Beast Behaving Badly (6 page)

“Okay,” Gwen said, studying the damage. “Now torturing Mitch aside, what's the real deal with Novikov?”

Blayne gave a little laugh. “I kind of railroaded the guy.”

“You, Blayne?” Gwen said with mock shock. “Never!”

“Well he was standing there, being all judgmental about derby—and me!—and I figured why couldn't he help me out since he'd put me into this situation?”

“And how did he do that?”

“By being everything that I am against when it comes to sports and—”

“Please stop. I can't hear that speech again.”

“Hey, look!”

“Blayne, wait—”

Too late. Blayne reached into the crevice and pulled out something breathing.

“A possum!”

“It looks like a giant rat.”

“It's not a rat. It's a possum. It's so obvious you've never been to the South.”

“What's down there but chitlins and giant rats they've renamed possum?”

Grinning, Blayne scratched the disgusting looking thing under the neck. “Isn't he cute?”

“Not even a little. And are you really going to be okay with Novikov? I mean, for once, Mitch does have a point. The Marauder's reputation is for shit.”

Blayne snorted. “I can handle him.”

Gwen had no idea why Blayne felt so confident about that, but Gwen knew there was no point in arguing with her about it, either. Blayne could be unbelievably stubborn when she dug her feet in. And, hell, if the hockey player could give Blayne even a few useful tips, Gwen wouldn't complain. The wolfdog had tons of potential, but the team could no longer ignore the fact that unless Blayne was pushed into a corner—something that made her homicidal—she was too damn nice.

And of all the things Gwen had heard about Bo Novikov over the years, she'd never heard the word “nice” used.

“Are you going to put that thing down, or am I fixing this by myself?”

Blayne frowned. “He seems awfully small. Maybe we should feed him.”

Feed him? Any other predator would be thinking of
eating
him. But Gwen knew better than to say that because that way lay tears and mucus and hysterical screams of, “
How could you even suggest that?
”

Not in the mood for any of that bullshit, Gwen offered, “Maybe it's just a baby or something.”

“You think?” Blayne leaned into the crevice again.

“Blayne, please be careful. Remember last—”

“Badger!”

 

 

“Ow!” Blayne glared at the She-wolf nurse standing behind her, forcing the hypodermic into the skin beside her right shoulder blade. “Painful!” she snapped.

“Then maybe, brilliance, you shouldn't get into fights with rats. You wouldn't need this precaution to prevent infections if you just did that.”

“It was a badger,” Blayne ground out, her teeth clenched tight. “Not a rat. And how was I to know that there was a possum
and
a badger in that hole?”

“How many times is that now anyway?” The She-wolf snapped the needle off the hypodermic before disposal. “That you've ended up on the wrong side of a badger fight?”

“It's not my fault. It's the badgers' fault. They're out to get me. All of them. They hate me.”

The nurse stood in front of her. She hated this woman, when Blayne hated so few.

“Badgers . . . hate you?” she asked with that condescending tone that made Blayne want to rip her throat out.

“Yes.”

“Uh-huh. I see why you're always current on your rabies vaccines. You're a walking disaster.”

“How is this good bedside manner? I'm almost positive this is what I'd call
bad
bedside manner.”

Blayne didn't understand why every time she had to come into the emergency room of this hospital, she had to deal with Nurse Mengele. Blayne didn't know if the She-wolf hated dogs so much or just hybrids in general, but their conversations had gotten pretty hostile lately.

“Why are you still in my ER, stray?” Nurse Fun demanded. “Don't you have to go beg for treats or something?”

Her good nature gone, Blayne snapped back, “Are those the real size of your thighs or do you stuff your pants to distract everyone from your face?”

Fangs burst from gums and the two canines snarled and snapped at each other until a bear walked into the room.

“What the hell is going on?”

Nurse Death stepped back. “Nothing, Doctor. But we have people who need the room and someone isn't leaving.”

“I'm guessing that someone is you.” The doctor motioned across the hall. “They need you in room six.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

The She-wolf glared and Blayne sneered back.

The doctor raised a brow at Blayne after Nurse McBitchy-son was gone. “I can't leave you alone for two seconds.”

“She started it!”

Doctor Iona MacRyrie, Lock's older sister and amazing sow, shook her head and laughed. “You say that every time.” Placing her hands under Blayne's chin, she lifted her face. “Honestly, Blayne. A rat did this?”

“It was a badger.”

“The badgers have made a return I see. For a while it was . . . what was it again?”

“Squirrels.”

“Ah, yes. Squirrels were out to get you.”

“Just one. But he was crafty . . . and mean.”

“Perhaps, Blayne, and this is just a suggestion, you should leave the small-prey animals alone unless you plan to eat them.”

Iona turned Blayne's head one way and another. “I'll give you something to put on these lacerations on your face.”

“Okay.”

Blayne had first met the doctor at a small dinner party thrown by Iona's parents announcing the engagement of her brother to Gwen. But they didn't really speak, Iona spending most of her time trying to control her cubs. A week later, though, they'd met again when Blayne had ended up in the ER after a vicious run-in with an alley cat. Not a lioness Blayne was insulting by calling an alley cat . . . an actual alley cat. Iona wasn't the ER doctor when Blayne came in, but a neurosurgeon at the shifter-run McMillian Presbyterian Hospital that happened to be on her way home for the night when she'd passed a bleeding Blayne trying to remove the psychotic animal still attached to the back of her head.

Twelve visits later, they had become quite chummy.

“What did Nurse Fun give me a shot for?” Blayne asked, the spot where the needle had entered beginning to hurt.

“I have no idea. Tetanus, perhaps?”

“I got that a while ago and it went into my thigh. You know I'm up on all my shots. That should be in my chart.”

“I'm sure it was preventative.” Iona stepped back. “I don't know what it is about you two, but I doubt she's trying to poison you.”

Blayne wasn't so sure. “Can I go?”

“Yes.” Iona pulled out a prescription pad from her doctor's coat and scribbled something down. “Put this on your face after washing. Keep the area clean. It takes longer for your lacerations to heal, so keep that in mind.”

“Okay.” Blayne took the prescription. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome. You need a lift home? I'm off in a few minutes.”

“Gwen can take me.”

Iona folded her arms over her chest and stared down at Blayne, one brow raised.

“She deserted me, didn't she?”

“She accuses me of being ‘one of those butchers' and refers to this hospital as a death trap. So what do you think, Blayne?”

“I'd think that when she said ‘Good luck surviving that death trap' after throwing me out of the truck that she would have stayed around to
ensure
that I survived the death trap!”

The team left the ice, the sound of their skates marching back to their locker room echoing through the halls.

Ric stopped and looked back at the rink. He shook his head and glanced over at Lock who stood next to him.

“He's a fucking machine,” Lock muttered. “He never stops.”

Truer words had never been spoken.

Together the friends watched the hybrid continue to run drills. They watched for about five minutes, then they headed to the locker room and left Bo “The Marauder” Novikov alone on the ice—exactly where he seemed to belong.

CHAPTER 6

B
o shot through the goal crease and slammed the puck into the net.

“Morning!”

That voice cut through his focus, and without breaking his stride, Bo changed direction and skated over to the rink entrance. He stopped hard, ice spraying out from his skates, and stood in front of the wolfdog.

He stared down at her and she stared up at him. She kept smiling even when he didn't. Finally he asked, “What time did we agree on?”

“Seven,” she replied with a cheery note that put his teeth on edge.

“And what time is it?”

“Uh . . .” She dug into her jeans and pulled out a cell phone. The fact that she still had on that damn, useless watch made his head want to explode. How did one function—as an adult anyway—without a goddamn watch?

Grinning so that he could see all those perfectly aligned teeth, she said, “Six forty-five!”

“And what time did we agree on?”

She blinked and her smile faded. After a moment, “Seven.”

“Is it seven?”

“No.” When he only continued to stare at her, she softly asked, “Want to meet me at the track at seven?”

He continued to stare at her until she nodded and said, “Okay.”

She walked out and Bo went back to work.

Fifteen minutes later, Bo walked into the small arena. Blayne, looking comfortable in dark blue leggings, sweatshirt, and skates, turned to face him. He expected her to be mad at him or, even worse, for her to get that wounded look he often got from people when he was blatantly direct. But having to deal with either of those scenarios was a price Bo was always willing to pay to ensure that the people in his life understood how he worked from the beginning. This way, there were no surprises later. It was called “boundaries,” and he read about it in a book.

Yet when Blayne saw him, she grinned and held up a Starbucks cup. “Coffee,” she said when he got close. “I got you the house brand because I had no idea what you would like. And they had cinnamon twists, so I got you a few of those.”

He took the coffee, watching her close. Where was it? The anger? The resentment? Was she plotting something?

Blayne held the bag of sweets out for him and Bo took them. “Thank you,” he said, still suspicious even as he sipped his perfectly brewed coffee.

“You're welcome.” And there went that grin again. Big and brighter than the damn sun. “And I get it. Seven means seven. Eight means eight, et cetera, et cetera. Got it and I'm on it. It won't happen again.” She said all that without a trace of bitterness or annoyance, dazzling Bo with her understanding more than she'd dazzled him with those legs.

“So.” She put her hands on her hips. “What do you want me to do first?”

Marry me? Wait. No, no. Incorrect response. It'll just weird her out and make her run again. Normal. Be normal. You can do this. You're not just a great skater. You're a
normal
great skater.

When Bo knew he had his shit together, he said, “Let's work on your focus first. And, um, should I ask what happened to your face?” She had a bunch of cuts on her cheeks. Gouges. Like something small had pawed at her.

“Nope!” she chirped, pulling off her sweatshirt. She wore a worn blue T-shirt underneath with
B&G PLUMBING
scrawled across it. With sweatshirt in hand, Blayne skated over to the bleachers, stopped, shook her head, skated over to another section of bleachers, stopped, looked at the sweatshirt, turned around, and skated over to the railing. “I should leave it here,” she explained. “In case I get chilly.”

It occurred to Bo he'd just lost two minutes of his life watching her try to figure out where to place a damn sweatshirt. Two minutes that he'd never get back.

“Woo-hoo!” she called out once she hit the track. “Let's go!”

She was skating backward as she urged him to join her with both hands.

He pointed behind her. “Watch the—”

“Ow!”

“—pole.”

Christ, what had he gotten himself into?

 

 

Christ almighty, what had she gotten herself into?

Twenty minutes in and she wanted to smash the man's head against a wall. She wanted to go back in time and kick the shit out of Genghis Khan before turning on his brothers, Larry and Moe. Okay. That wasn't their names but she could barely remember Genghis's name on a good day, how the hell was she supposed to remember his brothers'? But whatever the Khan kin's names may be, Blayne wanted to hurt them all for cursing her world with this . . . this . . . Visigoth!

Even worse, she knew he didn't even take what she did seriously. He insisted on calling it a chick sport. If he were a sexist pig across the board, Blayne could overlook it as a mere flaw in his upbringing. But, she soon discovered, Novikov had a very high degree of respect for female athletes. . . as long as they were athletes and not just “hot chicks in cute outfits, roughing each other up. All you guys need is some hot oil or mud and you'd have a real moneymaker on your hands.”

And yet, even while he didn't respect her sport as a sport, he still worked her like he was getting her ready for the Olympics.

After thirty minutes, she wanted nothing more but to lie on her side and pant. She doubted the hybrid would let her get away with that, though.

Shooting around the track, Blayne got stopped again in a way that she was finding extremely annoying—he grabbed her by the head with that big hand of his and held her in place.

He shoved her back with one good push, and Blayne fought not to fall on her ass at that speed. When someone shoved her like that, they were usually pissed. He wasn't.

“I need to see something,” he said, still nursing that cup of coffee. He'd finished off the cinnamon twists in less than five minutes while she was warming up. “Come at me as hard as you can.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, looking him over. He didn't have any of his protective gear on, somehow managing to change into sweatpants and T-shirt and still make it down to the track exactly at seven. “I don't want to hurt you,” she told him honestly.

The laughter that followed, however, made her think she did want to hurt him. She wanted to hurt him a lot. When he realized she wasn't laughing with him—or, in this case, laughing at
herself
since he was obviously laughing
at
her—Novikov blinked and said, “Oh. You're not kidding.”

“No. I'm not kidding.”

“Oh. Oh! Um . . . I'll be fine. Hit me with your best shot.”

“Like Pat Benatar?” she joked, but when he only stared at her, she said, “Forget it.”

Blayne sized up the behemoth in front of her and decided to move back a few more feet so she could get a really fast start. She got into position and took one more scrutinizing look. It was a skill her father had taught her. To size up weakness. Whether the weakness of a person or a building or whatever. Of course, Blayne often used this skill for good, finding out someone's weakness and then working to help them overcome it. Her father, however, used it to destroy.

Lowering her body, Blayne took a breath, tightened her fists, and took off. She lost some speed on the turn but picked it up as she cut inside. As Blayne approached Novikov, she sized him up one more time as he stood there casually, sipping his coffee and watching her move around the track. Based on that last assessing look, she slightly adjusted her position and slammed into him with everything she had.

And, yeah, she knocked herself out cold, but it was totally worth it when the behemoth went down with her.

 

 

Bo had been hit by four-hundred-plus-pound guys since he joined his high school team. He'd had guys who literally wanted him dead slam into him with the force of a rampaging herd of cattle. A few had managed to take him down. A couple had managed to ring his bell. But none, absolutely
none
, had managed to catch him off guard.

She'd been coming at him one way and, as he sipped his coffee and let his mind readjust his schedule for the day to allow for this hour of non-personal-training, she'd abruptly changed direction, hitting him on his weaker right side—and dumping him right on his ass.

The remainder of his coffee sprayed across the track, the back of his head hit the ground hard, and Bo suddenly remembered what it was like to see the world from this position.

It took him a moment to shake himself out of that stupor that comes with shock. And he wished he could dismiss it as merely a “lucky shot.” But he knew intent when he saw it. She'd wanted to knock him on his ass and she had. A tiny wolfdog had done what guys who had trained for years had been unable to do.

Worried she'd really hurt herself in the process, Bo released the empty cup he was still holding and brought his hands up to grip Blayne's shoulders.

“Blayne? Blayne, can you hear me?”

She groaned and he let out a relieved sigh. She placed her hands on his chest and slowly levered herself up. What he found most disturbing, though, was that when she did, he heard what could only be called a series of snapping noises that did nothing but kind of weird him out.

Blayne gritted her teeth as the noises continued and let out a breath when they stopped. She shook her head, glanced around.

“Blayne?” Big brown eyes focused on him. “Are you okay?”

“Uh-huh.” Her head tilted to the side. “Why are you on the floor?”

“Because this is where you put me.”

“Where I . . .” She shook her head again. “What?”

“You dropped me like a ton of bricks, Blayne.”

“Me? I . . . I did this?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you serious? Or are you just being nice?”

“Nice?” he asked. “Is that a real word or did you just make that up? I'm not familiar with this word . . . nice. Is it French?”

She sat up straight, her hands covering her mouth. “Oh, my . . . oh, my God!”

She scrambled off him and got to her feet, shooting around the track with her arms high in the air. And, not surprising since she was from Philly, she began singing the “Rocky” theme, but she didn't know the words so it pretty much consisted of, “Something, something now! Getting something, something now!”

He should be livid or, at the very least, morbidly embarrassed. He wasn't. He couldn't remember ever making someone so happy before, and it had to be the most pleasant experience he'd had in a very long time.

Bo sat up and watched her. “Blayne?”

“Something high now!”

“Blayne, watch out for the—”

“—pole.”