by Lynn Lorenz
Perhaps these wolves acted differently? He doubted it. He’d studied wolves on two continents and in cold and warm climates. Wolves were wolves all over. The attack hadn’t been normal wolf behavior.
His first thought had been that the wolf had been rabid, but after his father’s death, the medical examiner had checked for it, and the test was negative. No rabies.
The ME had declared the cause of his father’s death as a massive heart attack. All four of his arteries were clogged, and he told Mark and his mother that it could have happened at any time, but it most likely had been brought on by the attack.
The wounds themselves weren’t very serious, just some punctures, and they hadn’t contributed to the death. The ME declared them dog bites. Mark’s mother blamed the stress of the attack. Mark blamed himself, and within a few months the streak of white hair had shown up, a visible sign of Mark’s guilt.
If he and his father hadn’t been fighting, maybe the strain wouldn’t have been there in the first place. Maybe his dad wouldn’t have left the tent. If he had been inside, the wolf wouldn’t have attacked.
Mark never told his mother about the fight between him and his dad. He couldn’t bring himself to do it, and then before he could tell her the truth, his mom had died too.
More guilt.
The fire snapped and popped, and he glanced over at it. The past was the past, and now he was going to prove what attacked his father was a wolf, not just a big dog gone wild like the local cops had said. They’d brushed off his story of the wolf as the ravings of an upset kid, and that had pissed him off. He’d been fifteen, no kid. And he knew the difference between a wolf and a dog.
Dumb local hicks.
He rose, gave his equipment a final check, and then climbed into the tent. He jerked the zipper of the door, fighting with it to get it closed, and then kicked off his boots, hitting the other side of the tent with them. “Hicks.”
Dim light from the lantern was all he needed to climb into the sleeping bag. He punched the small pillow into a comfortable shape more than he had to as he grumbled to himself about local yokels.
Mark glanced down at his watch. Hours had passed without a sign of wolves. And it would be a long night if he didn’t calm down and let go of the past, at least for tonight.
As he breathed slow and steady, Mark thought of Bobby. There hadn’t been a morning or night when he hadn’t jerked off to the memories of their weekend together, and tonight looked as if it wouldn’t be any different.
He closed his eyes and got as comfortable as he could. His cock filled and strained against his jeans. He unzipped and ran his hand along the length of his shaft and moaned as he pictured Bobby stroking him in preparation to fuck him. His dick leaked, and he used it to slick his hand as he pulled and pushed on it.
Thinking of Bobby leaning over him, that hungry look in his eyes, almost feral, filled with lust and desire, brought Mark to a gasping, shuddering orgasm. He rolled to the side and spilled on the sleeping bag instead of his clothes.
“Shit.” He should have thought about this before he got going. He grabbed a T-shirt and wiped the bag’s flannel lining down, and then tossed the shirt to the side.
Sated, he fell back, fixed his pillow, and closed his eyes.
Maybe in the morning, he’d have captured some evidence. It was a long shot, and he knew it, but this was his last chance. If he wanted to prove his theory, it was time to put up or shut up, and Mark didn’t ever want to shut up about this.
Getting proof was too important to him. It had been his life’s work. If this all came crashing down, Mark had no idea what he’d do or who he’d be.
»»•««
Bobby woke up in the morning with a hard-on straining against his belly. He’d been dreaming of Mark, of Mark swallowing Bobby’s dick as Bobby watched. Nothing was sexier than Mark blowing him, unless it was Mark’s face twisted in pleasure while Bobby fucked him.
A quick glance at the clock told Bobby it was only a little after seven. Time enough to finish what his dream had started.
He reached into his night table and grabbed a tube of slick. After getting his hand good and slippery, he took his cock in a tight grip and worked it, thinking of Mark pleasuring him. Something about Mark just pulled the alpha out of him. The way the man submitted to him made him feel like a god.
Bobby groaned as he stroked up and down his shaft. His balls tightened, and the familiar tingling started, signaling the impending explosion. He tightened his grip, pictured Mark on his hands and knees taking Bobby’s cock in his tight ass, and that was all it took to send him over the edge.
Panting and shaking, Bobby gave his dick a final stroke, then let go, and it fell against his thigh, spent.
After his heart beat slower, Bobby sat up on the edge of the bed. Time to get going. He only had until noon to hunt for his mate, and it couldn’t be as a wolf. And he had until then to figure out what the hell he was going to say to Mark to change his mind about exposing the pack to the world and to convince him that he was Bobby’s mate.
But he couldn’t get started hunting for Mark until he’d taken care of the problem with the beer for the festival. He got dressed and headed for the office.
Once at his desk, Bobby pulled out the phone book and looked up the number for one of the local bar and restaurants, the Deaux Drop Inn, figuring it deserved this chance. The place was clean, never had too many problems with the law, and they were good about cutting their clients off before someone got too drunk to drive, or calling them a cab if they were. The owner wasn’t pack, but he was a responsible businessman in their community.
Bobby made the call, hoping the owner would be there this early. “Is Walt there?”
In the background he heard Walt’s name shouted. There was a moment of noise as the phone was handed back and forth. Then Walt Frisby got on the line.
“Walt here.”
“Walt, it’s Bobby Cotteau. I have a business proposition for you.”
Bobby told Walt about his problem, the chance to sell beer at the festival, but added Walt would have to put up his own tent. Walt, thrilled for the chance to sell beer in massive quantities, agreed. Bobby gave him the name of the tent company he’d used and hung up.
“Why don’t I meet you at the festival and we’ll get everything signed?”
“That’d be great, Walt. See you then.” Bobby swung around in his chair and pulled out the form from the file cabinet behind him. He started to fill it out so Walt only had to sign it and they’d be done.
Now if only finding Mark was that easy.
»»•««
Bobby drove through town and passed the church. The festival workers were doing the last of the decorating of the stage, hanging bunting around the bottom of the metal structure. It looked great, and something inside his chest eased. The festival would be fine. He’d done all he could to mitigate the rain day on Sunday, and the rest was up to God.
And the best thing was there were no pilgrims gathered around the tree.
He had less than three hours to see if he could find his mate. He might need a lifetime to convince Mark they were meant to be together, but even if he did, Bobby was ready to give what was left of his life to make Mark his.
He reached the edge of town where the road continued into the woods. Nothing much any farther along, except the state land everyone used for fishing and hunting. His pack used it for running also.
On the corner was the gas station and store. On a hunch, Bobby pulled in next to the pumps and parked. He usually got his gas at the grocery store on the other side of town, but he came here every now and then. One of the pack, Jack Tierry, owned it, and his son T-Beau helped him run it.
Bobby got out, sauntered over to the door, and pulled it open. The bell tinkled, and he stepped in.
“Hey, Sheriff!” T-Beau greeted him with a wave. Most of the pack still called him sheriff, even though he’d retired.
“Hey, T-Beau. Your dad around?” Bobby leaned on the counte
r.
“No. He’s working offshore now that they’re drilling again.”
“I’m glad. Money’s better offshore.”
“Yeah. But my mom misses him.” T-Beau grinned and blushed.
“I hear you. What about you? Got plans for college?” Bobby gave the young man a steady look, saying the answer better be yes. Bobby worked hard to impress upon the young men of the pack that college was a necessity, not a frivolous waste of time.
“I’m starting over at Lafayette next fall. Business management.” He grinned at Bobby’s look of approval.
“Good man.” Bobby nodded. “Look, just between you and me, seen any strangers around here? I don’t mean the folks going to the festival, but someone who might have stuck out.” It was a long shot, but what the hell.
T-Beau stilled, a frown turning down his lips. A long moment passed as the teen considered the question. He licked his lips and then cleared his throat.
If Bobby didn’t know better, he’d say T-Beau had a secret.
“No, sir. A few festival folks. That’s all.” He shook his head.
“Okay.” Bobby didn’t want to press it, so he let it slide. Besides, what would he tell T-Beau? He was looking for his male mate? He wasn’t ready to come out to his entire pack yet. He knew he’d have to do it eventually, but he wanted to do it on his own terms.
Bobby left, got back into his truck, and drove down the road. He checked his watch. Only two hours to search for Mark before he had to get back to the festival.
His cell phone rang, and Bobby pulled to the side of the road to answer.
“Cotteau here.”
“Bobby, it’s Father Peder. We’ve got a problem. Can you get here now?”
He stifled the expletive dancing on the edge of his tongue and exhaled. “Can it wait until twelve? I’ll be there then.”
“No. I think you’d better come and see this now.”
“Okay. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” He disconnected, turned the truck around, and headed back to town, growling the entire time.
Every atom in his body, every hair, every nerve, wanted to hunt Mark down and protect him. And claim him. Repeatedly.
But Bobby knew if the priest was calling about a problem, it wouldn’t be anything trivial. His gut told him from the sound of the man’s voice this was going to be a bad one.
Chapter Seventeen
Bobby pulled into the parking lot, waving to the officer standing guard duty to let him pass. He was one of the men who wasn’t in the pack, but he still jumped and rushed to move the barricade for his former sheriff. Bobby searched the grounds for the lanky figure of the priest.
Father Peder stood in front of the bandstand stage, hands on hips and head down.
Bobby threw the car into Park, turned it off, and hopped out. He strode toward the man.
“Father?”
Father Peder turned at his name. “Bobby. Thank God you’re here.”
“What’s wrong?”
The man looked pale as rice on a white plate. “The tree. Do you know anything about this?” He pointed to the oak behind the stage.
Bobby raised his hand to block the glare from the late-morning sun. He stared at the tree, his gaze flicking from one place to another until he landed on the severed limb where the image of Jesus had been discovered.
“Holy—” Bobby cut off, remembering he was in the presence of a priest.
“Exactly.”
Bobby just stared as he processed what he saw. The image of Jesus, once clear, was now gone, as if erased. In its stead was just a wiggle of tree rings in an odd oval shape. No Jesus. Not even an angel.
Once again, it looked as if his prayers had been answered.
“I’m not sure why I’m here, Father.” He pointed to the tree. “It looks like our problem has been solved.”
Father Peder turned to him, hands still on his hips and pinned Bobby with a hard stare. “Do you think so, now?”
Bobby’s scalp tingled in warning. “Sure. No image, no pilgrims.”
The hands dropped from the priest’s hips. “That would be fine if we didn’t have a bus full of pilgrims who expect to worship at the site on Monday, just like you promised them they could.”
Bobby shook his head, still not getting what the man was saying.
The priest rolled his eyes heavenward in an obvious search for help.
“Bobby. What do you think those people are going to do when they arrive here this afternoon or tomorrow and realize the image they came all this way for has been”—the man paused and cleared his throat—“desecrated.”
“Desecrated?” Bobby winced at the screech in his voice. He glanced from the tree to the priest and then back again. “Merde.” Okay, he was either old or dense or thinking too much about Mark.
The priest sighed and then pointed to a van pulling into the parking lot. The kegs from the Deaux Drop Inn had arrived.
“Mix angry pilgrims, beer, and a costume contest, and what do you get?” he asked.
Bobby shrugged, not wanting to know.
“I don’t know either, son, but it’s going to be all your fault.” Then he spun on his heels and strode off, leaving Bobby standing there.
“Holy Mother of God,” he muttered.
“I heard that,” called the priest.
Bobby had about thirty minutes before the festival opened at noon. No way could he finish looking for Mark. Already a crowd had begun to form at the entrance to the church grounds, and cars were prowling the street for parking spaces.
He’d have to let the search go for now. Maybe later he could get away.
»»•««
The night had been long, and Mark had slept little, but it was enough to manage on. He got up late, ate breakfast—a few fiber bars—swigged down some instant coffee, and dressed.
After that he checked his equipment, his hands shaking just at the thought of catching something he could use on video. He sat on a camp chair and ran the video. There was over seven hours of tape to go through, but he had to, if only to see for himself. Even fast-forwarding it, it took hours. Nothing. Not even a raccoon had wandered past.
Odd.
He put the camera down, stood, and stretched. His back cracked from sitting in the camp chair for so long. He picked up the audio recorder. It ran at the same time as the camera, so he knew he had a few hours more of listening.
He sat back down and plugged his headphones in, straining to hear anything that shouldn’t have been there. After listening for over an hour, he heard nothing unusual.
The afternoon dragged on. Mark closed his eyes, listening to the recorded sounds of the swamp at night. Frogs. Crickets. Gators. All normal sounds. No baying wolves. No growling. Not even a dog bark.
He ran his hands over his face. His belly rumbled, reminding him he’d missed lunch. He got that way when he worked, losing track of time and meals.
Finally, he pulled off the headphones, tossed them onto the table, and turned off the recorder. This was getting nowhere. He’d listen to the rest later and then run it through the sound analyzer back at school, but last night had been a wash.
“Damn.”
Well, it was his first night. What did he expect? Wolves dancing in the moonlight?
He set up his instruments again and went back to the tent to stretch out. Maybe catch a nap until time for dinner. He folded his arms behind his head and stared up at the tent.
Bobby.
Damn. If his mind had a single moment free, it flew straight to that man like an arrow to a bull’s-eye. And just like that, his cock began its slow filling, blood pumping into his organ, bringing it to life.
Only there was no Bobby. And no hope of ever finding him.
He’d give anything to hold Bobby again, taste his mouth, his skin, his cum. Run his hands over Bobby’s strong back, and those firm, powerful thighs.
Mark sat up. This had to stop. He had to realize it was hopeless and useless to pine over a man he’d met for such a short time.
/> The best two weekends of his life.
Bobby had been meant for him. Something deep inside Mark told him that, told him this was the man he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, the man he’d do anything for.
If only.
“Well, there are no do-overs.” Mark put his shoes on and then got out of the tent.
He needed to do something to stop thinking about Bobby.
Maybe he’d go into town, get dinner, and interview some of the people at the festival. It ran until ten p.m. A few new eyewitness accounts might lead him to something or somewhere.
Mark made a last check of the campsite and then headed down the path to his car.
»»•««
The festival was in full swing by three p.m.
The line for beer had been steady all afternoon. It had been a good call. At three bucks for a full red plastic cup, the festival’s cut would push them into the black and then some.
Bobby patrolled the festival, slapping backs and shaking hands. Everything was going well, better than he’d hoped for. People were dancing, laughing, eating, and drinking, and the carnival rides were filled with kids and adults. Too bad they wouldn’t get Sunday, but at least this year they wouldn’t be in the hole.
On his way back to the main stage to announce the next band, Bobby heard his name and he turned.
“Bobby!” Sarah Guillory hurried up to him. “Didn’t you hear me? I’ve been calling your name since the boudin booth!” She wore the same red scarf from the photo. Bobby tried hard not to stare at it, but he nearly swallowed his tongue.
“Hi, Sarah.” He glanced toward the stage, searching for any reason to get away.
“Buy a lady a snowball?” She slipped her arm through his and pulled him toward the stand.
“Sure.” What could it hurt? Unless he was willing to tell her he was gay, he’d just have to keep his damn mouth shut and not stop grinning.
