Beast Behaving Badly (5 page)

“Name the last guy who cross-checked you into the stands?”

Bo couldn't help but smirk. “Nice Guy Malone.”

“Exactly.” She gave a little laugh. “See? I need you to show me how to be less good, moral, loving Blayne and more evil, sadistic, asshole Marauder.”

Deciding not to see that statement as an insult, he instead argued, “But I don't really have time to help you.” He pointed at his watch. “I have a schedule.”

“You can't fit me in for like . . . an hour, a couple of times a week?”

“No. No, I can't.”

“You're serious?”

“Yeah.” He tapped his watch again. “Schedule.”

“Right. A schedule, which can be changed to do the right thing. Yes?”

“No. No, no, no. You can't go around changing schedules. What's the point of a schedule if you're changing it all the time?”

“But schedules should be flexible.”

“No. Not flexible.” What was this craziness she was spouting? “Schedules can't be flexible. Flexible leads to disorder. Disorder leads to sloppiness. Sloppiness leads to failure. And failure is another word for losing.”

Blayne glided a few feet back from him. “You're really not joking . . . are you?”

“I'm not really a jokey kind of guy, but when it comes to schedules and time—I don't joke.”

“Oooo-kay. Um . . .” She pulled off her helmet and scratched her head. “How do you . . .”

“How do I what?”

“Well, I always hear about you at the latest shifter-only club openings—”

“I don't go to clubs.”

“—or taking out another supermodel—”

“Supermodels have issues with time I'm not comfortable with.”

“Or traveling the world to exotic locations?”

“Only when there's a game there. Like the Tahiti World Playoffs. But God it was hot outside the rink. So miserably, miserably hot.”

“But I don't understand. I mean . . . how do you . . . when do you . . . ?” Her eyes grew wide and she briefly covered her mouth with her hand. “Are you a virgin?” she whispered.

“What? No!”

“But when do you find time with that rigid schedule of yours? I mean prisoners at Rikers have more freedom!”

“I get along just fine. I've had girlfriends.”

“Did they last?”

Bo shrugged. “They were mostly feline so . . . no.”

“Yeah. Most felines I know aren't gettin' up at the break of dawn—on purpose.”

“I'm aware of that, you know,
now.
”

“I have to tell you something,” she said, putting her helmet back on. “I am
fascinated
by you. And I now realize that not only do I need you, but you need me.”

“Are we discussing sex again?”

“No.” She glided closer. “Let's clear the air about that right now. I no longer have boyfriends.”

“Oh.” Bo raised a brow. “So you're with one of the Babes now?”

“No. You Visigoth.”

“You know Visigoth, but you don't know Boadicea?”

“Again, no making up words. Anyway, I no longer have boyfriends.”

“Why?”

“My last one was, tragically, a bit of a sociopath. When we went away on a weekend trip to Atlantic City and he said it was on his mother, I thought she had knowingly paid for it. Not that he had stripped her savings account bare.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Nothing really ruins a romantic weekend away with the boyfriend like cops arresting you both. So no more boyfriends.”

“So you're celibate?”

“Yeah, I tried that, too, and that didn't really work. So now I have gentlemen callers. And with the gentlemen callers, I have arrangements.”

“What's the difference between a boyfriend and a gentleman caller?”

“There's a difference.”

“What difference?”

“A difference. Don't judge.”

“I'm not judging. I'm just at a loss for logic.”

Blayne pointed her finger at him. “Do you want my help or not?”

“Wait a minute. You need
my
help.”

“As I said, we need to help each other.”

“Not really.”

“No, really. You need a social life.”

“No. I don't.”

“You do. You're almost thirty. A couple more years you'll be a broken down old sports guy, alone, bitter, unloved; some hooker or Vegas showgirl will marry you just for your money and eventually kill you in your sleep. Is that what you want?”

“Not when you put it that way.”

“Of course you don't. That's what I'm here for. To ensure your life is not spent in misery and despair. And you're here to ensure that I rock this year's championship. Dude, this is a win-win situation.”

“Don't call me dude. And is it really that hard to rock the derby circuit?”

“As a matter of fact—”

“Are your shorts not short enough? Do you need a pushup bra?”

“I'm trying to help you here.”

“I'm still not sure I need your help.”

“Oh, you do.” She placed her hand to her upper chest. “And because I'm a kind, giving person, that's what I'm going to do. Help you.”

“How?”

“I'm working on that. But until I figure you out, we can work on me.”

Bo looked at his watch, cringing when he realized he'd already lost twenty-eight minutes sitting here talking to her. “Blayne, I really don't have time to—”

“Come on. An hour in the mornings? One hour? It isn't like this will be forever, either. Just until the championships.”

Bo went over the schedule in his head.

She placed both hands on his forearm and looked up at him. “Please?”

Christ, how could he turn that face down, complete with big puppy dog eyes? He couldn't. He couldn't turn that face down. “One hour. From seven to eight. But that's it.”

“Yay!” Without a running start, Blayne leaped up and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Thank you! This is great!” She hugged him but let go before he could get his arms around her.
Dammit!

She wiggled on her skates. “I am
so
excited!”

“Be on time, Blayne,” he told her.

“Yeah, sure.”

“No, no.” He caught hold of her arm. “You're still wearing this stupid watch.”

“It's pretty.”

“But it doesn't tell the time. How are you going to be on time if you don't have a working watch?”

“I'll be on time. I promise!” She suddenly hugged him again, her arms around his waist. “Oh!” She leaned back, looking up at him. “Speaking of which, what time is it?”

“Eight thirty.”

“Shit! I'm so fucking late!” She skated away from him.

“This does not fill me with confidence, Blayne.”

“I'll be here. Tomorrow at seven. I'll be on time! I promise!”

She skated away from him and over to a pile of . . . stuff. She viciously shoved all that stuff into a backpack—without even a modicum of attempting to organize it first—and pulled the straps onto her shoulders. “Thank you . . . uh . . .”

“You don't know my name?”

“I know your name! I just don't know what to call you. Do I call you Novikov or Coach or Mr. Novikov or The Marauder?”

“Bo. Call me Bo.”

“I like Novikov.” And he wondered why she'd bothered asking him in the first place. “And you can call me Blayne.”

“Like I've been doing?”

“Exactly!”

She headed off for the door.

“Are you skating to work?”

She stopped, looked down at her skates. “Oops,” she said with a laugh. “I guess I am now.” She looked back at him and shrugged. “If I'm late to the office, Gwen's gonna have my ass. Oh! And I'm not speaking to her today anyway. Ha! Take that, feline who thinks I'm too weak for the Babes!”

Then she was gone and Bo wondered what the hell he'd just gotten himself into.

 

 

Dee was heading toward the sports center when Blayne Thorpe suddenly shot out the doors and skated off down the street.

Dee's hands turned into fists and she growled, making the full-humans on their way to work skirt away from her.

That girl! That damn girl! She bounced around the world like a jumping bean. Here, there, every damn where! How were Dee and her team supposed to keep a constant eye on the little idiot when she kept bouncing around?

It was bad enough Dee was forced to do this at all. It was bad enough that the Van Holtz men who ran the Group, the organization she currently worked for, insisted that one wolfdog needed this level of protection. It was bad enough that every time Dee came face to face with Blayne Thorpe, the woman yelled out her name like they were on opposite ends of the earth. But for Dee to have to lower herself to protect a female she was positive was simply a teacup poodle in disguise rather than a predator worth stealing was the height of insult.

For the past two months, Dee had been begging Niles Van Holtz to release her from this bullshit duty. To let her off-leash on more important things than the safety and care of one energy-infused idiot. But did he listen? No. At least he didn't listen to her. Instead he listened to that nephew/ cousin/direct bloodline—whatever the hell he called him, Ulrich Van Holtz. And Ulrich was all sorts of concerned about Blayne Thorpe, Useless Girl.

Normally, Dee would have quit this bitch by now. She didn't need money this badly. But the Group had potential for giving her what she wanted in the long term. Dee was all about big picture thinking, and she'd already started moving on her plans to start her own division. But until someone—anyone!—snatched Blayne Thorpe merely because she was a hybrid so the Group could catch those full-humans in the act and take them down, Dee was trapped watching after this . . . this . . . poodle!

Cracking her neck and letting out a breath, Dee followed after Blayne, almost crashing into her on the corner when it turned out the wolfdog had gone down the wrong street—again. Of course, Blayne didn't even see Dee. Didn't scent her. Didn't know she was being followed. She was blissfully oblivious as always.

“Useless teacup poodle,” Dee snarled, watching the idiot skate off through the busy city crowd.

Then, resigned to what she had to do, Dee followed after her.

CHAPTER 5

B
layne skated into the office. Sitting on her desk was an enormous cup from her favorite smoothie place and a cardboard box most likely filled with her favorite nonsugar donuts from the Healthy Eating Bakery two doors down. A place Gwen said she wouldn't go into with a gun to her head because she hated, “All those damn hippies.” In Gwen's mind, anyone who didn't eat meat was a hippie. But Blayne went to the bakery for yummy treats made without sugar.

It hadn't taken Blayne long to figure out that sugar and/or caffeine in her system was a one-way ticket to a night in jail. For most people it was liquor or hard drugs, but Blayne had additional issues, so she avoided all of them as much as possible, especially on workdays.

Gwen sat at her desk, and Mitch, half awake and probably not happy about having to be at their office so early, sat in the only other guest chair they could fit in the room.

“Hi, Blayne.” Gwen smiled at her. “How's it going?”

“Fine,” she muttered, keeping her head down. Was Blayne milking the fact her friend felt awful about what she said for all it was worth? Um . . . yeah!

“Look, Blayne.” Gwen stood and walked over to her while Blayne dropped her bag to the floor and began digging through it to get out her work clothes. “I'm really sorry about yesterday. Of course the Babes aren't trading you or removing you or replacing you or anything. Cherry won't hear of it.”

Blayne shrugged—pathetically, she thought—and kept pulling out clothes trying to find her cargo pants.

“And Mitch is sorry, too. Right, Mitchell?” Gwen asked through clenched teeth.

“What? Oh, yeah. Yeah. I'm sorry, Blayne. I should have kept my mouth shut.”

“It's no big deal,” Blayne said, standing.

“It is,” Gwen said. “You know I'm loyal to you, Blayne. And I think if we train together until the championships, outside team trainings, it'll be fine. It'll be better than fine. It'll be great.”

“That won't be necessary.”

“Come on, Blayne. You know I don't mind and it'll be good for me, too. We can practice before work in the mornings.”

Stealing from Novikov, Blayne said, “I'm not sure I can fit that into my current schedule.”

“Schedule? What schedule? When have you ever had a schedule except the work one I give you every morning?”

“I'm talking about the schedule I now have that allows me to train with Bo Novikov. In the mornings, before work. You know, to help toughen me up so I'm not such a weak link for the team.”

Feeling smug but working really hard not to show it, Blayne stood, her work clothes in her hand. Gwen blinked at her, confused, while Mitch had his mouth open, his eyes wide. “I've gotta change. Got that job over at that barbershop on Twenty-eighth. Backed up sinks, I think.” She nodded, looked between the two siblings, and said, “Okay. See ya.”

She skated out of the office and to the first-floor bathrooms. By the time she'd changed into her work clothes, Blayne was grinning ear to ear. She simply couldn't help it. She hadn't had that much fun in a while.

Giggling to herself, Blayne walked out of the bathroom, squealing a little when Mitch latched on to her arm and dragged her into one of the first-floor conference rooms. They weren't alone, though. Now the wild dogs were involved. Of course, it was their building that B&G Plumbing had their offices in but, more important, she
loved
when the wild dogs were involved. Everything took on a whole new level of crazy when they were!

Mitch dragged her to the front of the room before he released her. “Have you lost your mind?” he demanded.

“You'll have to be more specific.”

Jess, the only one sitting, her large belly keeping her far back from the conference table, ducked her head and began to rub her nose.

“Mitch—” Gwen said, trying to end this quickly, but Mitch was on a roll and it wasn't even nine a.m. yet. He held his hand up to cut his sister off.

“Blayne.” And he said her name with all types of concern. “This is Bo Novikov we're talking about here. The Marauder. He doesn't train anyone.”

“Except me.”

“Yeah, sweetie.” He placed his hand on her shoulder, and a small part of her—a small part she had control of after lots of anger management classes—wanted to bite his fingers clean off. “But at what price?”

“I'm going to help him.”

“Help him with what? Orgasms?”

Blayne curled her hand into a fist under the sweat clothes she still held. She made sure to dig her fingers into her palm so that she didn't laugh. When she knew she had control, she asked, “He didn't say that specifically, but there was some mention of a morning protein drink. I said, ‘I hope you like strawberry!'”

“Blayne!”

She waved away his concern. “Look, he's actually really nice.”

“See, you already have me worried, Blayne. The Marauder is
not
nice. He's what our mom would call a motherfucker. He's a motherfucker on the ice and, from what I've seen and heard, a motherfucker off it.”

“I heard he threw a guy off a building once,” Phil added in for no reason that Blayne could see.

“We'll be underground at the Sports Center,” she clarified, making Jess and Gwen snort.

“I heard he went after a fan with his hockey stick,” Danny tossed in. “And I mean his hockey stick. Hockey stick isn't a euphemism for penis.”

Yup! She loved the wild dogs!

“Would you two shut up?” Mitch snapped.

“Watch mouth, cat,” Sabina warned, “or I remove your tongue.”

“Don't you see, Blaynie.” Mitch put his arm around her shoulders. “You're like an illegitimate little sister that I never wanted.”

“Thanks?”

“And I want to keep you safe and sound, not sexually abused by sports stars.” He pulled her in close, cutting off her ability to breathe. “Novikov isn't going to help you, Blayne. He's going to use you.”

“But Gwenie said I should do whatever I have to when it comes to the team.”

“I'm sure she didn't mean—”

“If the rest of us,” Gwen cut in, “can put out to get our team to the next level, I don't see why Blayne can't.”

Jess had to turn her chair around so she wasn't facing Mitch, and Mitch looked seconds from his head exploding off his body.

“
What the hell are you talking about?
”

“Don't yell,” Gwen said. “No need to yell. Blayne just understands what she has to do. For the team. Right, Blayne?”

“Right!”

“Now come on. We've got to get to work.”

“Wait a minute!” Mitch yelled. “You can't just walk away! This conversation isn't done!”

 

 

Ulrich Van Holtz rolled out of bed and, scratching his head and yawning, made his way out of his bedroom, down his hallway, and into his living room, grabbing the remote off the coffee table. Morning news and fresh coffee would get his day started, so he could face the lunch rush at the restaurant and hockey practice with the team that night.

About to press the button that would turn on all the different pieces of equipment that made up his home theater, Ric jumped instead, barely keeping his grip on the sleek device in his hand when he heard, “You wanted to see me?”

Ric closed his eyes and waited until his heart rate slowed down. As with all Van Holtz pups, Ric had been trained from birth to be aware of three things: When filet mignon was a perfect medium-rare, when it was the right time to sell stocks, and when a predator was lurking around one's home. As his restaurant reviews and personal financial portfolio revealed, Ric had mastered the first two. And he'd always felt he'd mastered the third as well.

Until he met Dee-Ann Smith.

He'd met some “lurky types,” as Blayne liked to call them, nearly every day, but none had compared with the thirty-four-year-old She-wolf who didn't seem to let little things like titanium doors, heavily armed guards, or lethal laser protection get in her way of entering wherever she felt the need to enter. And since his penthouse suite at the top of the Van Holtz towers had lesser versions of that level of security, he guessed he shouldn't continually be surprised by her sudden appearances in his home.

Feeling calmer, Ric faced Dee-Ann. Like most shifters, he slept naked, but Dee-Ann never seemed to notice, so he didn't bother scrambling to put on clothes. As far as Ric was concerned, it was the risk she took if she was going to just show up in people's houses unannounced.

“I did want to see you . . . two days ago.”

“Busy. Watcha want?”

“I wanted to check in about—”

“Teacup?”

“I prefer we call her Blayne, but yes.”

The six-two She-wolf shoved her hands into the front pockets of her jeans. It was cold out, mid-February, which meant that Dee-Ann's jeans, Coors T-shirts, and cowboy boots had turned into jeans, a Led Zeppelin sweatshirt, and cowboy boots with an oversized leather bomber jacket, EGGIE sewn in on the front, in case the near-freezing temperatures made Dee chilly.

“We're wastin' our time on her.”

“Yes. You've said this before. Many, many,
many
times. But as far as the Group and
I
are concerned, she's a prime target.”

“No one's taking that girl.” Dee rolled her eyes. “She wouldn't even be good for breedin'.”

As much as Ric worshipped the ground Dee-Ann Smith walked on, he still refused to take her shit on this one issue.

A few months back, Dee-Ann had found out that Blayne's name had been sold to a fighting ring that liked to use shifter hybrids for their events. In the past six months, they'd found more than two dozen bodies all over the tri-state area. Some of them were still in shifted form, some human, all of them chewed up and spit out. A few still wearing their thick leather collars, complete with spikes. A few had died during the fight; others had been put down after. All of them had been male, but females had been taken.

Some assumed they'd been taken for breeding, but Ric didn't think it was that simple. It wasn't like breeding pit bulls or rottweilers, where the puppies grew up into fighting dogs within a year or two. The pups of shifters wouldn't be useful for years, their ability to shift not happening until they hit puberty. The only ones with fighting potential at a young age were the hyenas. They were the only shifters born with their fangs, but the young were kept close to home just for this reason. And no one with two working brain cells was going to try to get into a hyena den to grab up a few of their young. Absolutely no one was that stupid.

No, Ric didn't think they wanted the female hybrids for breeding. He felt they wanted them for fighting, she-predators in general being more vicious than males. They had to be. Often, they weren't merely protecting themselves but their young as well.

And a small fortune had been given to the scumbag who'd sold Blayne's name, so Ric refused to believe anyone was giving up on her now.

“You know when I signed up for this, Niles Van Holtz said I wasn't going to be hemmed in.”

“I'm not hemming you in, Dee-Ann. I'm telling you to do your job. I'm not telling you how to do it, just to do it. You and Uncle Van decided not to tell Blayne she was a target, but that means you and your team have to work harder to protect her because she doesn't know to protect herself.”

“That was your uncle's idea, not mine.”

Actually, Niles Van Holtz, Uncle Van, was his older cousin, but that was neither here nor there at the moment.

“I'll make this simple for you. I want regular updates on Blayne. Where she is, what she's doing, and who she's doing it with. I want you to do your job, Dee-Ann. It's that simple.”

Perfect full lips briefly pursed, before Dee said, “As you like.” It was her nice Southern way of saying, “I'll do it, but fuck you,” but if it got Ric what he wanted, he'd overlook the tone.

He faced his home theater again and used the remote to turn it on. “You want breakfast?” he offered, ready to ease her anger with food. But when he looked over his shoulder at where she'd been standing, she was already gone.

 

 

“On three. One, two . . . three.”

Gwen and Blayne pulled, yanking the warped door open. The dank smell of mold and damaged plumbing hit them, and the pair turned their heads. “Okay,” Gwen said when she could speak without gagging, “maybe we should have listened to my mother about joining the family business.”

Blayne laughed. “The smell's not that bad, princess.”

“You are such a canine about scents.”

“I'll take that as a compliment.”

Gwen motioned to the hallway behind them with a tip of her head. “Anyone around?”

Blayne looked, then sniffed. “Nope.”

Without a witnessing audience, Gwen walked into the pitch-black room without using the flashlight she had with her. Why waste the batteries when she could see just fine without it?

Gwen found the water-damaged wall that was right beneath where the barbershop and hair salon had their sinks. “Found it.”

Blayne nodded. “Yep. That looks kind of long term, huh?”

“Pretty much.” Gwen dropped her tool bags onto the floor and reached into one to pull out her sledgehammer. Blayne did the same, the friends standing beside each other. Gwen started, swinging the sledgehammer over her head and into the wall. As she pulled back, Blayne swung. They kept this up until they'd destroyed a good portion of the wall, revealing very old pipes that were dripping from several spots and pouring from others.