Jasmine Moon

by Celia Breslin

  He shook his head to dislodge the jaunt down bad memory lane, but his gut twisted tight. A year later, and the guilt remained. He should have paid more attention to Liz’s destructive habits. Instead, he let his music studies and nightly DJ gigs distract him to the point of neglect. Selfish wanker.

  Stepping from the truck, he regretted his choice of Dr. Martens and jeans for such a searing and sticky summer day, especially when a sudden, hot breeze bowled into him. He scented the air, ripe with the smells of a small and secluded mountain town—dry grass and pine, parched earth and tarred pavement, compost and fried food. The latter two came from the bar. His appetite fled and he sneezed, eliciting a bemused chuckle from his uncle.

  Uncle Robert motioned to him from the bar door. “Come on in, Jake. Best burgers in town.”

  Los Lobos was so small, it was probably the only food in town. He ran a hand through his hair. “Sure.” It might irritate him to hang in a bar but it wouldn’t kill him. Not like Liz.

  His uncle disappeared inside. Jake followed. Afternoon sunlight streamed into the place, lending it an unexpected bright and happy air. Hardwood floors gleamed, remarkably free of the usual scuff marks, cigarette butts, and other trash typically underfoot in a place like this. Small, steel café tables dotted the room, all occupied by Los Lobos pack members. The murmur of conversation quieted as attention shifted to him. Strangers were seldom welcome in pack territory even if they were related to a pack member. Of course, Drew, the Tao pack Alpha, had granted permission for Jake’s visit, but that didn’t change the fact these Wolves didn’t know—or trust—him at all.

  He stood tall under their scrutiny and gave each Wolf good eye contact, releasing a bit of Dominant power while he was at it. The other Dominants responded in kind. Power flooded the room. Chairs scraped on hardwood as several men pushed back from their tables and surged to their feet. Shit. This was why he stayed away from Wolves, why he’d left his parents and the Coventry pack behind, and why he chose a life studying music at a lesser known uni in London. He preferred living among humans over this constant, ridiculous posturing and useless aggression.

  But, still, his father’s Alpha blood wouldn’t allow him to back down regardless of his rational mind’s opinion of the situation. He snarled and stepped forward.

  A thunderous boom sounded from the bar. A huge man, presumably the bartender, wielded a baseball bat and glared at the men. “Simmer down, curs.” Three words delivered with quiet but lethal intent.

  The Dominants returned to their seats, shooting one last glower in Jake’s direction.

  Uncle Robert settled on a barstool in front of the burly bartender, seeming unfazed by the altercation his nephew had almost experienced. “Get over here, son.”

  Jake slid onto the stool next to him and suffered his uncle’s good-natured back pounding. “Gee, this is my sister’s boy, Jake. Jake, this is Gee, the most hardass Werebear in North America and the owner of this fine bar.”

  His proper British upbringing kicked into gear. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Gee.”

  Gee grunted and set his bat under the bar top. “Gee. Just Gee. Drink?”

  The row of beer taps and line of bottles beckoned, and he held up two fingers. “Whiskey. Neat.”

  Another grunt from the Werebear. Uncle Robert ordered a beer plus two burgers and fried pickles for them both while Jake attended to his phone and the series of impatient texts he’d received while in his uncle’s truck. His agent, Phil, hadn’t let up for a second since Jake left Chicago to spend his time off between gigs in Black Hills, South Dakota, far from any potential promotional opportunities.

  Damn, Jake. Check your e-mail now. I mean it, man. Need this ASAP! Forget it, read this.

  The last text included an updated itinerary. Phil had added some venue additions to the West Coast leg, ones extending the length of the tour if Jake approved. Did he? He’d lost his taste for the scene, but the longer he continued—even on autopilot—the longer he would remain out of England and away from Coventry pack politics. His father wanted to talk about his succession to Alpha, a position Jake had little interest in. Better to stay in the US, even if his work sucked the joy right out of his soul.

  He sent a quick, Sure, to anxious Phil then accepted the drink Gee slid in front of him. “Thank you.”

  Gee arched a brow and shot Jake’s uncle an enigmatic look. “Polite pup.”

  Uncle Robert laughed and tipped back his beer. “My brother-in-law moved his family to England when the boy was fourteen. Seems to have rubbed off on him.”

  The Werebear snorted. “Explains the accent.”

  He frowned. “I don’t have an accent.”

  “Yes, you do,” both men replied.

  Jake shrugged. His phone buzzed and the screen flashed with a text from Phil. A thumbs up icon plus several dollar signs. At least his agent was happy. He flipped the device facedown on the bar and took a drink, relishing the familiar burn of his beverage of choice.

  A man named Ogden joined Uncle Robert at the bar, and the two men fell into a construction discussion. Lunch arrived, and Jake left the men to their building talk, grateful to eat in silence. Damn good burger. Fried pickle wasn’t bad, either. Juicy but not too greasy. He swallowed it down with more whiskey. Gee wandered over and topped his glass without his asking.

  “Thank you.”

  “Politesse like that will get your ass whipped around here, pup.”

  “Thank you for the warning, Gee.”

  The Werebear grunted and moved along the bar filling orders for other customers.

  Jake finished the last of his lunch with a swig of whiskey and stared into his glass. As always, the amber liquid brought to mind a pair of golden irises belonging to the one person—scratch that—the one Wolf he wished to forget. Tension knotted his shoulders. Liar. Whiskey was his go-to beverage because it reminded him of Lexi’s eyes.

  Lexi Luparell, the proverbial one that got away.

  If forced to be honest, he’d never had her to begin with. The one time he’d made a move, she shot him down. Hard. Of course, he was fourteen to her sixteen at the time, but the day she rejected him, he swore never to love another Wolf as long as he lived. To insure his vow stuck, he’d dated human women from that point forward and made his no-strings-attached policy quite clear. If they couldn’t handle it, he stepped away fast.

  He sloshed the liquid in his glass, the movement resembling the turbulence in his heart. Liz had come close to changing his mind about commitment. A free spirit and avowed party girl, her carpe diem vibe drew him in from the moment he saw her dancing with abandon to his music. She didn’t care a lick about his unwillingness to commit, which, of course, convinced him to date her far longer than any other human girl.

  For a while, he almost forgot about Lexi. Liz had been petite, pale as fog, and blonde to Lexi’s tall, tanned, and brunette. But they shared a similar temperament, both of them outgoing, fun loving, impulsive, independent. Too bad the traits attracting him to Liz had killed her. Had Lexi’s impulsiveness led her into trouble? He shook his head. Doubtful, not with two Dominant older brothers to keep her safe.

  His treacherous brain conjured his last memory of Lexi standing on the dock laughing down at him—glossy brown hair shrouding tanned shoulders, hands fisted on hips, a neon-green bikini exposing miles of silky, golden skin to his hungry, teenage gaze. He’d declared his love for her, and she’d shoved him off the end of that damn dock. She’d humiliated him in front of everyone, while announcing she didn’t believe in mates, and, if she did, his scrawny arse would be the last arse she’d ever mate with. And still he’d wanted her and sported an embarrassing erection to prove it, thankfully hidden by the water. He remained in that bloody lake until all the other kids left, shamed by both her words and the reaction of his body to her—his cock didn’t give a damn about her cruel rejection.

  Fast-forward eight years…. Was she mated now? Part of the Indiana pack his family had left behind?
Did she have kids? A life without him, with another man she called mate? An angry, territorial growl prowled up his throat, but he quashed it. He had no right to the possessiveness still streaking through him years after her dismissal. Bloody hell. He needed to push these feelings back into the pit he’d shoved them in ages ago. The faster the better. He motioned to Gee.

  The Werebear returned to top him up but Jake covered his glass with one hand. “Leave the bottle.”

  Gee arched a brow. “You a messy drunk?”

  “No.” He jerked his head in the direction of the upright piano across the room. “A maudlin, musical one.”

  “Fair enough.” The man handed over the bottle then punched Uncle Robert on the shoulder. “Pup says he can play.”

  Uncle Robert cracked a wide grin and thwacked Jake on the back. “My nephew is one of those virtuosos.”

  Gee grunted and reached below the bar. The country music ceased. “Have at it, pup.”

  Whiskey bottle in hand, Jake slid off the barstool and strode to the piano. Like the rest of the place, the mahogany upright was clean—clear of both dust and scratches. Hopefully, he would find it in tune as well. Then again, an out of tune sound would jive better with his current off-kilter mood. Damn Liz for being careless with her life, damn Lexi for haunting him, and damn the Wolves. He should’ve known better than to venture into any Wolf territory. It brought him bad memories and a matching bad attitude.

  He swigged a bit of whiskey then set the bottle on an empty table. Ignoring the aggressive energy and attention aimed his way, he sat and opened the lid. Pristine keys beckoned him, the ivories yellowed with age and gleaming in the sunlight streaming through the window. He rested his hands on either side of middle C. At first contact with the smooth keys, some of his tension melted away, and he flipped that imaginary mental switch where conscious thought fled and the music alone remained. His music. He could’ve played a jaunty country tune or something classical or jazzy for the crowd, but, instead, he settled into the song he’d written about Lexi, the girl who broke his teenage heart. The mate who was never and would never be his.

  It was dark. It was dissonant. Plaintive and soul crushing. Cathartic, too, draining away more of his foul mood.

  Halfway through the second of three movements, his uncle appeared at his side, concern etched on his craggy face. “Sweet baby Jesus, son. That’s darker than a South Dakota sky during a summer storm. Anything lighter in your bag of tricks?”

  Hell. He cast his uncle what he hoped was an apologetic glance—though he didn’t regret spending a few minutes purging Lexi from his soul—and launched into a smooth jazz tune of his own design. His uncle smiled and leaned against the wall, drinking his beer and nodding his head. Jake closed his eyes and sank into the music. Yet, he didn’t go deep enough because Lexi’s image danced on his eyelids. Her tall, lithe body swaying to his music, her perfect bow mouth smiling in pleasure, her sunflower-and-strawberries scent, both earthy and sweet, invading his nose.

  Wait…. Her scent? Impossible. He risked a deep inhale. What the hell? Lexi’s unique and unmistakable fragrance wafted to him. He almost missed a beat on the keys, but years of practice kept his hands on target. His pulse, on the other hand, drummed a chaotic rhythm, and his heart threatened to explode from his chest. The experience was neither wishful thinking nor a whiskey-induced fantasy.

  Lexi was here.