by Aline Hunter
She hurried around the end of the massive four-post bed and came to a matching antique dresser. The first drawer consisted of neatly folded black boxer briefs, the second was full of thin white T-shirts and the third was stocked full of black socks. It was the essential fourth drawer that delivered pay dirt. Jeans were folded neatly inside, along with a few pairs of black sweatpants.
She hiked a pair of the cotton pants out and slung them on. When she finished tying the cord snugly at the waist she bent over, folded the material and rolled the legs up until she could walk without falling. Her New Balance sneakers were placed at the end of the bed along with her messenger bag and she scurried over to them. Crouching down, she worked her feet inside the shoes and picked up the tote.
Opening the window was easy, and she understood why after she climbed down the chute and took the ten-foot plunge to the concrete below. Bright red bricks clashed against the blue sky from one end of the building to the other. Diskant Black, the Omega of the New York Boroughs, lived in an old fire station.
She wanted to laugh but decided it was best saved for the subway ride home. Holding on to the bag draped across her chest, she took off in a dead run, winding through the cars that indicated she was in some place on the Upper East Side.
And she didn’t look back.
* * * * *
His body was humming, his blood was on fire and his balls were ready to explode. Diskant reached down and shifted his throbbing cock, grimacing as the rough texture of his jeans chafed the skin. A cold shower wouldn’t do shit now. One taste, one tiny fucking sample of what pleasures lay in store and the female upstairs had him wrapped around her little finger.
Pinkie, indeed.
It had taken all of his control to take it slow, to allow her take the lead and set the pace—and fucking hell, what a pace. She was everything a woman should be: hot, soft, willing, eager. Best of all, she only needed one tiny kiss and a few lingering caresses to make her sweet pussy weep. The aroma of her arousal as she surrendered to him had almost broken his resolve. He could almost taste how delicious she’d be, hot and musky, with a hint of cinnamon and spice.
His mouth had watered at the prospect of going down on her, especially upon his earlier discovery when he’d cleaned her up and put her in his bed. While removing her clothes to launder, he’d inadvertently snagged her lacy panties in her jeans, and, well, he couldn’t help but look. She was completely bare downstairs, as smooth and silken as a baby’s bottom. A triangle of blonde curls would be nice but seeing her hairless pink lips got him hotter than a wolf during the mating heat.
Christ.
Diskant followed the scent of his visitor, hooking a right past the kitchen with Oscar on his heels. The entire firehouse had been gutted after he purchased it. Aside from the large garage, upstairs bedrooms and two stainless steel poles, it was as posh as his place in Miami. The rooms were all modernized, including the kitchen and bathrooms. And of course, there was the one room the pack loved most. Fifty feet long and thirty feet wide, the basement housed a sixty-inch plasma television, a wraparound couch and a regulation-sized slate pool table. There was more than enough space to accommodate the dozen or so pack members who came to enjoy the game, as well as any females they brought along for shits and giggles.
“There you are, man.” Trey lowered a keg to the floor and moved away from the bar. “I was just stocking up for the game. Nathan has the eats. He said he should be here in thirty.”
Diskant’s oldest and closest friend was also the werewolf Alpha of New York and, consequently, ruled over the largest pack in the northeastern portion of the United States. That made him one bad motherfucker. Trey was dressed in his usual football gear—New York Giants jersey, jeans and scuffed sneakers. Though nowhere near as tall as Diskant’s six feet, six inches, he still stood imposing at a nice, even six-foot-two. His body, while lithe and lean, carried the scars that proved he knew how to scrap in a fight.
As an Alpha, learning to fight was as essential as a diver learning how to swim.
Trey brushed his hands over his short brown hair. He stopped, his honey-colored eyes inquisitive. “What’s with the sweater? And why do you look ready to kill someone? Did things go shitty with the stray?”
“You could say that.” Diskant tried to cool his ardor by accepting what he’d tried to deny the past twelve hours. He looked Trey in the eye and said, “I’ve found my mate.”
Curiosity was quickly replaced with shock. “Come again?”
He shook his head and lowered his eyes, staring at the Berber carpet. “Last night after I took care of the stray, I came upon a scuffle. Two vamps versus one human female. I got rid of the leeches, went to check on the girl and the next thing I knew all of my beasts are fighting for a place at the front of the line. I brought her home, cleaned her up and tried to stay as far away from her as possible. But when she woke up and I went to talk to her…fuck.”
Diskant walked to the bar, reached over the counter and snagged a bottle of Grey Goose. If he couldn’t bargain with his raging cock, he could at the very least attempt to appease it with a good, mind-numbing buzz.
“Let me guess,” Trey said from behind him. “You couldn’t keep your hands off her?”
“Hell no,” he answered as he began unscrewing the bottlecap. “I was like a kid in a candy store.”
Trey leaned against the bar. “She’s here? Right now?”
“Affirmative.”
Trey snatched the bottle before he could take a swig, causing the clear liquid to splash from the neck of the glass container. “Then what the fuck are you doing down here with me?”
Diskant lifted his head, meeting his friend’s amused stare. What was he doing down here? His female was waiting upstairs for him, clothed in nothing more than a cotton sweatshirt and her underwear. The image of her flushed face came to mind. Lips swollen, pebbled pink nipples erect, dark blue eyes clouded with desire and confusion. And he’d left her inside the closet like nothing more than a discarded blanket, with her body needy and her pussy dripping.
Like a goddamn asshole.
Fuck.
“Tell everyone that upstairs is off limits. Let yourselves out. I don’t plan on coming downstairs any time soon.”
Trey extended a hand, nodding. “I’m happy for you, D. Things like this don’t happen often for our kind.”
Accepting the gesture, Diskant took Trey’s hand in his own, shook and agreed. “You’re right. They don’t.” Alphas stayed single the longest. No one knew why. It didn’t make a hell of a lot of sense as mates grounded and centered a male. It wasn’t fair, especially for someone like Trey, who had waited centuries.
“So what’s her name?” Trey released his hand, bent across the bar and returned the bottle to its proper place.
As a male, Diskant had never experienced shame—until that question. The other half of his soul waited just upstairs, the woman he would spend eternity with, and he only knew her by a nickname he’d bestowed.
“Pinkie.”
Trey grinned. “Pinkie?”
“Don’t ask.” He motioned to the mutt sprawled at his feet. “Can you take care of Oscar while you’re here?”
“Fugly?” Trey smiled when the dog lifted his head and growled. “Sure.”
Diskant quieted the dog by patting him on the head. “Thanks, man. I’ll call you later.”
He left the room and went directly into the kitchen. The food he’d prepared earlier in the morning was in the microwave—ham, biscuits and scrambled eggs. He nuked the plate while he retrieved the butter, raspberry jelly and a container of orange juice. After tossing it all on a tray, he exited the kitchen and went directly for the bedroom, forgoing a trip to the laundry room. To hell with her clothes. She wouldn’t need those for a while. After she ate it would be his turn to feast. And he planned to take his time enjoying every single nook and cranny of her body.
The smell of muggy New York air hit his nose the instant he opened the door and he knew. A quick glance
at the open window and the floor where her shoes and satchel no longer remained confirmed it.
She was gone.
Tossing the tray onto the dresser, he rushed to the window, consumed by panic and fury. He never should have left her alone, not as she was. She was aroused, but before that she had been terrified. Of course she’d flee. He’d given her no reason not to.
I don’t even know her name.
“Trey!” he roared and strode to the bed to retrieve the pillow she’d slept on.
Heavy footsteps from downstairs sounded like a running-of-the-bulls stampede. His friend appeared in the doorway in seconds, braced for war and ready to rumble.
“What’s wrong?”
“She’s gone,” he snarled in disgust, furious at himself. “I shouldn’t have left her alone. Not until I explained things to her.”
He threw the pillow at Trey and went to the closet to retrieve his shoes. “That’s hers. When everyone else gets here I want you to have them take a sniff, memorize it and split up. Tell them she’s wearing a sweatshirt covered by my scent and that she’s on foot. I’m going to try to track her from here.”
“Why don’t you call Wade? He can locate anyone with a few clicks of his laptop.”
Diskant returned from the closet, shoes in hand. “Because you have to have a name to give him.”
Trey narrowed his eyes. “You said her name was Pinkie.”
“I started calling her that while she was unconscious.” Diskant pulled a pair of socks from the dresser and sat on the bed to put on his shoes, adding sheepishly, “I didn’t have the chance to ask for her real name when she came to.”
“So you don’t know her name?
“No.”
“Or where she lives?
“No.”
“How about where she works?”
“No,” he snapped.
“Then what do you know?” Trey asked impatiently.
“She’s lucky if she’s an inch over five feet. She’s blonde, beautiful and has the biggest blue eyes I’ve ever fucking seen.”
And she smells like heaven.
“That’s all you’ve got to go on? In a city as big as New York?”
He stood and collected his cell and wallet. “Correct.”
“I hate to tell you this,” Trey stopped him with a hand on the shoulder and nailed him with a level stare, “but you’re fucked.”
Chapter Three
“I need two shots of Jack, two shots of Hennessy and a tall mug of Smithwick’s. And can you put a move on it? I’ve been waiting over ten minutes.”
Ava nodded at the abrasive command and kept moving down the line, working on three previous orders while trying to keep the incoming ones separate. The club was slammed, the bar was packed and it wasn’t even close to peak yet.
What a crappy way to spend—
“You’re the birthday girl, huh?” A roaming hand accompanied the question and she was forced to remain still as a dollar bill was placed into the clip affixed to her blouse that announced she was another year older. When the man finished he patted the area above her breast. “Don’t spend it all in one place, sweetheart.”
She smirked at the asshole and kept going. All she had to do was make it through the next four hours. After which she would be on a bus to Sevierville, Tennessee. Her own private haven from the world. The time couldn’t pass quickly enough.
“Ava!” her boss barked from the other end of the bar. “We’re going to do the auction in a few minutes. I want to get it done before ten!”
She stopped in the middle of pouring a shot of Crown, turned to him and shook her head. “No way, Brett,” she screamed over the voices. “You suckered me into working tonight but that’s it.”
Brett topped off a mug of beer and handed it to a server. He wiped his hands on a towel tucked inside his black dress slacks and walked over. She returned to the half-empty shot glass and resumed pouring when she felt him at her back.
“It’s tradition, Ava.”
“I don’t care.” She walked to the left and placed the drink on a tray. “I’m not auctioning myself off to the highest bidder to make a quick buck.”
“You know it’s not like that. It’s all in good fun.”
She spun around and faced the bartender, part-time DJ and owner of Club Liminality. He was a woman’s wet dream—tall, blond hair, green eyes, a masculine face with a slightly crooked nose and the most amazing smile you’d ever seen—but the boss wasn’t one to sleep around. That was one of the things she admired most about the man. However, Brett dabbled in some kind of magic she pretended not to be aware of. Months of working together and she still didn’t have a fix on what he was.
“I said no. We’re not in Kansas and this isn’t a barnyard social. When I want strange men to bid on my,” she lifted her fingers and made bunny ears, “picnic basket, I’ll let you know, Yogi.”
“What’s with you?” Brett stayed her hand with a light touch of his fingers when she reached for a clean shot glass under the counter and called another server over to pick up the slack when he pulled her to the side. He lowered his voice when they stood against the backdrop. “The last few weeks you’ve been edgy as hell. You don’t stick around after close. You don’t come in early to shoot the shit. You don’t even cut up with the customers anymore. You come in, do your job and clock out. Don’t think everyone hasn’t noticed.”
His concerned face was too difficult to deny and she found herself caving with a half-truth. She was sure her coworkers noticed the shift in her behavior. Four weeks after leaving a certain Omega high and dry and she still couldn’t get the man out of her head. Following what could have been sure disaster, she had barricaded herself inside her home, ventured out only when necessary and told Craig Newlander he could take the locket and shove it where the sun didn’t shine. Unfortunately, after a few weeks the hermit lifestyle had started to get to her. She was a social creature by nature and missed the interaction at the club. Not to mention her rounding ass missed her usual routine at the gym. It was time to reconnect with the world and get her head on straight.
“I just really need this vacation. Some quiet time alone will help me regroup.” When he frowned she patted his hand. “Scout’s honor.”
Brett moved close to whisper, “I know you don’t want to do the auction but think of it as an early vacation present. It’s crowded, the alcohol is flowing and people are bound to be loose with their wallets. It’s one dance.” She met his grass-green eyes and he continued, “Humor me. Let the club send you off with a nice, fat bonus.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I’ll work your schedule so that you’re on every Saturday night for a year.”
That elicited a wince. A year of Saturday nights would damn near kill her.
Brett smiled when she rolled her eyes and nodded. He hiked his head to the right, in the direction of a large group of shifters. “Take care of the bikers and meet me on the center stage.”
She watched Brett walk away before she turned her attention to the group at the far end of the bar. A pang of apprehension stalled her. To the average bear they would look like bikers—covered in leather and sporting multiple tattoos—but when she reached out with her mind there was nothing to greet her.
Damn.
Another thing that had changed in the last few weeks was the notable absence of shifters at the club. She noticed the first night she had returned to work after meeting Diskant Black that the fur-sprouting populace weren’t making their usual appearances and had hoped that maybe they found a new club to frequent. Apparently not, since they were back in force. There were six of them total, four men and two women. The men were regulars, although she could only place their faces. Snagging a clean towel and wiping her hands, she marched over and stopped when her breasts pressed against the wooden counter.
“What can I get you?”
One by one they named their poison—vodka, whiskey, whiskey, Cape Cod, Orange Rambler—until she got to the last man perche
d halfway across the counter. He was a regular she recognized, one who usually sat quietly at the bar observing everything around him. His short brown hair was messy and his face was scruffy by lack of a recent shave. Yet his caramel eyes were on full alert, and when she met his stare she realized they were frozen on her.
“Yuengling on tap.”
She steeled herself not to look away when she asked, “Tall or short?”
“Tall.”
As she made the drinks she felt the weight of the shifter’s stare. He watched her as she collected the glasses, poured the shots, mixed the Rambler and Cape Cod and made her way to the station to fill the tall, icy mug with the lager of his choice.
She brought the drinks over and placed them onto the counter. “That’ll be thirty-two even.”
“I’ve got it.” He broke his stare to retrieve his wallet. He sorted through the cash inside, removed a couple of bills and passed them over. “Keep the change.”
She shied away when she extended her hand to accept the cash and, instead of handing it over, he brought his head closer, sniffing the air.
She yelped when his chin brushed her hand and she staggered across an empty box on the floor. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Your perfume,” he answered. “It seems familiar.”
Angry now, she took a step forward, snatched the cash and informed him briskly, “I don’t wear perfume, Pepé.”
His hand shot out before she could make a hasty departure, strong fingers winding snugly around her wrist. He brought his body halfway across the counter and pressed his nose to her palm, his nostrils flaring at the mound of Venus. The shifters with him went quiet, observing curiously.
“Definitely familiar,” he growled in a low timbre.
“Let go of my arm,” she said each word distinctly. “Before I call security over.”
