Boarlander Silverback (Boarlander Bears Book 3) (7 page)

Alison tried not to roll her eyes as the early twenty-something shifter groupies packed in an old Volkswagen van begged for her to let them pass.

Too bad for them, she and Finn had built the road blocks yesterday to keep the boldest of the groupies abiding by the rules.

“Sorry ladies. There is nothing up there for you.”

“False,” the blond with the movie star glasses sneered from behind the wheel. “Bangaboarlander dot com just added three new shifters a couple days ago.”

Alison frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“The shifter matchmaking website? Three new males were announced to be looking for mates. Three shifters…” She pointed to her and her two friends. “Three mates.”

“I call Kirk,” a buxom brunette said excitedly.

“No one calls Kirk,” Alison gritted out.

“Yes, I just did. He looks hot as fuck in his picture. Look.” The brunette handed her phone out the driver’s side window, and Alison squinted at the small, glowing screen.

In his picture, Kirk was looking off to the side, muscular, thick neck flexed, aviator sunglasses blocking his eyes from the sun, lips curled up in a naughty, sexpot smile, with a white V-neck T-shirt under an unbuttoned blue flannel shirt, his muscular arms straining against the thin material. His hair looked windblown and sexy, and if her ovaries were currently doing a fireworks show in her middle, it was no wonder why brunette was calling dibs.

Kirk Slater, 6’3”, quiet, loves to hug, is a demon in the sack, and ready for an immediate mate, great second best friend. If you want this man and to birth all his gorilla shifter babies, contact him here.

There was an arrow pointing to a
Poke Me Hard
button, and underneath was a gif of a shirtless Kirk striding by in slow motion, running his hand through his wet hair and giving a panty-melting smile. It played on an ovary-exploding loop of hotness.

“Oh, my damn,” she murmured. This was not okay, and now her insides had turned green. “How many people can see this?”

Brunette leaned over her friend’s lap and pointed. “His page has gotten over seven thousand hits since it went live a couple days ago. But realistically, probably a hundred of those visits are me. I can’t stop watching the gif!”

This is what rage felt like. Molten lava in her middle, tingling fingers, an all-consuming urge to break things. Carefully, Alison handed the phone back and ground out, “I’m sorry you traveled here all the way from…”

“South Dakota,” Blondie offered helpfully.

“Yes, South Dakota, but you can’t just show up to their houses. Try the contact button, or better yet, attend a Shifter Night in Saratoga. They’ll come down to mingle if they’re really looking for mates. Now go on. You’ve been waiting here for an hour, and I’m about to start handing out tickets.” For what, she hadn’t a clue, but the bluff worked because the trio of beauties pulled out from in front of her cabin, their botoxed lips in a pout.

Finn was chewing a long cord of rope candy, an annoying smile on his face. “They were hot.”

“But mostly obnoxious.” Alison made her way into her cabin and stripped out of her uniform.

“You look mad,” Finn said from right behind her, smacking loudly.

“Do you mind?” she yelled, shoving her legs into her jean shorts.

“Not at all.”

Idiot. She’d had her suspicions she wasn’t the only one being punished with this job, and apparently she’d been right. When she’d searched for dirt on Finn, a rap sheet had come up of sexual harassment warnings filed by other female cops in his precinct. He’d been given a leave of absence and somehow ended up here, with her. Goodie.

She shoved him out of her bedroom doorway and slammed the door, then pulled on a tank top, red to represent her rage. Kirk was gonna get it. And by it, she meant the verbal mauling of a lifetime. Bangaboarlander.com? What the hell? No one was supposed to be banging Kirk but her!

“Mind the office,” she demanded as she grabbed a hoodie and stomped across the small porch.

Bangaboarlander. Mother fluffer. What was she to him? His Monday mate? He still needed to fill the rest of the days of the week? She was going to kill him, then revive him, then kill him again. She hopped into the SUV she’d been issued and pulled out of the yard. When she looked back in the rearview mirror, Finn was glaring suspiciously at her, arms crossed over his chest, stick of rope candy hanging from his hand like a ready sword.

But right about now, she gave exactly zero fucks about his opinion. Why? Because he was a lady groper, and he had no place being judgmental of her life choices.

She pulled around the road block, mud shooting up around her like a rooster tail, then skidded and straightened out onto the road. Two days ago. He’d uploaded his profile two days ago, so after his gorilla had “chosen” her, after they’d slept together, and after her whole heart had latched onto him. She hated games. Hated. Them.

She nearly went up on two wheels turning right onto the gravel road that would lead her to Boarland Mobile Park. She’d never been jealous in her life, but this was different. She’d bared her soul to a man who was playing her. He’d sympathized with her admission of what had happened to Riggs, and all the while, he was online looking for groupie pussy? Everything was bathed in shades of red.

She came to a skidding stop under the Boarland Mobile Park sign and leaned forward over her steering wheel. She blinked hard and shook her head to clear the hallucination she was clearly having.

A dark-headed giant of a muscle man sat in a plastic lawn chair held together with strips of duct tape. In his hands was a fishing pole, and the end of the line disappeared into a giant pothole in the middle of the road.

Alison’s windshield wipers dragged loudly over the sparse raindrops on her window. Sebastian Kane was fully bearded, wearing a damp white T-shirt and holey jeans, looking completely relaxed as he fished out of the pothole. Beside him, his mate and wife, Emerson Kane, was draped across another plastic chair, white sunglasses on, her curly black hair gathered at the top of her head in a wild bun, and was reading a book under a bright pink umbrella. She and Bash would be the vision of contentment if it weren’t for the giant fire blazing in the middle of the street behind them. And several yards from the fire, a sandy blond-haired man in yellow eighties-style short shorts and matching tube socks lay shirtless on the ground, hugging a half empty bottle of cheap whiskey.

In a daze, Alison cut the engine, shoved her door open and slid out, her anger evaporating by the second.

Bash pointed with his index finger and grinned. “Police woman. I like your tattoos, and your face is red, my second favorite color.”

Emerson shoved her sunglasses over her hair. “Are you here for a meeting with Harrison or something?”

“Uh, no. I’m here to see Kirk.”

“Kirk!” Bash yelled.

The man on the ground didn’t even flinch. She was growing more and more concerned at his proximity to the fire. “Is he dead or just sleeping?”

“Who, Clinton?” Emerson asked, glancing at the man in the road. “Nah. Bash told Clinton the potholes in the trailer park needed to be fixed.”

“And Clinton being the poop chute he is said the road is fine as it is. Which clearly,” Bash said, looking around at the destroyed road, “it ain’t.”

“So then Bash said the potholes were so big he could catch a fish in one,” Emerson said.

Bash moved a toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other side. “And then Clinton said if I caught a fish in one, we could fix the road, and he wouldn’t throw a piss-fit.” Bash pulled the line of his fishing pole from the deep pothole, and Alison yelped as he pulled out a sizeable flopping fish.

“Oh, my gosh, you actually caught a fish in there?”

Emerson wrapped her arms around her stomach and giggled. “No. Bash caught the fish in the river and brought it back here. When Clinton saw it, he went into a rage and set Ant-hillia on fire.”

“Ant-hillia?” Alison asked.

“Yeah, that’s the giant anthill that Clinton has been waging war on. He keeps kicking it down, but the ants keep building it back up.”

“Why doesn’t he poison them?”

“Because he said there’s no honor in poison,” Bash said with a matter-of-fact nod of his head.

“So he set fire to it?”

“Yep,” Bash said. “Doused it in gasoline and lit it up because he was so pissed at losing the bet. And then instead of bleeding me like he usually does, he drank himself stupid and passed out in the street.”

Emerson grinned. “Progress.”

Alison’s head was beginning to hurt.

Harrison, the titan, musclebound behemoth alpha of the Boarlanders, kicked open the door of the first trailer on the right, gave her a suspicious glare, then walked past them all with a sloshing bucket in his hand.

When he dumped it over Clinton, the man sat up and gasped out, “Nipples.”

“Your pants are about to light on fire,” Harrison gritted out.

“So you dumped the water on me?” Clinton slurred through a deep frown. “Why didn’t you put out the fire?”

“You started the fire. You put it out!”

“Nipples is the name of a mouse,” Bash explained through a distracted smile as he settled the fish back in the pothole pond. “Clinton is mad because we wouldn’t let him have one of her babies for his trailer. Everyone got one but Harrison, who said he didn’t want mouse shit in his food, and Clinton because he can barely take care of himself.”

“Shut
up
, Bash!” Clinton said, struggling to his feet.

Kirk came out of the first trailer on the left with an armload of what looked like ceiling tiles. “Hey,” he said, coming to a stop on his porch. He tossed the demolition materials over the side of the railing into a knee-high pile of debris and pulled his gloves off as he jogged down his porch stairs. He yanked out a pair of earbuds blaring music, and his face transformed into a big grin. Kirk cupped his hand at his mouth and yelled, “Hey, Clinton!”

“What?” the swaying man demanded in a grumpy tone.

“One, your shorts are too short and your dick is hanging out, and two, I’d like you to meet my mate.”

“I don’t even care anymore,” Clinton said.

Bash and Emerson snickered quietly.

“You don’t care about me bringing a girl into the trailer park?” Kirk asked.

“We’re already going to hell, Kirk,” Clinton slurred. “Might as well do it thoroughly.” He stumbled off toward a trailer at the back of the park, mumbling to himself. Alison couldn’t understand a word he said until he yelled over his shoulder, “Maybe I’ll get a million mates!”

“I like when Clinton is drunk,” Bash said in a giddy voice.

Kirk came at her with his arms out like he was going in for a hug, but her anger was back now, and she slapped his pec before he could embrace her. It stung her palm, but he didn’t even flinch. Now she was even madder.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his dark brows lowering with concern.

“Am I your mate, Kirk?
Am I
?”

Kirk narrowed his eyes into wary little slits. “Yeees.”

“Then why did you just upload your profile to diddleaboarlander dot com two days ago?” Yep, she was shouting, but so what?

“Bangaboarlander dot com?” Emerson asked.

“I didn’t,” Kirk barked out. “I’ve never even been on that damned site. You want to blame someone for uploading anything about me, blame Willa.”

“Of the Gray Backs? Why the hell would she upload anything about you? Kirk Slater, six foot three, loves hugging, ready for a mate.” Or something like that. “Sound familiar? Seven thousand hits from horny women!”

“Uh, that wasn’t Willa,” Bash said.

“Damn straight. It was this two-timing, conniving, pussy-chasing liar!” Alison bent down and picked up a handful of mud, then chucked it at Kirk. It splatted satisfyingly across his neck and cheek.

He jerked in surprise and closed his eyes. And when he opened them again, they were glowing a flaming gold.

“I posted that,” Bash called. “I did them for Clinton and Mason, too, because I want them to be happy like me.”

“W-what?” Alison asked, wiping her muddy hand on her shorts.

“I like the way you cuss,” Bash said, his smile growing uncertain. “And you throw good.”

Kirk wiped a glob of brown goop from his face and gritted out, “Bash, could you kindly take that profile down? Because apparently, I’m mated to a
crazy woman
.” He spun and strode with purpose toward his trailer.

“Ooooh, Kirk, I’m so sorry,” she said, jogging after him. “It’s nice to meet all of you!” she called over her shoulder, waving with her mud-smeared hand.

Harrison stood by the simmering fire in the middle of the road with his hands on his hips, glaring at her, while Emerson grinned from ear-to-ear. “Welcome to the trailer park!”

“Nice to meet you without a gun in your hand,” Bash called just before she followed Kirk into his trailer.

“I swear I’m not crazy. I just, whoa, what happened to this place?” She stood in what looked like a living room, if said room had actual walls and a ceiling. Wires were exposed everywhere, and she could see the innards of the trailer on display. No insulation.