Called by the Bear 1-3

C
opyright © 2014
, 2015 by V. Vaughn

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C
over by Croco Designs

Editing by Jodi Henley and Red Adept Publishing

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I
’m
Carly Cutler
and my dreams predict the future. So why am I dreaming about a sexy beast of a guy, a bear, and a paw print design? I don’t know. A force I can’t fight wants me to find out, and I’m leaving the only life I’ve ever known. With a fresh tattoo of a bear paw and my best friend by my side, I’m on a quest to find a man I’ve never met.

Sierra Steele here
, and ready for adventure – We’ve been chosen. The moment I saw Carly’s first tattoo, I felt the undeniable attraction of the guy I’ve been dreaming about. My cautious friend can’t resist the pull either, and we’re off to the mountains to get answers. Something’s calling us, and I’m certain the hunky men are our exciting destiny. They’ll keep us safe from the bear, right?

C
arly

L
arge hands grip my hips
, and I gaze into eyes so green they can’t be real. What I’m feeling might not be real, either. A moan escapes my lips as the huge blond man drives into me with a low growl. Tremors rumble throughout my body as I fall over the edge and cry out in ecstasy.

I’m almost blind with pleasure as my vision blurs. Fur… an animal? I gasp with sharp pain, searing hot agony. A paw-print tattoo—

I bolt up in bed with a scream on my lips. Blond hair and green eyes flash in my memory as I pant. Lust twinges at my core when I focus on the good part of my dream, and my pulse slows to a normal rate. My nipples are hard with arousal, and my sex is slippery as I stand to pace. Sweat trickles down my back, and I can’t decide if it’s from fear or the orgasm I just had in my dream.

Focus, Carly.
I know I was having sex with a super-hot guy. It was good sex, but somehow, a bear became part of the dream, and I think it bit me. Recalling the tattoo stabs at my senses. It’s important, but I don’t know why.

The vinyl stick-on tile of my kitchen floor is cool under my feet, and when I open the fridge the bright light makes me squint. I pull out a carton of orange juice while my mind reaches for the memories just out of my grasp. I shudder, recalling the sharp teeth and fur. When I comb my fingers through my hair to pull it off my damp face, the silkiness makes me remember stroking the animal.

But even in my slumber, I knew danger lurked. The gleam of long white teeth took me from pleasure to pain in an instant. And it wasn’t a good pain. It was the ice-in-my-veins, sheer-terror kind.

I sip my juice, and the sweetness flows through me as the vision of a tattoo flickers along the edge of my consciousness. It’s a paw print, but I can’t quite see the details. They elude me like the flat belly I used to crave.

This nightmare’s been haunting me for a week now. Like clockwork, I wake in a panic that has me up for the day, after only a few hours of much-needed rest. A low-grade headache that has nothing to do with alcohol throbs behind my temple.

“I need to get out of here.”

My glass thumps on the counter, and I return to my bedroom to throw on baggy jeans and a T-shirt. I slide on my worn Vans and leave. My sneakers tap down the wood plank stairs of the apartment building as salty air wraps around me. It should provide comfort, but it doesn’t for me. I thrive on the earth-born power of solid ground.

Waves washing ashore sound as I unlock my bike from the rack set out for tenants. When I sit on my hard bike seat it reminds me of my previous aroused state, and I push off the pavement to cycle to the park.

The methodic rhythm of my feet churning the pedals calms me as I move along the nearly empty street. The sour odor of a restaurant dumpster floats toward me as a garbage truck empties it. Fortunately it’s followed by the aroma of fried goodness wafting out of my favorite bakery, and I stop.

I don’t bother chaining my bike this time. The heavy glass door of the cafe creaks when I pull it open. It moves easily, and I’m startled by a shaggy-looking blond guy. He lifts his head when he notices me, and my heart returns to normal when I see brown eyes that make it clear he wasn’t the man in my dream. He says, “Sorry, didn’t see you.”

He holds the door for me as I say, “Thanks.” I turn to watch him walk away, trying to recall the face of my dream man. It’s already faded and as vague as the clawed tattoo.

After purchasing a pastry and a small coffee in a cup that fits in my bike’s water-bottle holder, I continue to my destination. When I get there, anxiousness flutters in my stomach. I quickly lock up my bike and kick off my shoes to carry them. The paper bakery bag rustles in my hand as I begin to walk.

For a moment the odor of musty leaves on a forest floor tickles my nose, but it’s only a memory of my nightmare, because the public park is well maintained. Damp grass slips between my toes, and I sigh at the sensation as I walk over to my favorite tree.

The coffee is still too hot to drink, and while I wait for it to cool I lie down on my back to stare into the canopy of leaves above my head. Early morning light filters through in tiny pricks of light, and the high-pitched call of a seagull reminds me I live on the ocean.

This park is my touchstone. I crave trees, cool shade, and the spongy floor of a forest. The patchy lawn and hard-packed dirt under an oak will have to do. I close my eyes and imagine a brook trickling in the background as I relax into my sleepiness.

Pebbles under my feet make me walk gingerly toward deeper water. A deep baritone laugh carries over the lake, and I gaze at the large man it came from. His hair is wet and dark, while green eyes almost glow in his tan face.

My core begins to tremble with desire for him. I sink down into the water, and my breasts float weightlessly. I’m naked, and I guess he is too. Turned on even more by the realization, I swim toward him.

When I reach the man, he whispers, “Carly.” Callused hands larger than any I’ve ever known caress my body, and I become ravenous for him.

He thrusts into me quickly, and my climax is moments away when a glint of white punctures my pleasure with fear. Fangs? The man grabs my hand and sinks his teeth into my wrist. Intense heat slices into me, and I open my mouth to scream. I pull away, and there’s a paw print tattoo on the inside of my arm with blood gushing out of it.

Sitting up quickly, I gasp and knock over my coffee cup. “Shit!” I scramble to retrieve it before too much leaks out the top.

My heart is thumping hard against my chest.
Memorize the tattoo. Don’t forget it!
But it’s already gone.

C
arly

M
y pencil scratches
against paper as I finish my sketch. Looking over the tribal-like paw print, I notice something seems off, but I can't put my finger on it. The actual design still eludes me. I’m at the tattoo parlor waiting for my next client.

"Babe."

Ugh.
I hate hearing that name come from Ray's mouth.

I snap back. "I'm not your babe. I believe the last customer you had might be though." Ray is a manwhore and my ex. The one I caught banging a skinny chick over the table instead of tattooing her.

He walks into my tattoo room. A low voice I used to crave invades my senses as he leans down to speak in my ear. "You still can be. Want to sixty-nine before your next appointment?"

Seriously?
Like sucking his cock is what I live for? I shudder a little in disgust.
Crap on a cracker.
The wheels of my chair whirl as I push away from the desk in irritation. "Lovely offer, but I think I'll pass." He must be really horny.

Stepping into my personal space, he gets down on his knees. Ray's hands shove my jean-clad thighs open to slide himself between them. "Carly, I miss you." Pulling me against his chest with his arm, he nibbles on my neck, and tiny hairs prick up in response. But it's not desire I feel. It's almost hate. My lip curls in disgust, and a rumble comes from my chest like a growl. I catch myself before it comes out. As if a switch flipped, I've gone from hot for this guy to not even attracted.

I know how this used to go. He'd get me hot and then stand up to unzip his pants. When I was done pleasing him he'd find a reason he couldn't return the favor. But right now I'm not sure he would even get me warm. Even the smell of him is foul, and I’m reminded of the dumpster earlier today. I push him off me. "No. I agreed to come back if you promised to keep this a professional work arrangement."

He unbuttons his jeans and reveals the snake tattoo I designed and applied that leads beneath the zipper. His low voice says, "I could fuck you on the desk."

I roll back until my chair hits the wall with a thud. "Stop it, Ray. I'm serious." And I am. Right now anger is threading its way through my body. When he pulls his cock out and begins to stroke it, I bark at him, "Out."

"What a fat fucking bitch you are." He squints at me and tugs his dick one more time as if I should be upset I’m not getting to touch it. “Good luck finding someone who wants to fuck you.” He shoves it back in his pants as he walks out and kicks the door shut with a slam.

His words prick at my heart. You'd think I'd be immune by now. Thin is something I haven't seen in years. I turn to the client chair and the metallic gleam of my tattoo machine. The tribal paw print image floods my mind, and excitement hums through my veins because I see it clearly. I'm ready to draw it now. A glance at the clock tells me I have time. The smell of alcohol fills the air as I prepare my pale white wrist. I'm about to break more than one of my cardinal rules.

I
’m home and tired
. A tingling sensation travels up my arm as I gingerly touch my first tattoo. It’s still red and swollen, and normally it would look angry to me. But I think it’s the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

The microwave dings, and I pull out a container of mac and cheese. I push the pasta around with a fork, and the cheesy goodness steams, warning me to wait for it to cool. I'm known for putting a tattoo anywhere an individual wants with practiced ease, and I bet I've seen more penises than the average porn star.

My father was a tattoo artist, and I spent my life as his apprentice. Now I'm solidly booked, and he probably rolls in his grave knowing I'm the prick-your-dick queen. Actually, he's probably proud of me and sad knowing he had to leave me too soon.

Taking my pasta, I wander to my living room and sit on my sofa. My prudish tattoo-free body and usual uniform of baggy jeans and tees put men at ease, although they like to think they turn me on when my gloved touch makes them hard. Even now that I'm not the owner's girlfriend, Ray still protects me by stepping in often to check on the progress when I do delicate places. He isn't a complete ass.

Well, considering tonight, maybe he is. I make him a lot of money, and you'd think he could remember that. Part of the draw of Tattoo Junkie is the legendary Al Cutler's daughter carrying on his trademark traditional designs. I thank my dad often, because being a woman in this business is tough. A female tattoo artist my age is practically unheard of.

When I’m done eating, I lean back on the scratchy upholstery of my thrift-store couch and sigh. A red light flashes from the remote as I turn on the TV to scroll through my recorded shows. Finding nothing that interests me, I wander to the kitchen with my dirty bowl and deposit it in the sink. Frosty air blasts at me when I open the freezer for dessert and grab a carton of ice cream.

When I was in a relationship with Ray, I didn’t feel worthy of him. The way he acted tonight confirms I was an idiot. My father drilled it into my head that no man is worth more than I am. Digging into the hard ice cream with my spoon, I put a lump into my mouth. Creamy vanilla flavor coats my tongue as I chew chocolate bits.

Nothing here matters to me. Maybe it's time to start fresh. I glance again at my tattoo, and the pull to leave gnaws at me.

The ice cream carton is wet in my hands when I wander back to the living room. I could fit everything I own in my car and just leave. My dreamy guy’s voice saying “Carly” echoes in my head, sending a twinge of desire to my lower belly.
Maybe I will.
A smile creeps onto my face, and I return to the couch. Plopping down with a
whoosh
, I grab the remote to watch someone else's pitiful life as I finish off dessert.