Lone Wolf (A Breed MC Book Book 4)

by Anne Marsh

  Gator had mentioned earlier that he had church today, which turns out to be biker code for club meeting. He’d mentioned that he’d be home later tonight after he’d wrapped up things with his boys, but I can’t wait. You know that line in When Harry Met Sally, when Harry goes tearing after Sally at the end of the movie to declare his newly discovered love for his best friend? I’m Team Harry. Like him, I can’t wait. I want the rest of my life to start right now even if I’m unclear on the details.

  I get dressed in a rush, grabbing the first semi-clean clothes I find, and then make my way over to the clubhouse like a grandma because I’m not doing anything to jeopardize Bean. The parking lot outside the clubhouse is filled with motorcycles. A handful of prospects are keeping an eye on the bikes, and one of them waves me into an empty spot. Naturally, Fang is with them. I think Gator nominated him to be in charge of the newbies because Fang is like Peter Pan and refuses to grow up.

  As soon as I’m out of my car, Fang bounces up. “How’s my best boy doing?”

  I’m having a baby, and he wants cat updates.

  I’m suddenly shy, which is stupid. The Bean isn’t my fault any more than it is Gator’s, but he—or she—is someone we need to look out for. To love. Gator’s not big on expressing himself, but I know he feels strongly about his club brothers. Bean may not be a biker—yet—but Gator will make a good dad. I’m certain of this.

  “Is the meeting over? Is it okay to go inside?”

  I have no idea how long “church” lasts. When I asked Gator why they called their business meetings “church,” he couldn’t tell me. But maybe it’s because they last the length of an average religious service? But which one? Mass runs an hour, but some people worship all day. Or go more than once.

  “Yeah. It’s over.” Fang hesitates though, which is weird because he usually jumps into anything and everything headfirst. Gator once joked that Fang didn’t come with an off switch, and I believe it. “Might want to hang back a few minutes.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Keelie Sue’s been throwing up something fierce.”

  Something large and metallic crashes nearby, and a prospect starts cursing. Fang bolts over to see what’s up, so I take advantage of his distraction to slip inside. If Gator is still talking business, I’ll hang back inside. And if Keelie Sue is puking, I can hold her hair and go look for a ginger ale or something.

  For all the Breed have a reputation as hell-raising, felony-committing, law-breaking rebels, their place looks like the JCPenney furniture department exploded. They’ve got a bunch of old couches, one of which is upholstered in a purple and blue plaid that no self-respecting factory has made since the Eighties. There is a collection of pool tables, a bar with a life-sized tiki man (with an outsized dick someone’s Saran-wrapped), and plenty of neon bar signs decorating the walls. A couple of girls are cuddled up with a few guys, but there’s no one I know. Since sometimes Gator hangs out in the offices, I duck down the hallway and start looking for my man.

  My man.

  I like the sound of that.

  Not that I’m planning on putting a ring on it, but we’re together, he and I. He, I, and the Bean. Thinking of ourselves as a trio is definitely going to take some getting used to. The office door is closed when I reach it, but I can hear Jace and then Gator’s low rumble. The door’s not shut all the way.

  “She’s done working in the bayou?”

  “Lost her grant funding,” Gator says.

  I expect Jace to make some kind of commiserating noise. Except… he doesn’t.

  “Thank fuck.” He sounds like he means it, too. “How’d you manage that?”

  “Jesus,” Gator snaps. “I talked to a few people, okay? Made some donations and suggested that the Weppley Foundation develop a sudden interest in Minah birds or any kind of wildlife that wasn’t four-legged. They went for it.”

  The warm Bean-glow in my stomach turns into something bitter and way more acid. It would serve them right if I puked on the floor right here. The bastards could step in it.

  “You find any evidence of wolves on her hardware?”

  “Told you,” Gator says impatiently. “If you want someone to go through her laptop, I’m not your guy. Put Fang on it. But I didn’t see anything. Only had a problem once out in the field, too. She found a kill site that looks like it belonged to T.D. and his wolves.”

  I have no clue who T.D. is, but the rest of this is starting to sound a little too familiar. Once again, the guy in my life has decided that he has special dispensation to screw with my research. And yet it doesn’t make any sense at all. Is Gator working for a rival foundation? For some developer who doesn’t want wolf preservation to come between him and his new housing development?

  “You take care of it?”

  “Yeah,” Gator says like it’s no BFD. “Like I said before, I cleaned up the tracks. She couldn’t prove it was a wolf kill, and then I shut down her funding. Fucking sucks, messing up her life like that. Have to admit that I feel bad about it, but she’s a sweetheart. Went right where I led.”

  He feels bad about it? Rage replaces the nausea I’m feeling. Trust me, he said. Right. What the hell happened to this relationship thing? Or building something between us? The whole time, he was just molding me to be the way he wanted me. Stupid. Gullible. I give in to the urge to get the fuck out of here, but I’m proud of myself. I make like a ninja in my leaving, and that gives me so many new options.

  For example, when I sneak out of the clubhouse, no one’s paying attention to me. That’s the upside of not screaming at Gator that he appears to be a lying sack of shit who’s screwed up my life. I’d like to give him the benefit of the doubt, and I definitely have to take responsibility for putting myself in a position where my grant funding was ever at risk, but he’s clearly played a big role in my ending up broke and unemployed. If these were the Academy Awards, he’d be up for Best Supporting Actor at the very least. So I think it’s time to reward him, don’t you?

  It’s not hard to find his bike. Like its owner, the Harley is big, dark, and snarly-looking. Gator doesn’t go in for bling or extra chrome—his bike is all sleek, powerful lines and black leather. Objectively speaking, his bike is gorgeous. Like its owner’s dick, ass, abs… you name it. I’ll bet Gator loves his bike. I’ll bet it’s his baby.

  Baby.

  The panic I’ve been suppressing tries to climb on top of the anger like a drowning person scaling a lifeguard. I shove it back down and rummage in my purse, coming up with my car keys. After a quick glance around to make sure none of the prospects are looking my way, I drag the keys over the slick black paint. Sure, it’s petty to take pleasure in marking up Gator’s bike, but it makes me feel better. Unfortunately, he’s either invested in top quality paint or my keys are weak. I barely manage to scratch the surface. I try again with similar results before I give up and move on to Plan B.

  Plan B involves the bottle of hot pink nail polish rattling around in my purse, some fashion tape, and the pregnancy test. After all, Gator really should know that he’s about to become a daddy, right? Not telling him would be wrong. I have to make it quick because I can hear booted feet headed my direction, so I paint baby and fuck you on every inch of black and chrome I can reach. FYI? The nail polish stretches a surprisingly long way. When the bottle’s empty, I tape the peed-on stick to Gator’s seat.

  Message. Delivered.

  The next step in my plan is to revenge eat (I need to hit up the local doughnut store) and hole up alone because I have some thinking to do. I need to think, to be alone, to find a magic wand that can solve all my problems. No. No magic wand. No white knights, no rescues, no miraculous deus ex machina solutions to the shit storm I’m at least partially responsible for. I’m in charge of my life, and I’ll figure it out. Gator’s way too much like my ex. He thinks he knows what’s best for me. He’s bossy. He does what’s best for him, and my life is just the shit he sees in his side view mirror as he’s roaring past, going eighty.
Or maybe I’m roadkill. It doesn’t matter. I won’t make the same mistakes I did with Nathan.

  Gator and I are done.

  Gator

  The. Fuck?

  Someone’s defaced my bike with hot pink curlicue letters. The fucker sentiment is clear, but what the hell is up with baby?

  “Fang.” Pretty sure they hear my roar down in Texas, but it does the trick. Fang jogs over to my bike double-time. Fucker takes one look at my new decorations and starts laughing his ass off. He doesn’t seem the least bit concerned that he’s the brother in charge of the prospects who were on lot duty—and so it’s his ass on the line for the damage.

  Nope. He’s too busy yukking it up at my expense.

  I smack him upside the head to encourage him to trade laughing for explaining.

  He just grins at me—I should have hit him harder. “Your girl’s pissed at you.”

  I squint at my bike. “Not sure how you’re getting that.”

  My paint job’s goddamned ruined. I run my hand over the pink letters and the shit promptly sticks to my skin, too. Fang starts cackling again, so I solved my problem by wiping my hands on his jeans. Asshole’s just lucky it’s not his club vest, or he’d be answering to Jace.

  “She call you baby?” Fang adds all sorts of unnecessary emphasis to that last word. We’re starting to attract attention from the prospects.

  “No.” I frown at the words scrawled over my bike. “What makes you think this is a message from Poppy?”

  Fang shrugs. “She came by to see you a few minutes ago.”

  Huh. “I was talking business with Jace in the office.”

  Now that I think about it, I was talking Poppy’s business with Jace. “You let her in the clubhouse?”

  Fang starts picking at the pink streaks decorating his thighs. “She may have gone in.”

  Fuck. I give up worrying about the cryptic messaging. Jace and I were running down the whole Poppy situation, and I was giving him the 4-1-1 on the quiet death of her wolf research. And, of course, if she overheard any part of that conversation, I’ve got my explanation for what happened to my bike. I’m lucky it’s not going up in flames or halfway up my ass.

  I yank out my phone and fire off a text to her.

  Need 2 talk 2 u.

  Fang crowds closer, trying to read my screen. “You say something to piss her off?”

  “None of your goddamned business,” I growl, staring at the screen and willing her to respond. It’s not like I expect her to sit by the phone, waiting for me to text, but I’m grasping at straws.

  “You should ask me for advice,” Fang says virtuously. “I’m a fucking expert at pissing women off.”

  “I’ve already pissed her off.” I glare at the silent screen. “Now I need to fix this shit.”

  Fang laughs. “If she jacked your bike up, she’s really mad. What’d you do?”

  “What Jace asked me to do.” Not that I expect my president’s orders will carry any weight with Poppy.

  “Seriously, bro?” Fang’s laughing so hard now that he’s bent double, his nose practically brushing the seat of my bike.

  Which is when he freezes.

  And his hand shoots out.

  Automatically, I slap his fingers away. He doesn’t touch my bike.

  “You’ve got something—” He makes some kind of bizarre gesture and points at the seat.

  There’s something stuck to the leather. I’m tired, I’ve just fucked shit up with my girl, and there’s something plastic taped to the seat of my bike. Given Poppy’s paint job, I can’t imagine it’s a love note. Probably more likely to explode, although it smells like plastic and… pee?

  Fang motions toward the little plastic stick. “Death sentence, bro.”

  “You know what that is?” Because I’ve got no clue.

  To my surprise, he nods. Vigorously. And then he tiptoes ostentatiously closer and looks down at it. “Congratulations.”

  As if there’s anything awesome about this afternoon. I fold my arms over my chest, because it’s that or lay into Fang. “Explain.”

  “You’re gonna be a daddy.”

  And that brings us back to where we started. So that’s it. The story of how Beauty met the Beast, broke his heart, and kicked his sorry ass to the curb. It’s not as exciting as the movie version, and there’s no happy ending in store for me. I blame my movie counterpart—he got the girl and all the good stuff.

  When I was a young wolf, I learned to hunt. My sire would drag my sorry ass out into the woods and dump me there with orders not to come back until I’d brought down a deer. And eventually I did it because if you didn’t bring down your prey, you went hungry. It was real fucking simple. You did or you died. So while this time I’m not hunting for a dinner and a Big Mac, it’s equally important. I need to find my Poppy and talk about what matters. Her. Me. My feelings for her. This unexpected baby bomb she’s just dropped.

  I yank the plastic stick off my seat and shove it into my back pocket. Not sure what the fucking etiquette is here or if she wants the thing as a souvenir, so for now it’s a keeper.

  “Where would she go?” I fist Fang’s vest, dragging his face close to mine. Jace hangs back, monitoring the situation.

  Fang, of course, just grins at me like he’s not in mortal danger. “Away from you?”

  “No shit, Sherlock. But she’s not just gonna drive around in circles, you feel me? This is Poppy. She’ll have a plan.”

  It’s one of the things I love about her. Along with a million questions, she always has a plan. Admittedly, some of them are better than others. But if I know one thing about her, it’s that she’ll want to hunker down and think things through. The things in question might be how to cut off my balls and feed them to me, but she’ll want some quiet time to plan. And she’ll want a place to do it.

  “Where are her favorite bolt holes?”

  I’m more talking out loud, but there’s a chance Fang knows something I don’t. He and Poppy are friends of a sort ever since he fed her cat. Okay. The cat. Moo was out at our place this morning, and she wouldn’t skip town without him.

  “Come with me?” I don’t recognize those words coming out of my mouth. Hell, Jace stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. Obviously, he’s surprised by what I’ve said, too.

  I’m the lone wolf. I handle my shit by myself.

  But…

  Fuck if I know what I’m doing here, and Jace has a mate. Hell, even Fang still dates on a regular basis, so he must know something about placating pissed off females. I don’t want to be alone. I want someone to have my back and tell me it’s gonna be okay. Even if that’s a lie.

  And they do it. They don’t ask questions. They don’t ask why. They just fall in behind me and wait for me to pick a direction.

  I start with Poppy’s rental, but she’s not there. The next most logical place is my island in the bayou, but I come up empty handed there, too. I haul ass back to the dock, Jace and Fang close behind me. Think think think. Poppy’s ignored the million and one text messages I’ve sent, and she’s not picking up. But she has to be somewhere, and it can’t be too far away because I’ve still got her goddamned cat. But Poppy doesn’t like driving around aimlessly—she’d want to have a destination in mind.

  “The blind,” I snap.

  We haul ass out to the area where the blind is. And thank FUCK, there’s a rental speedboat tied up on the shoreline. I’m out of my boat and pounding inland as soon as I’ve killed the engine. Poppy’s wolf blind is about a half-mile offshore, surrounded by thick stands of cypress. The sooner I get there, the sooner I can fix what’s gone wrong between us.

  I’m not running alone though, not this time. Jace and Fang dog my heels, stick to my back, and then Jace brings me down and we have that heart-to-heart I first told you about. The conversation where he asks me what bug I’ve got up my ass, and I admit that I’ve knocked Poppy up and I’m not sure how I feel about that. I don’t fucking do feelings. Ever. But there’s no denying t
hat I’ve got a fuck ton of them coursing through me right now. Shame because she’s running scared and I’ve hurt her, when I swore I’d do nothing but love and protect. Excitement, too, because some primitive caveman part of me is thinking about her having my baby—and loving it. Worry about how she fits with the pack. And fear because she’s made it clear she doesn’t need or want anything from me… and that hurts. I can’t be her white knight, the guy on the noble steed, the dude packing protective armor and a mean lance. I can’t stand between her and the world’s shit because she neither needs nor wants me to do that.

  But I can’t walk away, either. Not when everything I am demands I run toward her.

  When I finally find her, the new civilized me knocks on the door of the blind instead of ripping it the fuck off. “Can I come in?”

  When there’s no answer, I slowly pry the door open. Carefully. Not gonna cause any permanent damage, and I definitely don’t wanna give her a heart attack. Or the baby. Christ. I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that I’m about to become a daddy.

  Poppy’s inside, arms wrapped around her knees. She looks pale but thoughtful. I want to grab my phone and Google this shit. How should I know what’s normal for a pregnant woman?

  “Poppy?”

  She looks up.

  “Can I come in?”

  She mutters something but then she nods her head. Houston, we are cleared for take off. I climb in and realize I take up all the available space and then some. When I was still a pup, I ran all over the woods near the keep where I’d been born. Free-range parenting wouldn’t be invented for a couple more centuries, but my old man had it down. He threw us pups out into the wilderness and let us roam. What didn’t kill us made us stronger. I got caught out in a rainstorm once, the kind of downpour that feels like it’s trying to peel your skin straight off your back and you can’t see more than a handful of inches in front of your face. I’d climbed into an old fox den with one of my fellow pups, and we’d curled around each other and waited out the rain because neither of us felt like drowning.