floor. It was gold-colored. A She-lion’s purse. Some Prides could afford the real thing, some couldn’t, and some weren’t willing to pay for the real thing. That was the O’Neills.

  With a sweep of her arm, the hostess invited Cella and Barb in.

  Cella picked up the big gold purse and handed it to her mother. “Good luck to ya,” she said, then went the other way, looking for a lunch that didn’t involve wedding plans or arguing She-predators.

  Crush dragged the She-bear out of the back of their van and into the precinct elevator with MacDermot.

  “Shut up!” MacDermot snarled, and he didn’t blame her. The sow had not stopped roaring and complaining for the last hour. She was probably just coming down from whatever high she’d been on, but Crush, and he was sure MacDermot, didn’t care.

  “You fuckin’ bitch,” the sow screamed-slurred. “You fuckin’ bitch whore!”

  The elevator stopped at the fifth floor, where the sow would be booked and put in a titanium cell. At the very least, they’d be done with her.

  “What about her sons?” Crush asked when they arrived at booking, where another sow was manning the desk. “I say we go back out and track them down.”

  “I’m up for that.”

  “You stay away from my boys! Stay away from my boys!”

  “Shut upppp!” MacDermot yelled, making Crush chuckle. The woman had no patience for screamers. She never did.

  Crush’s phone went off as two uniforms took the sow from him. “Hey,” he told MacDermot. “We got a text from Gentry. She wants us back upstairs.”

  “Okay.” MacDermot finished the paperwork the sergeant at the desk needed to book the sow.

  MacDermot had just pushed the clipboard across the desk when the sergeant snapped at the uniformed officers, “Don’t uncuff her here—”

  But it was too late. The sow spun around, free of her bonds. Facing MacDermot, she swung her big fist and sent the full-human flying out of the room.

  Shocked, everyone stood there staring, even the sow. Then, just as Crush was about to panic, thinking about what he could possibly tell MacDermot’s husband at the funeral that would explain this, a bellowed, “You fucking cunt whore!” from the hallway reminded Lou Crushek that Bronx girls didn’t go down easy.

  Cella ended up eating her lunch in the restaurant kitchen with Ric Van Holtz. It never hurt to suck up to the boss and get a duo of wild boar and impala with that damn mushroom sauce in the bargain.

  “So how’s it going with the rookies?” he asked before picking up the giant burger sitting in front of him for his own lunch.

  “Not bad. And not one fight this morning.”

  “No bleachers thrown then?” Van Holtz bit into the burger, his eyes closing. He groaned. After swallowing, he pointed at the burger. “Amazing,” he whispered. Then more loudly snapped, “I thought I said I wanted this well done?”

  A young wolf, his arms and hands wet and covered in bubbles, stuck his head in from the other room. “You said medium rare.”

  “No. I said well done. Get it right next time.”

  “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Jeez.”

  The kid disappeared back to his regular job and Van Holtz went back to his burger.

  “My cousin Stein,” Van Holtz explained, like that told her why he was being such a ballbuster.

  “You’re ridiculous,” Cella told him. “I heard you say medium rare.”

  “Ssssh.” Van Holtz looked at that doorway. “I have a strategy, Miss Malone.”

  “The ‘I’m a douche’ strategy?”

  “You break them down first so you can build them back up.”

  “And when does that building begin?”

  “Whenever I say it does.”

  Cella laughed. “You’re worse than my dad. Of his four children, I’m the only one who could handle his idea of training.”

  “And look at you now.”

  “The reality is I had it easier than the boys because I was daddy’s little princess.”

  Van Holtz frowned. “You? Really?”

  “What d’ya gotta say it like that for?” She pointed at herself. “Don’t I look like a fuckin’ princess to you?”

  “In what world,” Smith’s voice said from behind Cella, “are you a princess?”

  Damn Smith, sneaking up on her again. How did she do that? “In the same world that Smiths are considered upstanding and law-abiding citizens rather than backwoods crazies.”

  “Sassy talker.”

  “Psychopath.”

  Smith walked over to Van Holtz’s side, pressing up against him. “You in here chattin’ up my man, Malone?”

  “Well, it’s about time he had a woman with some curves.”

  “Don’t most just call that back fat?”

  “No brawling,” Van Holtz quickly warned them when Cella pulled her fist back and Smith went for that damn bowie knife she kept holstered to the back of her jeans.

/>   Once it seemed that he’d diverted any fights in his precious kitchen, Van Holtz asked Smith, “You want something to eat?”

  “Later maybe.”

  “Where have you been?” Cella asked, cutting another piece of meat. “I called you earlier.”

  “Yeah, sorry. I was checking in with the people MacDermot put on surveillance detail for us.”

  “They get anything?”

  “Nope. But I did pull some favors and get video footage from stores in a one-block radius of the taxidermist. Printed a few pics.” Smith pulled out a manila envelope and took out several photographs. “Anybody look familiar to you?”

  Handing his half-eaten burger to his mate—the man never took Smith’s “I’ll eat later” seriously—Van Holtz looked through the photos, sliding each one across the table to Cella when he was done. After several moments, he retrieved one of the photos he’d passed to Cella, studying it a little more. “This man ... Do we know him?”

  “I don’t.” Having finished Van Holtz’s burger, Smith was now working on his plate of fries. “But before I came here, I showed these pics to the surveillance team. They pointed him out, too. Said he met with the taxidermist, but never in his store. Always met him a block away. I told them if he comes back, to put someone on him.”

  “We should touch base with MacDermot, too.” Cella pushed her empty plate away. “She’ll want in on this if it turns out to be something.”

  “I called Gentry,” Smith said. “She’ll send MacDermot to meet us at the office later. Although, I do wonder why we never go to your office, Malone.”

  “Do we need to get something done?” Cella demanded. “Because that won’t happen if we’re at the KZS office. It’s like twenty of me instead of just one.”

  “And just one of you is terrifying enough.”

  “Cella!” her mother called from somewhere in the restaurant.

  “In here, Ma!”

  “Is there a Malone that don’t yell?” Smith asked.

  “Is there a Smith that don’t lick its ass?”

  “Don’t be jealous of those who got the talent and dexterity.”

  “You’d be amazed at my dexterity.”

  “Malone, are you sweet on me? And here in front of my mate and everything.”

  Cella’s eyes crossed and she turned in time to see her mother strut her way into the kitchen.

  “I assume, Ma, from your sexy walk that all went well?”

  “Why do these people question me? When it comes to weddings”—she held her hand out—“by this claw, I rule.”

  “She,” Smith muttered, “is so your momma.”

  Trying not to laugh, Cella said, “Ma, you remember Dee-Ann.”

  “I do?”

  Cella scratched her head and tried harder not to laugh. “You’ve met her four, five, maybe ten times.”

  “Huh.”

  “But you do remember Ric Van—”

  “Of course, I do!” Because vast wealth always managed to jog her mother’s feline memory. “Good to meet you again, Mr. Van Holtz,” she said, shaking his hand.

  “Ric, Mrs. Malone. Call me Ric.”

  She gave her best “think of me whenever you’re shopping for a wedding planner” smile, then turned back to Cella. “Was the double wedding your idea?”

  “Anything to reduce the pain potential.”

  “Double wedding?” Van Holtz asked. “Blayne and Gwen together?”

  Knowing exactly where this was going, Cella held up her hand and quickly rattled off, “You’d have to go to Novikov’s wedding anyway ’cause of Blayne and he’d be at Gwen and Lock’s wedding, also because of Blayne. This way the torture is all condensed to one day, so shut up and stop complaining.”

  Van Holtz snarled a little, but didn’t bother to argue.

  Barb kissed Cella’s cheek. “Just like your ma. Now,” she went on, “can we head home together?”

  “Can’t. Gotta work tonight.”

  “You’ll be careful?”

  “I’m always careful. I can’t risk this pretty face, can I?”

  Smith snorted while Barb dug into her bag and pulled out one of her cards, handing it to Van Holtz. “In case you’re ever ready to settle down with a nice, respectable She-wolf of your own.” Then she gave Smith another once-over before leaving without another word.

  “Charmin’,” Smith said, both she and Cella laughing.

  “I can’t even be mad at her,” Cella admitted. “She’s just so ridiculous sometimes.”

  “Other than beatin’ the shit out of you on a regular basis—”

  “You wish!”

  “—I don’t think I’ve ever done anything to her.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Apparently, there’s a Smith-Malone history that no one will talk about in my family.”

  “Really? Need to ask my daddy about that.”

  “Does your father actually speak, Smith? Words, I mean. Not just barks and howls at the moon.”

  Smith shrugged. “When he’s of a mind ...”

  Whatever the hell that meant.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Michael Patrick Callahan tried to shift again, but whatever they’d shot him up with wouldn’t let him shift back to human. It kept him lion. Kept him prey.

  Panting, he stood behind a tree, watching and listening for the hunters. Their problem was that Mikey had overheard them. He knew that whatever they’d forced into his system would wear off and he’d be able to shift back to human again. But they didn’t want that. Having a dead human body on their land was probably a bigger pain in the ass to manage than having a dead lion. And once Mikey knew that, once he knew the effect of this drug wouldn’t last for several days or weeks, his goal became clear.

  Avoidance.

  The mistake a lot of people made was to believe true predators ran around challenging everyone, going claw-to-claw with anyone or anything that crossed their path. They didn’t. From the proudest lion male to the lowliest, pain-in-the-ass hyena, a long-living predator always knew when to run and when to stand his or her ground.

  And men with high-powered weapons fitted with silencers? You ran. Especially when Mikey didn’t have access to his thumbs at the moment.

  So for nearly four hours, he’d been running around this property. A property he didn’t know anything about. He had no idea where he was. The last thing Mikey remembered was sitting in the back of a limo with a hot piece of ass he’d met at a club and receiving a phenomenal blow job. The next ... it was late morning, he was a cat, and he was in a cage.

  His mom and sisters had always warned him not to trust full-human women, but this time he’d let his hormones take over and now here he was. Hiding, running ... and praying.

  But Mikey was grateful for one thing. The Callahans. His family. They were lions, but not like any other Pride out there. In fact, other lions didn’t even consider Callahans a Pride but a roving band of “gypsies,” and that was fine. Because most lion males knew they were completely on their own should something happen; the Pride females would rarely bother to track down a lost male unless it was a much loved son. That wasn’t the Callahans. Family was family to them and Mikey had no doubt his family would search for him—and God help those who’d taken him.

  Yet that was something to think about later. Right now he needed to get out.

  Mikey tensed. He could smell the full-humans nearing. Hear their footsteps as they tried to tiptoe through the trees.

  He saw one. The clothes were expensive. That gun even more so.

  Mikey tried to shift again. His body rippled. Soon. He’d be able to shift soon. But he’d run out of time.

  The hunter swung toward him, weapon raised. Mikey charged past him, making sure to hit the man’s body with his paw as he did. Ribs snapped, caving in on impact, the man falling backward, and Mikey kept going. He finally neared the tall, brick wall that surrounded this place. The full-humans that were hunting him were beginning to panic now that they realized he’d be able to shift to human any se
cond now. It would be easy for him to get past the doors once he had thumbs, but at the moment Mikey still had to knock those doors down. Unfortunately, the few doors he’d found were solid, impenetrable steel.

  That wall, Mikey was sure, had been built to keep his kind in. He could smell the other breeds that had run and died here. Had others made it out? If they had, were they killed later? Mikey knew that once he got out of here, just running back to his family would only put them in danger. He’d have to do something else, but he could worry about that later.

  Mikey heard men yelling orders, could hear running. It was the men who guarded this place. They didn’t hunt, not like the others. They simply prevented the shifters from getting out. Some had extremely powerful weapons and tranq guns. Knowing he’d have to work fast, Mikey moved behind the hedges and tried again. For several brief, wonderful seconds, his right claw turned into a hand. Mikey stopped, took a breath, tried again. Several guards in white, to blend with the snow-covered grounds, came into view. They hunted in threes now; this was no longer a casual, fun thing for rich friends. They had to stop him.

  What about when I get past that gate?

  He couldn’t worry about that now. One terrifying situation at a time.

  Snow and ice cracked beneath boots, the men drawing near.

  Mikey waited until they were close and he charged again. They heard him, all three turning and firing at the same time. Shots hit, tearing into his shoulders, but missing major arteries. Mikey kept coming, ramming into two at once, his four hundred and thirty pounds crushing them.

  More screams rang out as Mikey turned and swung his claw, ripping across the third man’s face. Then Mikey took his chance and shifted to human.

  It took two tries, but it worked. He snatched the keys from the man closest to him and ran to the thick steel door built into the wall. He put the key in, turned the lock. Alarms sounded. Loud and powerful, an electronic voice announcing which door had been opened. Mikey ignored all that and shifted back to lion before racing out of the gate and onto the sidewalk.

  Men were coming at him from behind and from both sides once he was out, so he charged straight forward, deciding to shift back to human once he was in the middle of the street because he knew that a naked, bleeding man would be much less terrifying to the general population than a bleeding lion. But as he ran across the asphalt, his body readying to change to his human form, something big and heavy plowed into him, lifting his entire body into the air. He spun up and back, feeling like he was flying, before he came spinning down to earth.