Blake, Her Bad Bear: A Paranormal Bad Boy Romance

by Star, Amy

  “Just don’t go looking for trouble. Or inventing stories that aren’t there just because you want a dose of excitement. Sometimes the world really is as boring as all that. Especially around here.” He then waved to someone who was trying to get his attention through the window. “Christ, can’t leave them alone for half a minute. All right, we’re done here, Lily, unless you have other questions?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” she said, putting the folder under her arm. Her crisp business blazer and skirt were immaculate, like the rest of her—clinical, was the word her former editor had once used to describe her, and she liked the way the word sounded in her mouth.

  “All right, and hey,” he said, touching her shoulder, “don’t worry. You’ll get out of this nowhere town soon. With your skills, you’re in, kid. Just be patient.”

  It was just lip service, of course, but it did make her feel better. She retraced her steps back to her desk and grabbed her coat as she headed for the door. Yawning, she realized how tired she was as the hammer of light struck her between the eyes as she exited the building. Summer in all its glory. The leather seat of her Camry was hot against her legs and she pulled the edge of her skirt higher up her thighs as she adjusted the incline and pulled out of the parking lot.

  Sunny here, but further south toward the hamlet of Beaver Creek, she could see storms already gathering along the mountain ranges. She tried to remember what she knew about the red-neck town, but all that came up was the fact it was an isolated community hedged between the walls of an old glacial ravine. Some farmers, rural folk. The tell-tale mention of gang activity, bikers of some sort, but they tended to stay off the radar.

  And now I’m supposed to check on some indolent pub owner who might or might not sell to minors, she sneered, her large red lips forming a pout. It couldn’t be helped. In any case, it would be nice to get out of the city for a little while.

  “Who knows, might even catch a break and find a story that even Samson can’t turn away from,” she said out loud to herself, and caught her reflection in the rear view mirror. She winked at herself and felt her energy renewed.

  It took her less than half an hour to pack and take a shower, and as she strode out naked into her bedroom, she caught a glimpse of herself in the wall to ceiling mirror against her closet. She had always been small, petite, but there was a proportionality to her body she had secretly admired—she knew that she had that right. She was beautiful and fit, and it showed. Her slender waist curved almost flawlessly into her narrow hips, exacting the parabola of a bird taking wing. Not the child bearing hips of some of her friends, perhaps, but they were trim and muscled, and flowed elegantly down her thighs and between her legs where a rough patch of black pubic hair extended over the rise of her pubis.

  “Looking good,” she murmured, turning sideways. Her small breasts were pert and erect, and seemed to hold themselves at attention. Each was a perfect roundness, balanced as if floating on the air, and she timidly clutched at them with both hands, like she was weighing the ripeness of fruit.

  It took her moments to get dressed and she chose something casual—cargo pants, a pair of light running shoes, and a long sleeve shirt that hugged every corner of her torso with the intimacy of a lover. Satisfied, she shook her short hair and let it bob into place before slinging her backpack over one shoulder. It carried everything she needed for an assignment: digital camera with extra batteries and SD cards, notebook paper and pen, laptop. The bare minimum, but more than enough to punch out high quality stories. If I ever find them, she lamented, reminded again of the fact she was being put on a fluff piece, rather than a full-fledged feature that would challenge her skills.

  Back in the old Camry she headed south, thankful for having missed the rush hour traffic, but as the road winded out of town and she caught sight of it around a switchback, she realized that there were very few cars coming from the other direction. Beaver Creek wasn’t exactly a tourist destination—for years, she knew, it had been the main road connecting through the pass, but five years ago, a new highway had been put in going around the mountains, and funneled the majority of traffic that way. As a result, Beaver Creek had fallen more out of favor with people and history than it already had.

  Feels like I’m heading into a ghost town, she thought, suddenly feeling nervous. She rolled her window up, feeling the wind start to chill as the sky darkened overhead and the first rain drops splattered against her windshield. It was curious, how you could travel less than hour and suddenly be in the middle of the wilderness. She felt the forest loom around her, stark green pines and spruce bunched against the highway, almost as if daring her to keep going. The road was empty, except for the occasional logging truck or passing pickup.

  The rain became heavier as she neared Beaver Creek, and she was forced to switch on the windshield wipers. A glassy smear obscured her vision, and she slowed down, but it did little to aid her. In the downpour, she could only see a few meters ahead of her. Samson better have paid for a good room at the hotel. The thought entered her mind like a numb blade. Goosebumps had risen on her skin, even under the shirt, and she shivered as she continued forward. Off to one side, she caught the blur of a green sign indicating she was within Beaver Creek, and slowed down even more as she passed along the main street. Then, with some consternation, realized that Beaver Creek basically consisted of the main street, with one or two side alleys that led off to campers, a deserted playground already swamped with the deluge, and a couple of stores that looked terminally closed.

  Up ahead, she saw the hotel and pulled in, and with a sigh, collapsed against the steering wheel.

  “What am I doing here?” she moaned out loud, suddenly regretting taking the story in the first place. As soon as she opened her door and hastened under the overhanging roof of the hotel, she was already soaked through, and her black hair clung to the sides of her face in heavy mats.

  The owner of the hotel looked up with a bored leer, his scraggly face unshaven and not terribly handsome. He had on a faded blue baseball cap and chewed the empty air as he regarded the woman. Even in her casual clothes, there was something about her that didn’t fit, and he could tell that she wasn’t from around here.

  “Can I help you, miss?” he queried, leaning on his elbow. Behind him, there was an old television, the sort that still sported fake wooden décor, and there was some bad soap opera driveling away in the background.

  “Yes, I’m Lily Walker, I have a reservation I believe? If not, it’d be under the Daily Mail,” she said, taking off her backpack and shaking the water onto the carpet.

  “Ah, yes, they called. Said to expect you. That’s okay, we got you on the first floor. Second room on your left, it’s a big ’un, all to yourself. Got no one else tonight, so the place is pretty empty, I apologize for that. Say, that all you got?” he said, slurring his speech, and pointing to her backpack.

  “I travel light,” she asserted, taking the key from the counter as he slid it across. “Second door on the left you said?”

  “That’s right. We’ve got dinner that gets served at around six or six thirty. ‘Course, you’re welcome to head to the restaurant. I think Irma’s is open, supposed to be. Jack’s is also a good choice, just down the street.”

  The name Jack brought her back to reality, and Lily recalled the name of the pub she was supposed to be investigating. Not exactly a metropolis here, of course everyone would know where the pub is, she thought to herself.

  “Jack’s, that’s the bar, right?”

  “Ah, you been here before?” the owner said, his eyes lighting up.

  “No, a friend told me. Said I should check it out,” she lied. “They serve good beer, I hear.”

  The owner winked and sat back down, half of his attention diverting toward the television again as he held in a grin. “Aye, been there, oh… gosh, probably twenty-odd years. The owner’s name is Spicer, he was Jack’s son. Ol’ Jack passed away back in 2000, bless his soul. But like most things around here, i
t all continues with the offspring. Spicer’s actually got the place pretty decent. Sometimes even get music going on the weekends.”

  Lily pushed out her lip, feigning some interest like she was trying to make up her mind about whether or not to check the place out. “I think you sold me,” she said after a strategic pause. “Maybe I’ll head over after I drop my stuff off.”

  She headed for the stairs, and then heard the snap of two greasy fingers and swiveled her head just in time to see the owner’s eyes light up. She imagined a very low watt bulb turning on above his head, but heeded his gesture.

  “Just remembered,” he drawled, “they’ve got a wake going on at Jack’s tonight. Thought you should know, probably be crowded.”

  “A wake?” she raised an eyebrow.

  “Funeral,” he said impassively. “Old feller, biker named Damian—kicked the bucket last week, and the whole town’s a bit messed up about it. Half figgered him a ruffian, and I include myself in those numbers, and the other half figgered him a saint, and you can well imagine that lot. Anyway, I’m surprised you didn’t see the number of bikes parked outside there. You would’ve had to drive right by Jack’s to get here.”

  “It was raining,” she explained, taking a step back down the stairs. A wake? That was unexpected, to be sure—but what caused her to pause was the mention of bikers. That, and the curious sort of hesitancy the owner of the hotel had showed when he’d mentioned the dead man’s name. Damian. Almost like the old timer was afraid to speak too loud and wake a ghost.

  “That’s a real shame.” Lily let her voice sink a decibel lower, and lowered her own eyes, trying to effect the look of someone who was pensive. “I heard there were a lot of bikers up this way. Take it you don’t approve?”

  Her svelte voice milking him for information seemed to work, and he stopped and turned away from his soap operas again.

  “I ain’t saying nothing,” he said, as if it were a disclaimer, “jus’ that I sure don’t offer any of my rooms to ‘em. Ruffians, for the most part. Some okay ones among ‘em, but one flower among a nest of nettles don’t make it right.”

  “No kidding,” she murmured.

  “Tend to stick to themselves lately, but they used to be more violent.” And now he leaned on his elbows and motioned for her to come closer, which she did. This close she could see the giant pores on his face, and his breath had the slight tang of garlic, something pickled, and she tried to hold her breath. “I’ll tell you, though, miss, word is things may not be quiet long.”

  “Oh?” she said, doing her best impression of a naïve girl.

  “Well, you didn’t hear from me, but since Damian decided to push up posies, the gang’s in some purgatorial waters, if you get my drift,” he nudged her elbow roughly, but she flexed her brows again until he sighed. “What I mean is, leadership ain’t assured. Might be a power struggle. ‘Course, it comes down to that, you can expect somethin’ like a civil war to crop up. And you know how these biker chaps get when they have too much to drink. Hell, I’m staying indoors for the long term.”

  “It wouldn’t come to that, would it?” she said, raising her voice. Get to the point, old man, she wanted to berate, but held her faux look of disbelief.

  The owner shrugged and sat back down again and she took it as a cue that he had tired of the conversation, or at the very least wasn’t going to jeopardize himself by letting out more than he already had, and Lily puffed her cheeks and headed back toward the stairs.

  “Jus’ be careful, if you decide to head there,” she heard him say as she clambered up to her room.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The wake, as Gavin had predicted, was already well under way by time he arrived. The rain had started to pick up just as he parked among the other legions of bikes, and now it was a full onslaught against the windows, churning down the empty streets. But very little could drown out the raucous that had overtaken Jack’s. Alcohol seemed to flow with abundance, and everywhere he looked, he saw members of the Ursa Major or friends and acquaintances of Damian carousing merrily, their faces blushed and bleary-eyed. The old jukebox in the back of the pub, usually neglected due to the fact that all the songs were fifty years old and dated, had been rejuvenated, and no one seemed to care that all it played was the likes of Leonard Cohen and Elvis Presley.

  Even Spicer, wearing his iconic pencil thin beard, seemed to have gotten in with the drinking, and he was eagerly serving drinks as fast as he could. Damian, still in his leather jacket, sat in the back, huddled in against a corner next to a window where he could watch the others—he had no great interest in drinking himself into a stupor tonight, even if his own proclivity for alcohol was legendary. He was still nervous. Across the room, he caught sight of Melissa again. She was well plastered, and already slurring her speech as she huddled over a glass of rum and Coke, her eyes taking on that sleepy look of someone suffering jet lag. She’s earned it, he thought.

  Although there had been no great love between him and Melissa over the years, he had always respected her. As the wife of a gang leader, she lived up to the role, was hard when she needed to be, and like the credo of the Ursa Majors, loyal to a fault. Beside her, Connor was still acting as her chaperone, but Blake noticed immediately that he wasn’t drinking. Rather, with his mottled nose and rectilinear face, he seemed to be doing exactly what Blake was doing: watching the others. Blake lowered his eyes when he saw Connor cast a slow careful glance across the bar in his direction, and buried his face into the half-empty Moscow Mule at his elbow, trying to feign his own drunkenness, even as he felt the younger man stare him down.

  I should be easier on him, Blake thought. He’d lost his father, of course. But then, that was one of the reasons that the former Beta had decided to forgo his drinking exploits tonight. He needed to think. There were rumors surrounding Damian’s death that hadn’t been legitimized yet, but it would only be a matter of time before they came to light among the rest of the gang—as the Beta, Blake had been given special knowledge into the events, along with Melissa and Connor.

  Damian’s death hadn’t been an accident.

  The official report was that he had drowned in the rushing torrential river that ran parallel to Beaver Creek, and where the town had gotten its name from. The late spring melt could turn it into a gurgling whip of whitewater, and everyone knew the rage of that kind of water. Damian’s body had been found downstream, caught on a tree that had fallen across the creek, and it would have been an open and shut case had Melissa not inquired about having an autopsy.

  Even Blake had to admit that the circumstances were suspicious—for one, Damian knew how dangerous the creek could be, and no one could give any account of why he might’ve been near it. Secondly, even if he had fallen in, he was a demon of a man, one of the best swimmers among them, and that was in his human form. Had he turned into a bear when he had fallen, as unexpected stress could trigger a transformation, he should have had no problem escaping the water.

  The autopsy had prevailed, revealing that Damian hadn’t died in the water, but had most likely been deposited in the creek after being strangled. Blake closed his eyes as his hands tightened around the glass in his hand and he forced himself to unclench his fingers to keep from shattering it in his palm. But who would have gone so far as to murder Damian? He could think of half a dozen enemies that the old brute had, but none of them had the guts to go through with something like this.

  On top of that, his death couldn’t have come at a worse time—with the frailties and internal weaknesses of the gang, tempers and allegiances were as fickle as the light of a candle. He grumbled again and looked up just in time to see Gavin moving towards him. The novitiate’s suit was open, his black tie was slack, and the spiky hair had been mussed into several different opposing angles.

  “You made it!” he exclaimed, almost falling down before he could sit down, and Blake raised his own glass and clinked it against Gavin’s beer bottle, so hard he almost shattered both. “How about this, huh? I
think Damian would be proud, I think he would have liked this. This is how funerals should be, eh, not all gloomy, but celebratory!”

  “Looks like everyone made it,” Blake said.

  “Hell yes.” Gavin took another sip. “Why are you sitting in the corner here?”

  “Just thinking. Don’t feel much like partying,” he said, and wished Gavin would disappear—over the shoulder of his junior, he caught Connor’s stare again, just in his periphery. It made Blake shiver, and he tried to focus on Gavin instead. “Better take it easy, kid. You’re going to lay yourself out before the partying even gets started.”

  “I’m fine,” Gavin said, a bit irritated, but it was just the alcohol. “I’m just… I’m just thinking, you know, you’re probably goin’ to be the Alpha now, hey?”

  Blake stiffened. This was not a conversation he wanted to have, least of all with Gavin. He tried to shrug it off and took another sip of his Mule only to find he’d emptied it. “Who knows?” he said, shrugging.

  “But, I mean, you’re the Beta right?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “I don’t see the problem. I mean, you should be celebrating, too! Here let me get you another,” he offered, his handsome features beaming as he picked up Blake’s cup and headed toward the bar. Blake watched him go and rubbed the back of his ear.

  Well, at least I have one crazy novitiate on my side, he thought, wondering how much of a difference that would really make in the long run. His attention drifted again, but this time something in the crowd stood out, and he focused in on a new face he had never seen before. In fact, there were many eyes on her—she had on cargo pants and a long navy blue sweater, and her hair was dark as charcoal and seemed to catch the light and diffract it.

  He perked up and leaned to the right, trying to get a better glimpse of her. A tourist, maybe. Although why anyone would choose Beaver Creek as a tourist destination was beyond him—probably just passing through. But there was something compelling about her, nonetheless. She had taken up a stool at the front of the bar and slunk down over a beer, but among the crowd of bikers and black leather, she was an anomaly.