Running Free (3 page)

“Can I help you?” I snap after I jerk open the door.

The man who called me a boy stands in the shadows and unease trickles through my veins. I hate strangers and so far he’s a strange one lurking around after closing time. If I have to gut his ass, I won’t even think twice about it.

He takes a step forward and the light from inside the bar washes over his perfect, olive-colored face. My eyes lock with his dark chocolate ones, which widen slightly at seeing me before he takes his leisurely time skimming his gaze down my body all the way down to my feet.

“Been playing in the dirt?” he questions with a raised brow and steps from the shadows, fully revealing himself.

My breath catches in my throat. The man towers over my short frame. He’s easily several inches over six feet tall. His black T-shirt stretches over a chest full of chiseled muscles and defined lines with his midnight black leather jacket attempting to hide the deliciousness underneath. Having not been laid in some time, my body quivers with pleasure at seeing the good-looking man. His scent is musky with a hint of soap and when he grins at me, I get a whiff of his cinnamon gum which causes my skin to grow warm.

He’s hot but I’m not interested. I do best when I stick to myself and not let my hormones take over. Since we’re closing in on a full moon in a few days, I’ve been overwhelmed with the desire to copulate. And he looks like he could use a few nibbles, especially along the cord of muscle on his neck…

He clears his throat and I jerk my gaze back to his and find myself hypnotized by his dark orbs that dance with humor. Is he a fucking wizard or some shit? Otis says they’re smooth operators and this guy is as smooth as they come.

The man says something else but my eyes are already on a path to his mouth — full lips and dark smattering of hair shadowing his hard jaw and his cheeks have me craving to touch him. Everywhere.

“Bitch?”

His word snaps me from my visual sampling, my neck heating at his words, and I glare at him. “Excuse me?”

“Your collar —
er
— necklace says bitch.” His smirk weakens my knees and I attempt to add fuel to my inner rage that seems to have cooled while in his presence.

“Yeah, that’s my nickname. What do you want?” I demand, placing my hands on my hips.

He reaches forward and snatches my wrist, drawing it to him. I’m alarmed by his sudden movement and the way his touch sends curls of desire whipping through me has me at a loss for words.

“Both your hands and feet are dirty. Why?”

I blink away the shock and jerk my hand away. “Dropped my phone out back.”

He raises a smug brow and pushes past me into the bar. “I see. Why were you barefoot?”

Growling, even though it isn’t as fierce in my human form, I storm over to the sink to clean myself.

“I’m a free spirit, what can I say?” I bite out over my shoulder. “Why are you here? We’re closed.”

He walks around the bar and stands beside me at the sink, enveloping me in his delectable scent. If I were in my shifter form, I’d have probably already licked him. When I glance at him, all carnal, sexual thoughts dissipate to see that he’s holding a badge up. “I’m here on official police business, Detective Gunnar Mason. I need to ask you a few questions pertaining to the missing person, Acey Larson, Miss… ”

Police business.

Shit.

I’ve never meshed well with authority.

“Last name’s Aleen. You can call me Frankie,” I clip out as I dry my hands. “Acey didn’t show up for his shift. It’s not like him. Something’s happened to him, I know it. Now get out of this bar and go find out what it is.”

His dark eyebrow quirks up in amusement. “You’re a feisty little thing, aren’t you?”

Gunnar

I’ve pissed her off.

Her eyebrows are bunched together in a cute scowl and she clenches her teeth together as if she’s barely holding on to a string of vicious names she’s about to call me. I’ve been around enough hard-ass motherfuckers — although usually men — to know when someone is attempting to scare me away.

But this chick?

She doesn’t scare me away with her little pout and fisted hands at her sides. Nah, she turns me right the fuck on. This in and of itself shocks me.

It’s been four months since I left Chicago. And
her.

My ex-wife Carla.

Having been married to the woman for nearly a decade, I’d thought we’d be together forever. I met her in college when I was just nineteen and we married the very next year. She was the love of my life. That is, until I found my captain in my bed with her. He’d suffered multiple punches in his goddamn face before Carla coaxed me away from him.

The asshole is lucky I didn’t kill him.

Thankfully, Chief suggested I transfer — start a new life without having to work under a man who fucked my wife — and called in a favor to my current police chief, TJ Rickman. At the time, I was resistant but eventually made the move. Woodland Creek has been the quiet, peaceful retreat I needed to get my head back on straight. Women were off my radar — the one I loved the most was a traitor. However, seeing this dark-haired beauty before me, my dick, for the first time in months, thickens with excitement.

“Look,” I tell her with a half-grin and tug a card from my pocket, “call me if you see anything strange or hear anything. I’ll do my best to find this kid. In the meantime, try and be safe. Little women like yourself shouldn’t be answering the door to the big, bad wolf at two in the morning.”

She rolls her coffee-colored eyes but takes my card. “I’ve slept with the big, bad wolf and you’re not him. I can handle myself. But Acey… ” she trails off. Her eyes drag over to the window and she sighs sadly. “Just find him.”

Her almost black hair is wild all around her and I frown when I see some pine needles in it. Picking up her phone my ass. She was in the woods.

My gaze settles on a tattoo on her thigh. A barcode is branded into her flesh and I’m curious as to what the hell it means. I want to stay and ask her more questions — or just fucking look at her — but she’s back to glaring at me.

“Fine, I’ll go,” I grunt and retreat, heading toward the front door. “But I’m serious. I’ve only been in this town for a few months and a lot of weird shit goes down. Be careful.”

She nods and waves me off.

With a defeated groan, I saunter out of the bar and climb back into my Tahoe. The night is quiet so as I roll out of the parking lot, I lower my windows and listen. Back in Chicago, I was known for being the perceptive one. The detective who discovered clues that were under everyone’s noses. And when it came time to piece the puzzle together, I wasn’t afraid to go in, all guns blazing, hence the nickname Gun.

Yapping and howling in the distance causes me to slow to a stop. Out past the pond, I can hear a pack of wolves going hog wild. I don’t necessarily want to go traipsing through the woods where the fuckers could eat my ass but there’s a missing teen out there and I’d feel really damn bad if I let him get attacked by wolves because I was too much of a pussy to get out of my vehicle. With a sigh, I shut off the car and grab my shotgun from the back.

A hunting we will go.

I push my door closed in a soft way, careful not to draw any attention my way and begin trudging through the brush in the forest toward Woodland Pond. Yipping and growling echo through the trees which means I’m nearing a pack of those fuckers. My fears are confirmed when I emerge from the trees and see three large wolves circling a crumpled body near the water.

Shit.

One of the animals leans forward and licks the person’s forehead and I know it’ll only be a matter of time before they eat his ass — if they haven’t started already. By the looks of it though, he may be past saving.

Doesn’t mean I won’t try anyway.

Cocking my shotgun, I stride toward the wolves. “Git!”

The largest of the three jerks its massive head in my direction, baring his gnarly teeth at me. His grey eyes, almost humanlike in nature, seem to peer inside of me in a creepy-as-fuck way. Ignoring the shiver creeping up my spine, I aim my shotgun at him.

“Get out of here before I shoot your ass,” I threaten.

He growls but much to my surprise backs away from the person. The wolf must be the alpha in his pack because he barks out in an authoritative manner that has the other two trotting after him. They make a quick retreat into the forest and I exhale with a rush of relieved breath. I’m not sure why they backed off but I’m fucking glad.

As I near the body, I lower my gun. A teenager who resembles the one I was shown a picture of earlier this evening, lies sprawled out on the muddy banks. His belly has been gutted. My initial reaction is to assume those wolves had at him but I know better than going with the easiest answer. The crime scene reeks of foul play and I intend on uncovering what the fuck happened to the poor kid.

Yanking out my phone, I call the other detective on duty. “Fitz, bring the medical examiner and any uniforms working tonight,” I bark out. “I found the body of what I’m pretty sure is that Larson kid.”

He curses into the phone and I listen to him ramble out orders of his own to others in the station. Kneeling beside the body, I notice all sorts of huge animal footprints, most likely the three wolves. Scattered amongst those, are smaller indentions, almost like that of the Doberman I saw earlier. But what causes my hackles to rise is the partial bare footprint beneath the wolf prints.

Dirty feet.

Pine needles in her hair.

Frankie Aleen was here. I can feel it in my bones.

“Fitz,” I interrupt. “Pull up what you can on a Frankie Aleen. Young, maybe twenty-five years old, dark brown hair and brown eyes, barcode tattoo on her outer right thigh.”

The line goes quiet for a moment. “Frankie from the bar? Otis’s Frankie?”

Disappointment, for some fucking odd reason, courses through my veins at hearing she belongs to another man. I hadn’t seen a ring on her finger but that doesn’t mean shit these days. Hell, Carla had a goddamned ring for nearly ten years and it didn’t mean a thing to her.

“Yeah, find me what you can. She may be a suspect.”

“External examination concludes the manner of death was homicide,” Craft County coroner, Ronald Jeffries, states. “He bled out from being disemboweled.”

I quirk a brow up in question. “You don’t say, Ron. What’s the time of death? I need a timeline.”

He flips through a few pages on his clipboard, the headlamp on his forehand shining a dancing light on his work, before turning to regard me and in turn blinding me. “My initial findings indicate between seven and nine this evening. Of course we’ll know more when I can thoroughly examine the body in the lab. I bagged a hair. It’s short and coarse — probably an animal but that’ll be determined for sure under the microscope.”

Nodding, I blink away the spots from the bright light and run my fingers through my hair. He zips the body into the bag, seemingly unfazed by his job. I’m not as unaffected. I hate it when kids get killed. Tonight, I set off looking for the lost teen. I hadn’t expected to end the night with me finding his gutted body.

“Keep me advised. Send DNA samples to the Chicago lab. They’re fucking slow as hell but I want to know if this killer is in the system, even if it takes them six weeks to send the damn results. I want a full tox screen too.”

As he and his assistant carry the boy to the vehicle, I turn to regard Fitz. “Anything on the Aleen woman?”

“Frances Dawn Aleen is her full name according to the report. She’s had a rough past and only truly calmed since coming to Woodland Creek a few years back. She stays with old man Otis Brock out on the edge of town. Frankie doesn’t have a lot of friends and mostly keeps to herself. Hell, most guys in this town have tried to get with her but she’s a cold fish — might even be a lesbian for all we know.”

I glare at him. “Facts, Fitz, facts. Does she have a record? Tell me more about this rough past of hers — truth not opinions, man.”

This is one of the things I hate about this town. Back in Chicago, I was in one of the finest precincts. Aside from my dog of a captain, the cops there were good and fucking smart as hell. We brought down all kinds of criminals because we used our damn heads. Out here, in Woodland Creek, Indiana, too many of these idiots are sister and brother love children. Half of them act like they’re inbred and the other half are doing the inbreeding.