The Rock Star and the Wolf (Siren Publishing Classic ManLove)

by JC Holly

  “Great.” He sighed and pulled out his cellphone. “It would be the fucking lead singer.”

  He sent a text to a memorized phone number that read, “Hey, did that favor you asked for. Bit of a hassle, though.” A reply came back almost instantly, saying, “Yeah? What happened?”

  He chewed his lip as he decided how best to put “the prick possibly infected a millionaire singer who’s constantly in the public eye” into something less incriminating if intercepted. In the end he settled on, “Just a little bite. Probably nothing. Oh, saw Mitch Shaw from The Twisted Nails, too. :-)”

  This time there was a longer wait before the reply. “Any chance of a signed photo?” Or in English, could he get to the guy. “Leave it with me,” he replied, simply, then put his phone away.

  Getting close to the man would be tricky. He was used to a challenge, but his skills lay elsewhere. Enhanced senses and a centuries-old magical dagger wouldn’t get him that far in this case.

  He turned his attention back to the web page. The guy was cute, that was for certain, and according to a few websites, he was single. Maybe if Harlan figured out where he was staying, he could hit a few upscale bars and see if he got lucky. The sites also said he was straight. Damn shame. I wouldn’t mind showing him a good time or three.

  Harlan flipped on the small TV. So far there was nothing on the news about the attack. Hopefully it wouldn’t be considered important enough, but given the way celebrities were practically worshipped, he wouldn’t be surprised if it made the headlines.

  He sighed and started searching the Internet for information on where Mitch Shaw might be headed. Apparently his band’s tour had just ended, and they were now on a break for at least a few months. That was good news, at least. The press would be hounding him less, meaning Mitch might head out more.

  A browse on a social-networking site told him that the bus had been spotted around the back of one of the fancy hotels in a city about three hour’s drive away. The post had been made ten minutes ago. Harlan glanced at the clock. He could be in the city by late afternoon if he set off immediately. He pulled his backpack from under the bed and started to pack what meager possessions he carried with him on jobs, then remembered his phone. He pulled it out and passed on Mitch’s whereabouts via a cheerful text, then added, “Might get that photo after all.”

  * * * *

  Some of the band had complained about the unscheduled detour—it meant that their stop in Vegas would be a day shorter—but Mitch used his wound to play on their sympathies, as well as pointing out that the city had a large number of nightclubs, and they had eventually agreed to stop at the hotel.

  As soon as they had parked and checked in, Mitch headed straight to his room on the top floor, along with Carr and Keith, the bass player. The trip up in the elevator was mostly about what keys were best to play in. By the time the doors pinged open Mitch almost ran to his room.

  They had stayed at the hotel before, as it was known for its strict anonymity. As Mitch could attest, you could bring anyone back to your room and the press would never hear of it. His kind of place.

  Once he’d locked the door, he headed into the bathroom and ran a bath, then stripped off while he waited. He realized with amusement that the idea of bringing someone back had brought his cock to rigid attention.

  “I guess it has been a while.”

  He rubbed his thumb over the tip of his cock, then began to stroke the shaft, picturing himself picking up some hot guy in a shady bar, then sneaking him in the back entrance and into his room. Then he’d break out the lube, bend over, and let them fuck him raw.

  He stopped stroking and shook his head. It wasn’t good enough. He needed the real thing.

  Chapter Three

  Harlan pulled his rented car into the parking lot of the latest of a string of motels and rented a room. As much as he believed his job was important, the long-distance jobs were a killer, and this last one took the cake. He hadn’t slept in his own bed in weeks, thanks to the merry chase Brubeck had led him on. Harlan had always been one step behind the man, arriving in towns and cities only to find the man had left. Now he knew it was because the man was following the band’s tour schedule, but at the time he’d been clueless.

  The break in the case had been when Harlan caught a glimpse of the shifter in a rental car, heading out of town. After some detective work and the assistance of local packs, he’d been able to track the man down. If only that had been the end of it. Why couldn’t Brubeck have waited another minute to attack? Harlan could have got there and stopped him before he bit the singer, and all would be fine and dandy.

  Harlan jammed his key into the motel door a little too viciously, then slammed it shut behind him. On the bright side, he told himself, Brubeck was dead. He couldn’t kill any more innocents or turn any more into weres, then leave them alone and confused like he had done a dozen times at least.

  Harlan rubbed at his eyes and sat on the edge of the bed. “Life was so much easier when I was human.”

  Hell, life was easier when he was just another shifter, living a normal life during the day and hunting game with his pack at night. Back before he was promoted to second in his pack, the alpha’s bodyguard. Back before he gained a reputation for being both a fair man and a vicious fighter, and thus gained the attention of the newly revitalized Ancients.

  Leaving his pack was the hardest thing he had ever had to do. It was helped by the fact that he knew what he was doing would be good for his people, both human and shifter, but still…

  He sighed and kicked off his shoes. Dwelling on the past was for drunks. The here and now was what mattered. He was saving lives and making sure those that took them paid the ultimate price. He held out his hand and willed the dagger known as The Executioner into existence, then spun it in his palm.

  “There are more important things than sleeping in my own bed,” he said aloud, before dismissing the blade.

  Like Mitch Shaw, for instance. If the man was only bitten, Harlan could go on his merry way. But if Brubeck had bitten him and willed the curse to pass over, Harlan would have to show the singer what it meant to be a shifter, and how to cope with the change.

  He hoped it was the first of the two possibilities.

  * * * *

  Mitch slid out of his bath and into the fluffy white robe the hotel had supplied. The logo of the hotel was embossed on the breast in a futile attempt to stop people stealing them. Hell, he could afford a thousand better robes and he was still tempted to stuff it in a suitcase.

  As he padded into the bedroom, the strains of thumping music could be heard from the direction of Carr’s room. It wasn’t like him to crank the metal, even when he was drunk as he probably was then. Mitch shrugged it away as he fiddled with his bandage. The dressing came off in a soggy heap, revealing a neat crescent of dark stitches stretching from the outside of his hand to part way down his wrist.

  Surprisingly there was no pain at all now. He flexed it experimentally, then snapped his hand up and down a few times. Nothing. The painkillers Carr gave him must have been good ones. Nobody healed that fast.

  The plan for the evening had been decided upon in the bath. Order room service, eat enough to stop his stomach bitching, don his disguise, and grab a taxi to the nearest gay bar.

  He dropped onto the edge of the bed and plucked the phone from its cradle. The call was answered on the first ring.

  “Yes, Mister Shaw?” a friendly female voice asked.

  “Hi, I’d like to order some food.” He gazed at the menu. “I have a real hankering for steak.”

  “Of course, sir. How about our steak au poivre?”

  “I have no idea what that is.”

  “It’s steak in peppercorns with a cognac sauce. I’m told it’s lovely.”

  “Ah, no thanks. How about just a big steak with thick fries on the side?”

  “And a Coke?”

  Mitch laughed. “It’s like you know me.”

  The woman laughed. “And how
do you like your steak?”

  “Well done.” He paused. “Actually, for some reason I’d like it rare.”

  “Rare it is. It’ll be about thirty minutes, if that’s okay?”

  “That’s fine. Thanks for the help.”

  He hung up the phone and lay back on the bed. He was pretty sure he should be tired, given the attack, followed by a distinct lack of sleep. In fact the last time he’d slept for more than a few hours was a week ago.

  “Guess I’m still full of adrenaline.”

  Or something else. He chewed his lip, then picked up the phone again and asked the receptionist to put a call through to Carr’s room.

  “Hey, Mitch. Arm bugging you?”

  “No, actually it’s great. I was wondering about those painkillers I took. Were they something special?”

  “Just regular stuff.” The thumping music was turned down. “Why, you getting side effects? I can come over if you are.”

  “Nothing like that. If anything I feel great. Wide awake, no pain. It’s weird.”

  “Well, I’m no expert, but maybe it’s the shock. It can do fucked-up stuff to the body sometimes.”

  “Explains why I’m craving rare steak.”

  Carr laughed. “Not really. Anything planned tonight?”

  “The usual. Early night, et cetera.”

  “So you’re sneaking out to get laid.”

  Mitch sat bolt upright. “How did you guess?”

  “You always do that at the end of a tour. Not that I’m saying it’s a bad thing. Hell, I’ve got a couple of fans waiting for me downstairs. I’m going to give the tour of my bed.”

  Mitch shook his head. “Have fun.”

  “You too. Be careful with that arm, though.”

  “Promise.”

  The call ended. He jumped up from the bed and pulled off his robe then slid out his suitcase. Most of the stuff in there was stage stuff. Overly tight jeans, torn shirts, the usual rock stuff his band’s fans loved. He had remembered to bring some casual stuff too, though, and pulled out a pair of regular slacks and a blue shirt. Nothing too fancy, but he didn’t want to stand out anyway.

  As he finished dressing there was a knock at the door. He could smell the food already and hurried over to let the waiter in, then signed the bill and handed him a couple of fifties, one for him, one for the phone attendant. He’d made the mistake before of not tipping properly, and it had been on the Internet the next day.

  The waiter left, considerably happier than he had been on entry, and Mitch put the tray on the bed and whipped off the cover. Damn, it looked even better than it smelled, and he tore into it with relish. He must have been hungrier than he thought, as the meal was the best thing he could remember eating in a long time. Especially the steak.

  Finished, he headed to the bathroom to check his hair and redress his arm, then headed out the door.

  * * * *

  There had been no further communication from headquarters, so Harlan kept to the plan. He’d hit a few clubs, try and catch Mitch’s scent, then attempt to talk to him without the guy thinking he was some random fan after an autograph.

  Normally any shifter could identify another shifter just through an innate sense. With someone who had only just been bitten, though, it rarely worked. Then again, Brubeck had been an old wolf, which meant his bite was more potent. Either way, Harlan would have to get close to find out. At least within thirty feet or so.

  The motel room’s bathroom was nothing more than a shower cubicle, tiny sink, and toilet, but it was enough for Harlan’s needs. He quickly washed the miles of travelling from his body, then slipped into a pair of jeans and a polo shirt. He wasn’t looking for anyone other than Mitch, so he hardly needed to put a lot of effort into preening. After a quick glance in the mirror he headed out the door.

  Most of the bars in the area were located on two streets only a couple of miles from his motel, but since he may need to follow Mitch around, he jumped into his car and parked as close to the first street as he could.

  The first club he came across was a gay bar. It wasn’t where he’d find Mitch, but he paused as he passed the place. It was still early, after all. Rockstars were like bats, and only came out late, right? A few drinks in the company of good-looking men before the hunt wouldn’t hurt.

  The doormen let him straight in, as usually happened. Maybe they could sense that trying to stop him was more than their jobs were worth. Still, he flashed them both a big smile as he headed in. He had enough enemies as it was.

  The bar was small and new. The raised dance floor in the center was already half full of gyrating bodies. So distracted with the various body parts in tight clothing, Harlan almost missed a familiar scent.

  In the darkness of a corner booth sat Mitch Shaw, his hair brushed flat unlike his usual outlandish style, and a thick pair of glasses perched on his nose. The simple disguise probably worked, though. After all, he was in a dark bar surrounded by people drinking alcohol. The loud music would likely make his voice harder to identify, too.

  Harlan realized with a sinking feeling that he could detect something different about the man. It wasn’t strong yet, but the man had definitely been infected. Harlan clenched his jaw for a moment, then headed to the bar and ordered a whisky. His job had just got ten times harder.

  “Fuckin’ Brubeck,” he muttered as he knocked back the drink.

  “That an ex-boyfriend, hun?” the bartender asked.

  “Well, he fucked me, that’s for certain.” Harlan turned and nodded to Mitch in the corner. “What’s the guy over there drinking?”

  “Jack and Coke. Want me to pour you one?”

  He nodded. “Thanks, cutie.”

  The bartender winked and slid the drink to him. “I’d give him a minute, though. The guy’s only just come in and he seems pretty nervous. Might be a newbie.”

  “Oh, he is.”

  Harlan sat back on his stool for a minute, covertly watching Mitch. The guy was cute, definitely, with shaggy black hair and bright eyes. Skinny without being rake thin, not too tall… Harlan’s type. He had spent an hour or two watching the man’s music videos. He seemed to be a talented singer, and according to his website, he wrote most of the songs, too.

  A guy swished his way over to Mitch’s table and bent over to chat with him. Mitch was clearly uninterested and the man soon headed off back to the dance floor. Harlan smirked and stood. Now was as good a time as any to introduce himself.

  “Hey,” he said as he approached the table. “Drink?”

  Mitch’s neutral expression turned to a smile when he saw Harlan. “Thanks. You, uh, you come here much?”

  Harlan smiled back. Bless, he’s nervous. “Just passing through. You?”

  “Same.” Mitch gestured to a seat. “Want to sit?”

  “Sure.”

  Harlan settled across from the man. Damn it, Brubeck. Already Mitch was beginning to change. The man may not have noticed anything more than an increased appetite, or a reduction in aches and pains, but it wouldn’t be long before he’d be confused as hell by what was happening.

  Harlan glanced away for a moment, trying to figure out how best to broach the subject of the paranormal, when Mitch spoke.

  “Wanna go someplace quieter?”

  “Hmm?”

  The man reeked of lust. “You know.” He lowered his voice. “Somewhere that involves less clothing.”

  Harlan felt his body react to the proposal before his mouth could. The guy certainly didn’t beat around the bush. While his employers had no rules against such thing, he had his own morals to think about. On the other hand, it had been a while since he’d got laid, and he was as horny as a three-balled tomcat.

  “I’ve got a room at a local motel,” he said. “Or if you have somewhere better in mind?”

  Mitch shook his head and downed his drink. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Four

  Mitch knew he was taking a chance by heading to a stranger’s rented room, but he didn’t care. He
didn’t know why, but ever since leaving the hotel he’d felt pretty damn invincible. His arm didn’t hurt, he wasn’t in the least bit tired, and he was convinced that he could handle anything the world decided to throw at him.

  Plus, y’know, the guy was hot.

  He’d introduced himself as Harlan. His accent had hints of a hundred different places, leaving Mitch—who was going with Mike for the evening—with no clue as to where he was from originally. He didn’t ask, as he knew how these one-night deals worked out. You talk too much and some of the guys lost all interest. They wanted sex, not a chat.

  That was fine with Mitch, anyway. That’s all he wanted tonight, too. “Get some, get gone,” as Carr so eloquently put it.

  “So, how do you like it?” Harlan said, as he let Mitch into the motel room.

  “It’s nice, I guess.” Mitch nodded to the wallpaper. “Always been a fan of lime green.”

  Harlan laughed, a low rumble that made Mitch shiver. “I meant the sex.”

  “Oh, right. Hard and fast.”

  He smiled. “Works for me. Take off your clothes.”

  Mitch hesitated. This part was always a worry. Not that he had anything to be ashamed of, but there was almost that moment of nervousness, no matter how hard he worked out. He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off, dropping it on the floor.

  Harlan frowned. “Huh.”

  Mitch’s stomach clenched. “What?”

  “That bandage. You hurt yourself.”

  He glanced down. “Oh. Yeah, dog bite. No biggy.”

  Harlan nodded, then gestured to Mitch’s pants. “Take ’em off and turn around.”

  Mitch did as he was told and slid his pants down his legs, along with his underwear, then spun to face the bed. Harlan stepped up behind him and snaked a hand around to grip Mitch’s hardening cock.