They passed around dishes of french toast made from banana bread, home-fried potatoes, meaty sausages that, if Owen wasn’t mistaken, held a hint of rosemary and sun-dried tomato, whole-wheat toast, watermelon cubes and a sort of egg pie that was so delicious he took three helpings. Even the orange juice was fresh-squeezed.
“Won’t your other customers get jealous?” Owen asked, even though there were only the four of them in the diner.
“Chef’s table is open only to early risers, like us.” David checked his watch. “First customers of the day, other than you fellas, won’t be by for another half-hour or so.”
After the other men pressed the last slice of french toast on Owen, all four of them sat back with an air of pleasantly stuffed contentment and sipped at their coffee.
“Anyway,” Jackson said, picking up on an earlier conversation, “there’s enough honky-tonks and such in the general area to keep me busy. The modern jukes and arcade games always need tinkering. The electronics are more delicate than the models from the fifties. I’ve serviced this route going on twelve years now. I keep an apartment in town with a garage out back. I keep that set up as a little workshop.”
“What about your family?” Owen asked. The guy scented like a mated were but the mating was old. “Traveling around for a single fella like me isn’t an issue but…” His voice trailed off and he shrugged.
Jackson grinned ruefully. “Pinebridge has evolved into the middle of my territory, and, really, there’s no pull to stay around my own pack much. Me and my mate, well, in human form we’re kind of like oil and water. She’s given me three fantastic pups though. Them we do see eye to eye on. But unless we’re in our fur we get along as long as we’re not together.”
Owen could relate.
The other two weres chuckled. They obviously knew this story.
David stood and began clearing the table. He looked directly at Owen. “Anytime you’re in the mood for a good breakfast and some conversation with a couple of old farts, you come by.”
“You do this every day?” Owen asked. He’d have to teach an extra PT class to work off the food he’d just eaten. Maybe two.
“Nah. Maybe three times a week. It’s kind of a hit and miss because some of the guys have jobs that keep them on the road. Now that you know what time we’re here, you drop by any day. It’s a nice change having a young guy join us.”
After Owen picked up Piper and drove her to work he went to the community center. He’d paid to take two more aptitude tests, both of them long and detailed. The results on those would be back from the State Board of Vocational Education tomorrow. Piper had promised to go over the results with him and discuss his options.
He was looking forward to it. New friendships aside, unemployment was getting to be a bore.
At the community center he was wheeling big racks of stacking chairs into a classroom for that afternoon’s gardening group. A tall female with a commanding presence stepped into the room, crossed her arms over her chest and watched. She looked fifty but something about her told Owen she was older, more experienced than that. He guessed sixty. The straight no-nonsense skirt she was wearing was flattering and looked expensive. Despite her age, or perhaps because of it, he liked the way her high heels showed off her long legs.
When he focused on her face, he blinked. She could pass for Cory Amos’ twin. “Can I help you?” he asked, and smiled.
“That remains to be seen,” she answered. There was no animosity in her. There was also no perfunctory courtesy. She scented like a strong were who’d worn her confidence for so long it was as comfortable and familiar as her own skin. “I’m Katherine Clark. I’m top bitch around these parts.”
She unfolded her arms and adopted an aggressive posture—hands on hips, silk blouse-clad chest stuck out, back straight, chin high. Katherine Clark had that kind of haughty, righteous strength Owen had always found incredibly hot. If she were thirty years younger and unmated he’d be all over her in a heartbeat.
Deciding to keep his wolf’s lecherous thoughts to himself, Owen walked up to her and held out his hand. “I’m Owen Wells. Cory and Piper mentioned you. She says you play a helluva game of tennis.”
“That I do, Owen,” she replied without modesty. Her grip was sure but her hand felt soft, feminine. She glanced back at the chairs. “You know we have a caretaker whose job it is to set up and clear away after activities.”
“Gerry. His arthritis is acting up so I offered to pitch in.” Gerry was seventy-something years old. He’d taken on the job after he retired to keep busy but it was obvious the physical requirements were getting to be too much. Old age caught up to weres too.
“Hmm.” Katherine shifted her weight to her other leg and that critical look on her face became one of assessment. She shut the door behind her and when she spoke her voice was quieter. “He needs to be shuffled into a less demanding role. I like your diplomacy though.”
Owen nodded curtly. Katherine’s stance relaxed a little.
“I mentioned it to Ed, rest his soul,” she added and walked around the room, looking at the artwork, posters and announcements tacked to the walls. “Cory and Piper speak highly of you. They say you’re looking for a place to settle down.”
Accepting the olive branch for what it was, he took her to the center’s kitchen where he made coffee for them. Gradually Owen steered the conversation back around to Sheriff Ed Timberman. He asked if Ed being out on South Fork Road at that hour of the morning was usual, what Katherine thought the motive was, if anybody disliked him that much. He got what he got from everybody else—that Ed was a well-loved Beta, a great cop and that his death had left a void in the pack nobody was conveniently looking to step into.
Owen was clearing away their coffee things when the kitchen door flew open so hard it slammed into the wall.
He sighed and it sounded more like a growl. Deputy Sheriff Suzanne Young, pretty blue eyes blazing with anger, stormed into the room. That gun on her hip still looked hot as hell and speaking of hips… Owen dragged his gaze back up to her face before she slapped him for ogling that fine, curved body of hers.
“I want some answers, Wells, and I want them now.” She walked right up to him, so close he felt her breath on his throat.
It felt real nice, dammit.
“You turning up here days after the pack Beta is murdered?” She glanced at Katherine, nodded in acknowledgement then focused back on Owen. “You’re the only new were in town and here you are getting all cozy with the Alpha and the top bitch. Why do you suppose that is?”
“Like I told you this morning when we woke up naked. Together,” he reminded her and didn’t hide his grin when a blush colored those downy cheeks of hers. “Although I’m related to Ryan and therefore have cause to petition to join your pack Cutler was polite about letting me know he wouldn’t be extending an invitation for me to stay. Instead Cutler offered to introduce me to Cory.”
“So when I leave,” Suzanne said coldly, “you’ll be moving on?”
“Or staying, maybe.”
She growled and it sounded so hot coming from her Owen’s cock started to lengthen. He really hated that.
“There’s something you’re not telling me,” she said and this time her voice was cool, accusing. “I can smell it on you. I’m keeping my eye on you, Owen Wells.”
“I’ll just bet you are.” Deliberately, he sneered. Being so disrespectful to a woman went against every ingrained instinct but he had to derail her cop instincts about him. Instincts that were, unfortunately, correct. He licked his lips and took his sweet time looking her up and down. He knew it would irritate the hell out of her. The anger in her eyes confirmed her outrage but he got no satisfaction from it. Just the opposite actually although he made sure he didn’t let on.
To her credit, this time she didn’t grab him or attempt to assault him. She turned and left, her back ramrod straight and her boot heels hitting the linoleum with sharp, echoing authority.
When he turned back
to Katherine Clark she was again wearing that critical look.
“Do you often have deputy sheriffs make veiled accusations about you being a suspect in a murder investigation, Mr. Wells?” Her voice could freeze water. Without another word, she turned and left.
Owen stood where he was for a moment then swore, threw a cleaning cloth across the room and raked his fingers through his hair in frustration. If the top bitch turned against him there was no way he could stay. No way he could nose around on Cutler’s behalf.
No way he could charm Suzanne’s wolf into running with him again.
After an early supper at the diner Owen spent the rest of the evening at the community center. He taught two self-defense classes, talked with pups and their parents, signed off on some bills for payment and sent a few back-and-forth emails to a graphic designer. He had an idea for flyers to advertise the center’s facilities for corporate team-building activities, family get-togethers and special occasions. Lucky for them the graphic designer was talented and offered to donate five hours of her time.
For the cost of a ream of paper a local pizza joint with a good color printer had offered to print up the flyers. They’d also distribute them.
More and more Owen was enjoying the work. It cleared his head and made him feel he had a purpose. As he and Gerry locked up and wished each other a good night, Owen was looking forward to getting the results of his aptitude tests the next day.
As he got in his pickup and headed for his rented home he decided to put off calling Cutler until the next night. The only thing he had to report was zero progress. Owen hated the thought but maybe he should tell Cutler to get somebody more experienced to help. Maybe a private investigator or something. His head was full of ideas about what that aptitude test would tell—that and images of Suzanne’s soft curves and pretty mouth. The wind was strong out of the west and carried no unusual scents.
Still pissed at the idea of having to admit his failure, Owen stopped halfway to his front door. The walkway was littered with tiny black boxes, almost invisible in the dark. Bending down, he picked one up. It smelled vaguely of lemon, which puzzled Owen. He looked up at the eaves trough, at the roof. Maybe they’d fallen but from where? His musing stopped when the little plastic box in his fingers began to vibrate.
The boxes still on the ground started to shimmy and bounce. His fingers were opening to drop the box in his hand. He was pivoting, starting to run for cover as fast as he could when all the boxes started emitting a high-pressure mist.
The stink of citronella was overwhelming. Still moving, Owen could feel his eyelids swell as the spray from two of the boxes scored a direct hit and soaked his face. His throat tried to close up and protect his lungs. Pain exploded behind his knees when what had to be a baseball bat caught his legs from behind. He went down like he’d been shot but rolled. Through swelling, streaming eyes he could just make out four males surrounding him. With a start Owen recognized the outline of gas masks over each of their faces. Probably Army surplus. How fucking ironic was that?
With no time to dwell on it Owen twisted out of the way of a boot coming at his gut. They reached for him, all at once. If they wanted him on his feet, Owen had no problem with that. Two of them held his arms behind his back. They hadn’t shot him and they hadn’t used that baseball bat to beat him into unconsciousness. Whatever it was they wanted probably involved some talking. He had no problem with that either. If they talked, they might just say something useful.
“Consider this your one and only warning, stray.” The voice was definitely male, so gravelly and muffled it had to be disguised. The two males holding him were strong. They had to be weres.
“Get out of town.” The speaker, the one Owen took for the ringleader, was swinging the baseball bat and smacking the business end with his palm.
The air around Owen began to clear as those little black boxes, one by one, exhausted their stores of citronella. He was still coughing like an asthmatic though.
“In fact, get out of the state.” That baseball bat kept moving in steady arcs full of angry promise that might have hypnotized a lesser were.
Owen couldn’t make out any identifying features on any of the men. His eyes were still watering like crazy so all he could see were baseball caps hiding their hair and dark nondescript clothing covering them from neck to ankle. They were all shorter than him but that wasn’t much help. Just about everybody was shorter than him.
That baseball bat kept moving. “This ain’t your pack and you ain’t welcome.”
After that the punches started flying. One caught him in the ribs, hard. The two weres who thought they had power-lock holds on his arms were flung forward as Owen stepped back, leaned against their weight and used their own shifting inertia to swing them around either side of him. The rolling momentum of their own bodies ripped Owen’s arms out of their hands.
Apparently the conversation was over. It was time to rock.
A fist caught him in the belly but he managed to duck in time to keep that baseball bat from taking his head off. He kicked out, sending one of his attackers into the shrubbery. Another jumped on his back, hung on with arms and legs and tried to choke him out. Owen tipped forward, grabbed the guy’s neck and flipped him up and over.
Guy Number Two landed on the concrete walkway with a satisfying groan.
When Owen straightened, when he shifted his weight to block the next two incoming punches, the odds caught up with him. The baseball bat connected with the side of his head, stunning him. He dropped to his knees.
The last thing he heard was the sound of running feet. Then, from a distance, the sound of an engine roaring to life. He looked around as best he could but couldn’t even see taillights speeding away. Instinct screamed at him to get up and chase the bastards down.
Common sense told him he didn’t stand a chance—not with lungs full of choking gas and eyes swollen half-shut.
Still on his knees, he grabbed up a handful of the little black boxes. He’d been brought down by canine spray-trainers, the kind dog owners used to keep their dogs from barking. Dog trainers! When he got his hands on those guys Owen was going to mess them up good. Enraged, he whipped the boxes in his hand across the yard as hard as he could and passed out.
Chapter Nine
Owen was behind the wheel of his pickup, thinking driving was a bad idea. He probably had a concussion, although his wolf wasn’t as sentient as Owen so his wolf could withstand a headshot better than Owen.
And it was his wolf that was taking him to the sheriff’s office. Damn thing always knew when the human part of Owen’s head wasn’t functioning on all cylinders. If the wolf said step aside, experience had taught Owen to listen.
Logically it made more sense to seek medical help. Dial up 9-1-1 and call himself an ambulance. Or contact Cory and advise him what had happened. Maybe there was a covert coup going on?
One of his tires hit a pothole and the jarring made Owen flinch. Who the hell would bum rush a were who’d approached the Alpha honorably and been given permission to stay? He felt spots of blood trickling down the side of his head from where the baseball bat had caught him. Gingerly, Owen rubbed away the tickle.
He pulled up outside of the sheriff’s office and practically sighed with relief. His wolf wanted to be one place and one place only—with Tom and Suzanne.
How fucked up was that?
Its part played, Owen’s wolf slipped behind Owen’s conscious mind where it regularly resided.
It was Owen who staggered into the office. Deputy Sheriff Wally Pierce, who was manning the desk, took one look at him, hoisted Owen’s arm over his shoulder and led him to a desk. He sat Owen down then grabbed a first-aid kit off the top of a filing cabinet.
“You look like shit,” Wally said succinctly. He picked up a water bottle somebody had left sitting around and began drizzling water in Owen’s eyes. “And you smell like furniture polish. I’m not sure which is worse.”
Owen appreciated the oversized brown-ha
ired were’s humor. He appreciated the ice pack Wally held against his head even more. Wally tended to his injuries and asked what happened.
When he could finally see more than fuzzy outlines and felt a little more lucid, Owen looked around the office. “Where’s Tom and Suzanne?” It seemed odd only one sheriff would be on site. There wasn’t a desk sergeant or even a dispatcher in the place.
“Didn’t you hear?” Wally asked. He handed Owen a towel so he could mop himself up. “No, I guess you didn’t,” Wally said, shaking his head and answering his own question.
“Hear what?”
“Look, maybe it’ll be best if they tell you.” Wally got on the radio and called up Tom. Once he had him on the line all he said was that Owen Wells was at the station and he’d been attacked.
Owen heard Tom’s voice saying he’d be at the station soon. Leaning back and cradling his bruised ribs, Owen held the ice pack to his head and began repeating his story while Wally keyed the particulars into a computer.
A little while later Tom came in through the front door. Suzanne was on his heels. Without a word she walked up to Owen and punched him in the face, hard.
“What the…?” Owen bellowed, jumped to his feet, dropped the ice pack and raised his forearms to deflect another blow. If one came.
“You slimy son of a bitch,” she cursed. She grabbed her cuffs with one hand and his wrist with the other.
He had to hand it to the bitch, she sure could move fast. In an instant she’d spun around behind him, had his thumb bent back over his wrist, had one cuff on him and was yanking his other arm back to restrain that one as well. Owen’s wolf snarled but didn’t resist the female manhandling him. Big, strong and trained, Owen could have easily thrown her away from him. But his wolf had no interest in harming the female so he submitted without argument.
“You’re under arrest,” she yelled in his ear, making him wince. The small, feminine hand on his shoulder dug right into a pressure point, dropping his ass back in the chair as if there were magnets in it.
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