Outback Master

by Lexxie Couper

  “Shock? Because?”

  Pinky looked at Liam as though he were the brainless of the two. “Yeah, you know, shock. Like the kind of fucking shocked when you hit the lottery or win some shit on Wheel of Fortune.”

  Liam’s eyes narrowed. “Speak English to me, Pink. She doesn’t look like she just won a car from Pat Sajack. So what the hell kinda shock are you talking about, man?”

  “The kind of shock a chick like that has when she hits the mate jackpot. She’s Courtland’s now, dude. He chose Freya as his mate.”

  Holy fuck.

  * * * *

  “Just follow me, Freya!” Claire ordered with a firm tug on her arm, dragging her toward the bar and pushing the overzealous crowd out of their way.

  She nodded woodenly, her feet moving because they had to do something or she’d bust out of this dive and run so far, so fast, she’d become a blur.

  When they finally made it to the long, sticky bar, well away from Courtland at the far end, Freya collapsed against it, clung to it, waited—prayed for the dizziness to pass.

  Courtland Dodd had called her as his mate.

  Smelly, greasy-haired, backward-ass, IQ-of-an-inanimate object, smarmy, lying Courtland Dodd.

  It was time to drink.

  Freya slammed her hand on the bar, summoning Lachlan Macgregor. She didn’t bother to linger on his handsome face the way she might have even just an hour ago, though he was certainly lovely to look at. With his thick chestnut hair and green eyes, he made all the women in town melty and giggly.

  But this was no time to giggle. She’d been called out for the mate—to Courtland Dodd. Would repeating that over and over in her head ever be any less vile?

  She swallowed her disgust and leaned forward, shouting a terse demand, “Whiskey—straight. A lot of it. And screw that dinky excuse for a glass. Give me the bottle.”

  His eyebrow rose when he threw the towel he was holding over his broad shoulder. Occasionally she dropped into Ahab’s for a girls’ night with Claire and some of the women of the town, and Lachlan was always pleasant enough. “The whole bottle, Freya? That’s not like you.”

  “Suddenly you know me? I don’t need a damn babysitter. I need a bartender. I said the whole bottle.” Maybe two.

  “You shouldn’t drink, Freya. Not now,” Claire warned, her eyes sending the girlfriend message.

  Right. Because too much drinking always led to trouble for her. But how much more trouble could one be in than to be called as Courtland Dodd’s mate?

  Freya’s anger, raw and hungry for a bite out of someone, spiked hard, making her temples throb. She yanked off her scarf and threw it on the bar. “Is that what you thought when Gannon called you as his mate? Or are you forgetting the tequila shots you slammed back like Jose Cuervo needed the money?”

  Claire threw up her hands and looked to Lachlan. “Bring whiskey. Lots of whiskey.”

  Lachlan reached for a bottle of amber liquid behind him and dropped it on the bar in front of Freya, sliding a glass in front of her along with it. He winked. “Just in case you want to go slow.”

  Without a word, she removed the top, wrapped her fingers around the neck of the bottle, and took a long, burning swig, letting the sting of it settle in her empty belly.

  Claire leaned on the bar top, her fist under her chin, her eyes sympathetic and concerned. “Talk to me.”

  Freya smacked her lips after swig number three began to warm her fingertips. “Fuck Courtland,” she spat.

  Claire popped her lips. “Yes. Fuck him!” she agreed in girlfriend solidarity. “Now what are we going to do about this?”

  She let her head fall back on her neck. “Why me, Claire? Why the hell would he choose me? He hardly even acknowledges I exist, which is fine by me, and suddenly he wants to play house? We’ve barely spoken to each other.”

  Claire nodded, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Well, true, but that’s mostly because you never leave your house.”

  “Well, look what happens when I do!”

  “I don’t get it either, Freya. If I had an answer for that, his reasoning might start to make sense, and I won’t allow that to happen—ever. Nothing he says or does is ever allowed to make sense in my head.”

  Pulling her jacket off as the whiskey assaulted her body’s thermometer and her cheeks grew warm, Freya threw it on the floor and slugged back another swallow, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. “I’m telling you right now. I won’t damn well do it, Claire. I don’t care why he chose me, but I won’t do it. I don’t give a Dog’s greasy ass about the new laws. I don’t care if they put me in prison camp for eternity. An evolved, educated woman like me does not mate with an imbecile like him! I’d almost rather be a bloodsucker than mate with that swine!”

  Ethan Dempsey, a fellow pack member who’d sidled up to the bar to order a drink, winced and turned chalk white at Freya’s words before backing away.

  Claire clamped a hand over Freya’s mouth and gave her a jolting shake. “Hush!” she demanded in her ear. “Do you want everyone to hear you, for Christ’s sake, Freya? Like we need that kind of trouble after my mate call went so damn wrong? We’ll figure it out. I promise you.”

  Freya shrugged her off, the whiskey hitting her system just enough to free her flappy lips. “Figure it out?” she said in disbelief, her voice rising. “Like you figured it out? Should I let some damn vampire bite me to make this all better?”

  “You’re being evil because you’re angry, Freya Ashe,” Claire chastised, not an ounce of hurt in her tone.

  “Damn right I’m angry!” she hissed. “I’m not mating with him, Claire. Not a chance in this lifetime.”

  Petra Morrow came up behind them, her svelte hip pressing into Freya’s, her smile fresh and as pretty as she was. “So look who won the mate lottery tonight. Congratulations, Freya.” She held up her wine glass in salutation, smiling a cool smile.

  Freya turned to look up at her, grabbing the edge of the bar to keep from wobbling. “The lottery? Is being auctioned off like some cow at the 4H like winning the lottery? Did you ever hear the cow declare it felt so lucky it was like winning the lottery?” She frowned. Did that make any sense?

  Claire leaned over and verified, “Not winning any arguments here, beloved. Just smile graciously and clamp it before we have embarrassing memories to reflect upon tomorrow while I’m holding your hair and you’re vomiting into the toilet.”

  Petra kept her smile on her face, despite what her almond-shaped eyes reflected. “You were chosen as Courtland’s mate, Freya. It’s an honor. It is like winning the lottery, as far as I’m concerned.”

  Freya burped, reaching for the bottle and just missing it. “You want my ticket?”

  Claire swiped the bottle up and shook her head, grabbing the glass Lachlan had left. “That’s it, you’ve been demoted to drinking from a glass. Time to slow down.” She slid the glass toward Freya with that look of disapproval she used on people who didn’t return overdue library books.

  Freya took another sip then set it aside, satisfied the world had become a lovely amber haze of fuzzy. She turned her back to Petra to see Courtland boasting to his pig friends about their mate, and burped again, wiping the back of her hand over her mouth.

  Claire leaned in low, putting her arm around Freya’s shoulders and pulling her in close. “You’re going to puke.”

  Freya nodded. Yeah. The first burp was usually her sign. “Good. Make sure you park me in front of that pig. I want to graffiti his beer gut with my vomit.”

  Claire squeezed her shoulders harder. “Freya, from experience, I suggest you put a sock in it. Let me take you home and you can rant and carry on all you like, but not here.”

  She hated when Claire was right. Even in the beginnings of a serious buzz, Freya knew she was right. Knew it was be dangerous to carry on like this. Knew it could come back to bite her in the ass. But mostly, she didn’t care. If it landed her in one of the prison camps, at least she wouldn’t be mated to Courtland Dodd.<
br />
  “Freya!” Claire hissed. “One last opportunity to move of your own accord or I’m carrying your drunk butt outta here. Over my shoulder, fireman-style, so everyone can see the holes in the ass of your ratty sweats.”

  “The horror.” Freya rolled her eyes at Claire, blindly reaching for the glass and guzzling the remainder of her whiskey, then grabbing her coat and throwing it on before she let her best friend lead her out of Ahab’s.

  Claire did a good job of weaving in and out of the crowd, keeping Freya close and taking the back door exit to the parking lot.

  Setting her against the wall of the back of the bar, Claire put her hands on her hips and stared down at her with a motherly glare. “Did you drive?”

  Freya dug around in her coat pocket, fishing for her keys with no luck. She felt more than buzzed now, but it wasn’t the usual buzz good whiskey gave her. It was different, but actually rather pleasant, almost like looking at everything through a Vaseline-covered lens.

  Finally, she gave up and struggled out of her jacket, handing it to Claire. “Yep. In there somewhere.”

  Claire stuck her hand in the jacket and pulled out the keys, throwing the coat back to Freya. “Put that back on before you freeze to death. Can I trust you to stay put for two seconds or do I have to piggyback your supermodel ass over this icy parking lot?”

  Freya giggled, trying with no success to get her coat back on. She lifted a hand and waved Claire off, a hand that didn’t look like hers at all, but that of someone who had incredible grace. She was fascinated by the way she was able to make it swish through the air like butterfly wings.

  Claire stooped to pick up her jacket, tucking it around Freya’s shoulders. “Freya?”

  She cocked her head and looked up at her friend, mesmerized by the soft aura of color haloed around Claire’s face. “What?”

  Claire gripped her shoulders. “Will you be okay alone while I go get the car? I have heels on and the parking lot is slippery, but I can carry you if you need me to.”

  “Oh, I’ll be fine. Go. Seize the chariot, milady!” she joked, distracted by the detail in the snowflakes that had begun to rain down from the sky. So pretty…

  “Do not move,” Claire ordered, before Freya heard the sound of her heels clicking against the ice.

  Claire had said not to move. And at all costs she wanted to obey Claire. Because Claire was her friend. Claire knew best. She’d kept her out of trouble on more than one occasion.

  Yet, the impulse to break into a good hard run was the devil on her shoulder, calling to her. The moon, high in the sky like a globe of frosty ice, pulled at her, as though sending her an invitation, making her forget Claire’s warning to stay put.

  Tonight she wanted to be free—because she wouldn’t be for long.

  Ignoring that utterly incomprehensible thought, Freya wrinkled her nose and began to peel her jacket back off, dropping it to the ground.

  “Freya? You okay?”

  Liam’s gravelly voice sent a thick wave of pleasure along her spine. The most pleasurable of pleasures ever.

  Logically, she knew the whiskey was responsible for this heightened awareness. Not that Liam didn’t heighten everything she owned, but tonight, she was so aware, she could see colors.

  Liam’s color was a deep blue lined with inky black fringes. He stared down at her, his eyes hard and dark. He stooped to pick up her jacket, wrapping it back around her shoulders. His nostrils flared and then his eyes changed again, growing darker still.

  He shook his snow-covered head as though he were shaking off something that had confused him. “It’s freezing out here, Freya, and you’ve had a lot to drink. Where’s Claire?”

  Yeah. Where was Claire, and why did Liam have the same dreamy glow to him Claire had? But she couldn’t remember where Claire was. She could only remember where Liam was. Right here, towering over her, his big body blocking out everything but his chest. “I dunno.”

  He leaned in toward her, his nostrils flaring again, then he instantly backed away and shook his head again. “You’re going to get sick, and you definitely can’t drive. C’mon, I’ll take you home. My bike’s right over there.” He hitched his sharp jaw toward the parking lot.

  What would it be like to fly on the back of Liam’s bike with his hard back pressed to her chest?

  A voice inside her head, one she’d never heard before, not even after an entire bottle of whiskey and an almost stomach pump, egged her on. Why not find out?

  Yeah. Why not?

  Chapter 3

  Freya huddled against Liam’s wide back, closing her eyes and reveling in the ripple of muscle beneath leather. Her nose inhaled his scent, clean and masculine, and she sighed, tightening her arms around his waist.

  When they pulled into her small driveway, she continued to cling to him, wanting to drive her hands inside his trench coat and roam over his equally hard chest, keep the vibration of the bike’s engine thrumming between her thighs.

  Liam slid forward on the bike, forcing her arms to loosen her death squeeze. “You’re home.”

  Her head popped up, taking in her small blue-and-white cottage with the square windows and the warm glow of the LED candles she had in each one.

  She’d actually begun to love her small two-bedroom house. It was nothing like her swanky apartment back in San Francisco, with its shiny appliances and black-and-white tiled floors and red silk curtains.

  “Freya?” Liam dismounted and held out his hand to her. His strong, wide hand with long fingers and neatly clipped nails.

  She sucked in a breath of freezing air, letting it sting her lungs, trying to orient herself. The entire ride over here, she’d had moments where she realized she was experiencing a rather glazed effect to her surroundings, but it was much easier to stay in this warm cocoon where everything was lovely and muted.

  Taking his hand, she lifted her thigh and swung it off the bike, dropping to the ground. “Thank you,” she managed while she fought an oddly deep remorse that Liam would get right back on that bike and go wherever it was he called home these days.

  But Liam didn’t let go of her hand. Instead, he said, “I want to be sure you get inside safely.”

  She looked up at him then, only to catch his nostrils flaring and his pupil’s tiny pinpoints. That voice in her head, likely the one where reason resided, reminded her this was odd. She didn’t need someone to hold her hand for the twenty-five feet it took to get to her front door.

  But she didn’t care. Liam was holding her hand. So she followed behind, letting him lead, hearing Clarence, her dog, stir from beyond the door.

  “Key?” Liam asked, his voice gruffer still.

  Key. Where was her key? “Under the mat,” she managed to say, but her words had become thick, her mouth dry.

  He sat on his haunches and dug under the mat until he found her key, inserting it into the door handle and pushing it open. Clarence bounded toward him almost instantly, his wet nose nuzzling against Liam’s knuckles.

  Liam gave him a scratch between his chocolate-and-white ears before he dropped the key in the basket on the small buffet table she had by the door.

  Clarence sniffed her when she reached out to stroke his muzzle, but he only tolerated it for a moment before he backed away and retreated to his favorite spot by the fireplace.

  This, too, was also very odd. Clarence, though well trained to wait until he was called to her for a greeting, was also always so happy to see her you’d think she’d been gone for days. Under normal circumstances, at the very least, his butt wiggled uncontrollably in impatience.

  But not tonight. Huh.

  Still, she was too preoccupied with Liam filling her small entryway with his delicious body to question it further.

  Freya cleared her throat, still dry, her thoughts still encased in fuzzy cotton. “Um, thank you for bringing me home.”

  He took a step toward her, the muscles of his thighs pressing against his jeans, her eyes fixating on the flex and release of them. “You
’re welcome.”

  Now her nostrils flared as she took in the unmistakable scent of arousal.

  Liam’s arousal.

  Thick and tangy, it wafted to her nose and settled there.

  Her heart began to throb, crashing inside her chest, only moments before every nerve in her body hummed its pleasure and her hands found a life of their own.

  She placed one on his chest, taking a shuddering breath inward, her eyes almost rolling to the back of her head.

  He was nirvana. Touching Liam was like touching the most forbidden fruit on earth and finding out exactly why it was forbidden.

  Because it surpassed all other textures, it brought life to her body, slipped beneath her skin and warmed her to her soul.

  Liam glared down at her, stock still and rigid. “I don’t think you should touch me, Freya.”

  From that place she knew wasn’t like her, but was successfully goading her, she asked, “But you want me to, don’t you?”

  His jaw tightened, accentuating the dimple in his chin. The dimple she wanted to run her tongue over. “It’s wrong.”

  Pressing her palm against his thin T-shirt, Freya felt his nipple go hard, fought the impulse to tweak it with her fingers. “That wasn’t the question, Liam.”

  He moved in closer, yet, by the way he gritted his teeth, clenched his fists, it was as though he was fighting something. “Move your hand,” he demanded, low and thick.

  Her breathing sped up, her nipples so tight, if he didn’t put his mouth on them she’d die standing right here in front of him. Pulling her hand from his chest was an almost painful act, but she let it drop to her side, fighting a whimper.

  Still, Liam didn’t move away. Whatever was happening, it was happening behind his eyes, where she watched him wage war with himself. “Fuck!” He spat the word.

  Now her heartbeat raged in her ears as he leaned in low; so low she saw the black stubble on his chin. “I’m going to tell you something, Freya. Something I’ve never told anyone else.”