by Star, Amy
Beautiful, yes. As she turned and said something to the man beside her, Blake saw how round her face was, almost a perfect sphere under that precise, razor-delineated bowl cut. The faintest traces of some Asian descent showed against her bone structure, Chinese or Japanese maybe, second generation, like Gavin—enough to blur the distinction. Her eyes were narrow but evenly spaced, and she had a pair of laser cut rimless glasses that made her look more menacing than she probably was. A killer librarian sort of vibe.
But she was smiling, and that made up for it. He watched her for several more minutes, but over the laughter and Elvis Presley medleys it was impossible to make out exactly what she was saying. He was so absorbed in watching her that he almost didn’t notice Gavin return and plop another Moscow Mule in front of him, spilling it over the rim and onto his hand.
“Whatcha’ looking at?” he said, following his elder’s gaze.
Blake cleared his throat. “Just a newcomer, at the bar there,” he gestured toward the stool, and Gavin winked at him. “Someone should have told her that there was a biker wake going on here. She looks like she’s fitting in pretty well though.”
“Damn, beauty ain’t she?”
“She is,” he concurred solemnly.
“Wonder where she came from.”
“Why don’t you go ask her?” Blake asked, hoping it would get rid of him.
Gavin shook his head. “Nah, I’d get turned down flat, you know how girls are around me.” And then he winked again, a grossly lecherous movement of his eyes that made Blake want to punch him, if only to sober him up a bit. “Why don’t you, bud? You got that classy look, chicks dig that.”
There was some truth to that, but Blake would never admit to it. His reputation often preceded him when it came to women, and he was famous for his forays. Women found themselves exhausted by his lovemaking, and he took pride in the fact that he could get any woman he wanted, if he put his mind to it. It had become such a staple fact of his existence, that he felt he could pick and choose at this point—it gave him some smug self-satisfaction to differentiate himself from the other horny men, like Gavin, who had to bite and claw for a chance at romance.
“Fuck you,” he merely murmured.
“What? You got it, man—you know what I mean,” Gavin winked a third time.
Blake growled. “I know what you mean, but fuck you all the same, let it die,” he grumbled, and then looked back toward the bar. The mysterious woman was now surrounded by several men. He recognized one of them, a heavyset ogre with a red curly beard named, ironically, Ogre, as a particular womanizer.
The woman was strong, he had to give her credit. Twice Ogre tried to put his hand on her and she brushed him off assertively each time, leveling a kind but wary look at him that said touch me again and I’ll bust your balls. But the wake had indoctrinated the entire gang with too much booze, and Ogre wasn’t getting the hint. Blake growled again, seeing it all play out in his mind’s eye—once a bear-shifter had something in mind, it was hard enough to try and divert his or her attention from it.
Add a social lubricant like beer to the mix, and a member of the Ursa Majors could turn into a nightmare. Blake knew from experience just how out of control his little band could get, if only because on more than one occasion he had been the one that needed to be reined in. But I’m dry as a rattlesnake right now, he thought. Two more men loomed in over the woman, lusty looks clouding their eyes.
“Shit,” he said, standing up.
Gavin raised an eyebrow. “What’s up, boss?”
“Don’t fucking call me that,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
The smell of liquor was heavy in the air, a reek that would saturate itself into the ceiling and floor for weeks. It was a smell he was familiar with, something that spoke to a primal instinct, and Blake pushed his way none too gently through the crowd.
“C’mon, baby, all we’re asking for is a kiss,” one of the men said.
“We ain’t even telling you where you gotta kiss,” Ogre boomed, much to the laughter and jeers of his compatriots. The woman was still huddled over her beer, still had on a brave face, but Blake could tell from her body language—the stiffness in her arms, the way her smile was only half there—that she was regretting barging into Jack’s.
“I got a place just down the road, y’know. A lot quieter,” a third man said.
The woman sniffed. “That’s kind, but I like it here just fine,” she said, trying to make her voice louder. In another place, another time—among anyone other than bear-shifters—it would have been enough to cringe back even the most forward of men. But this was Beaver Creek. And these were Ursa Majors.
“I’m getting sick of this cold shoulder business,” Ogre muttered miserably, and reached out to grab her arm. She let out a tiny gasp of surprise and horror as his meaty fist encircled her bicep and he pulled her toward him. “Let’s quit the games. I think we both know what we want here.”
She was tiny beside him, and the merest flinch of his arm caused her to be wrested out of her chair. Now there was terror in her eyes, and Blake’s fist tightened as he made his way to Ogre and put a firm hand on the man’s shoulder.
“That’ll be enough, Ogre,” he warned.
Ogre turned, his eyes beady with rage, until he realized who it was that had admonished him. The Beta of the gang was not someone trivial, and he knew it—but he was still drunk and hyped up, and instead of letting go of the woman, he merely eyed Blake squarely.
“Nothing going on here. Just turn around, Blake, enjoy the party,” he said casually, his huge lipless mouth twisting in a perverse caricature of wriggling caterpillars. Blake could smell the heat of his breath, the awful reek of it.
“Why don’t we go and enjoy it together?” Blake offered, and made eye contact with the woman. She seemed to register that he was trying to help her, but it did little to assuage her fear.
“I ain’t got no quarrel with you.” He grimaced. “But you’re sticking your nose where it don’t belong. Leave me alone, Blake. This ain’t got nothing to do with you. Just me and the woman having a friendly chat, so take a hike. I don’t want to fight you.”
“You’re not exactly demonstrating the best Beaver Creek has to offer,” Blake said, his hand clasping Ogre’s shoulder more tightly. “Why don’t we let the nice lady go and have another drink?”
“You fucking patronizing me, now?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Blake said, eyeing him dangerously.
The other men at the bar seemed to anticipate something, and all stood back as Ogre faced down the second-in-command. Finally, he let go of the woman and she gasped and rubbed her arm. No doubt there’d be bruises there in the morning. But if that’s the worst of it, she can thank her lucky stars, Blake thought, focusing solely on the lumbering giant in front of him. Ogre had at least fifty pounds on him, but the guy was slow and cumbersome.
If possible, he had wanted to avoid just this, but the look in Ogre’s eyes told him that a fight was inevitable. He’d stood in the way of another bear-shifter, and while there wasn’t anything wrong with that, protocol dictated a reconciliation of sorts. In the case of shifters, that meant blood for blood.
“This is a wake, Ogre, let’s show respect and let it go,” he offered, and then suddenly realized how weak that made him look in the eyes of the others. He frowned. “If you want to play it old school, then you’ll be visiting the hospital. No one wants that.”
“To hell with you!” Ogre snarled, leaning forward. A number of the gang in the bar had turned their attention toward the maelstrom of anger bubbling in the center of the pub, and Blake realized he was now the center of attention for the second time that day.
Blake deftly ducked under one of Ogre’s punches as the big guy tried to lay down first blood, and the sound of the heavy arm over his head was enough to charge the Beta up. He recomposed himself and raised both hands, balancing on the balls of his feet as he waited for another attack. Ogre was drunk, and his aim of
f, but if even one of his punches landed home, that would be the end of the fight. Another swinging blow and an uppercut and Blake blocked it with the side of his arm and grunted.
“Get him, fight back!” someone in the crowd sang out, and it was joined by more cheers as the two men found themselves enclosed by eager spectators. Blake held up his fists again and looked for the woman but she was nowhere to be seen.
Ogre came again. This time, Blake stepped forward with his right food and ducked sideways under another looming punch. He twisted his body as he dodged and brought up his elbow in a back arc, feeling the satisfying impact of cartilage crunching. Ogre bubbled a whoof and staggered back, his nose fountaining blood.
“Muffucker,” he breathed, his face a red mess, and tried to grab his enemy.
Blake slapped both hands down, and lunged forward, wrapping his own arms around the behemoth and locking them around his neck. It gave him enough leverage to pull Ogre down, and at the same time he leapt up and sunk his knee deep into the man’s abdomen. Another gasping sound, like air escaping a punctured tire, and Ogre keeled over, breathing heavily on the floor and clutching at his face. It was over, fast, efficient. Even the crowd seemed surprised and bewildered at how quickly Blake had lain him out—as the Beta, he had always had to hold himself to a higher standard of behavior, according to Damian. That meant not getting in random fights among the brothers.
As a result, no one had seen Blake in one-on-one combat in a long time. And now the silent and humble reasons for why were apparent. Ogre groaned again at his feet, and even the jukebox had cut out—the pub was eerily silent for a moment. Then, all at once, it erupted back into a squalor of voices and he felt hands pushing and prodding and cheers going up. Blood sport, he thought, I didn’t mean to, but I fed them. A few of Ogre’s buddies lifted him up and dragged him back to the bar where he huddled dazed over another pint of beer, blood from his busted nose dripping steadily like a faucet into his drink.
“I told you, I told you,” Gavin was crying out in enthusiasm, “the son of a bitch is a machine. Did you see that? Hot damn, one, two and the motherfucker was out!” His excitement was infectious and seemed to carry into the rest of the crowd.
Blake tried to duck away from the attention and found it easier than anticipated. The crowd was enamored with him so much as the fight itself, and now it was over. He headed towards the door of Jack’s—it had become claustrophobic and he felt like his lungs were in a vice. As he looked back, he saw that Connor was staring at him again, and this time the two men made eye contact and held it. Connor lifted his glass in a sort of solemn salute, but his face was still the chiseled emotionless mask of a sociopath. Blake couldn’t tell what he was thinking, and merely gave a curt nod.
Outside, he took a deep breath. The rain had started to diminish, and was just a ghost of its former self. Brown puddles rippled, and the smell of the earth was pungent. Christ, he thought.
“Thank you,” a small voice beckoned, and he turned quickly and saw the woman from before leaning against the wall of the pub, her arms crossed. “I mean, for that. I’m used to dealing with assholes, but that guy… are you okay?”
Blake took a step toward her and up close saw how stunning she actually was. Her body was small and lithe, almost elfin, but all the right proportions seemed to inhabit her with a fluid grace. She rubbed her arm again through the sweater.
“Nothing to worry about,” he said, “and you’re not the first person to be intimidated by Ogre. He’s generally a pleasant guy—as far as ogres go—when he’s not drunk. I’m sorry about his behavior. You’re all right?”
She nodded again and held out her hand. “I’m Lily. Lily Walker,” she said, and he shook her hand, surprised at the warmth and strength of it. “You didn’t seem intimidated by him,” she pointed out. “Why was that? I thought he was going to tear you apart. You really surprised me.”
Not just you, he wanted to say. “He’s one of the brothers,” he said simply, “I’m used to his type—just hard when he starts to get out of control. Name’s Blake.”
“Blake,” she repeated, “good name. What do you mean he’s one of the brothers?” She seemed to notice for the first time the bikes parked around the entrance of Jack’s and opened her mouth with a little exclamation of ahh before continuing. “The owner of the hotel told me that there was a funeral or something going on, a biker gang. Take it that’s you?”
He was surprised at her directness. Most women—especially those who were upstanding, the urbanites—wouldn’t give a guy like him a second glance. Must be the suit, he thought, realizing that he was still in formal attire. Any other day she’d be looking at a butch leather clad gang leader with a history of tattoos and scars, each with a story of their own.
“Something like that,” he offered. “You ought to be careful.”
“I suppose,” she said. “Probably not a good idea to go back in, heh? I’m going to head back to my hotel, I think have a bottle of wine in my bags somewhere. Suddenly, drinking on my own seems a lot safer.” She waited for him to nod, and then her eyes grew bigger and realized he was waiting for something. “I don’t want to keep you from having fun with your friends.”
“Think I’ve had enough fun,” he cracked a smile.
“Well, in that case, do you want to share a bottle of wine with me? I figure it’s the least I can do since you saved my ass back there.”
Blake eyed her again, trying to make sense of her. Lily was a fascinating woman, and like a puzzle, he couldn’t bring himself to leave it alone until he’d solved it. He looked cautiously back at the bar where music was still blaring through the walls, and shrugged. Why not? he thought—it wasn’t every day that he got invited back to a woman’s hotel. Usually, it was the other way around.
Maybe it’ll help clear my head, he mused.
*
He followed her at a distance, but the whole time, Lily was deftly aware of the fact he was watching her every move with the practiced and patient eye of a predator. And yet, it wasn’t the same sort of predatory instinct she had felt when the so-called Ogre had assaulted her. Rather, Blake’s seemed to stem from some desire to understand her—he was, in a word, trying to stalk out who she was. She had to appreciate the irony.
She had gone to Jack’s at the warning behest of the hotel owner because the idea of actually being able to interview gang members had stirred in her that fiery reporter passion. Added to the fact that he had mentioned something about a power struggle and a possible coup within the bikers’ midst and it was all the impetus she had needed to investigate. Samson’s article on underage drinking can take a backseat, she thought, gliding into the hotel lobby. If I’m right about this, it might get me into the big leagues even faster. Not only had she found a lead, she’d managed to lure one of the key figures into her circle.
The hotel owner was nowhere to be seen and the TV was off, much to her relief, and she looked behind to make sure he was still following her. She had to admit that he did have a sort of charm, even if it was anarchical to the sort of charm most women of her station in life would deem attractive—but Lily had always been drawn to the fringe, to the exemplary, and Blake was definitely that. He gave a slight nod, and looked uncomfortable. Probably knows how the hotel owner feels about him and his gang, she thought, and had to giggle at the tiny crack in his armor.
“Is the gang always that rowdy?” she asked, trying to lead him into questions.
Blake took a moment to reply. “They’re a roughneck group of guys and girls,” he said, “who’d just as soon buy you a drink as clock you in the jaw for looking at them wrong. The funeral has got them up in a frenzy though—again, I’m sorry about Ogre.”
Lily shook her head and slipped the key into the lock of her room. Inside, she had neatly laid out her few belongings, and there was an almost obsessive-compulsive tidiness. She motioned for him to take a seat and make himself at home as she went into the washroom and turned the faucet on to wash her face.
&nbs
p; “It’s no biggie, really,” she said. “Who was the funeral for?”
At this Blake hesitated again. “A friend. Actually, our leader,” he stammered, “a good guy, all around. He’s going to be missed. But you can understand why the gang is a bit broken up about it, and why they think dousing themselves in booze will help.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, and surprised herself at how sincerely it came out. I’m not a monster, she tried to reconcile. She had a job to do, and a possible story, and had already slipped into that faux caricature of herself in order to make Blake feel more comfortable. Then why do I have a lousy feeling about what I’m doing? she wondered. She was used to this sort of play-acting in order to loosen the tongues of people, and took a special pride in it. And yet, as she peered around the corner of the bathroom and saw Blake sitting with his arms on his knees and his face etched in a sort of distance contemplation, she felt a stab of guilt.
“In any case,” the biker said, and he began to slacken his tie, “life goes on, as it is.”
“As it is,” she agreed, coming back out and opening a bottle of wine she had brought with her—she’d planned to drink it by herself after getting the scoop on Samson’s stories, but this seemed as ideal a time as any. She poured two glasses and handed him one. “Here’s to your friend. Your boss. May he rest in peace.”
They clinked their glasses and she kept her eyes on him as they both drank deeply. Once again, she felt herself restraining a swoon at the masculine figure she had invited back to her hotel, and she began to wonder if there wasn’t some other subconscious reason she had made the offer.
“What are you doing here?” he suddenly asked, blatantly, and then softened his meaning. “That is, you’re clearly not from around here. But you’ve got just about as much grit as some of those guys that were hassling you.”
