Werewolves in Love 1: Kiss and Kin (9 page)

“Well, yeah, I’d say so. Y’all never lived together, did you? I mean when you lived with Meg and David. I can’t remember.”

“No. Taran joined the Army a year before my folks died.”

They each sipped their margaritas, lost in their own thoughts.

“I’m getting buzzed here,” Lark said after a while.

“I’m getting bombed.” TJ smiled. “Wanna give me the details on the sexy sexy?”

“I’ll need another ’rita before I can do that.” She laughed. She found it weird and difficult to dish personal dirt on sex, even to her closest friend in the world. “Teej?”

“Yeah?”

“I feel bonded to him. You think it’s my imagination? I haven’t felt this way before. With the other guys, after the first time we made love—I didn’t feel this—this pull, this tether. I just feel like we’re connected, and I don’t…” She trailed off, unable to explain it any better.

“They say it’s a two way thing,” TJ mused. “Scientists, I mean. They’re not sure how it works. They’ve just observed in a lot of cases—and I mean, like, a maj—maj—most of the time—” she hiccupped, and they both giggled, “—when a wolf bonds to a woman it’s recip—she bonds back, you know? Nature’s way, I guess.” She hiccupped again. “Someday when I’m not trashed I’ll tell you all about the werewolf’s limbic system.”

“The wha-huh?”

“Limbic syst—the brain, you know? Controls emotion, memory, the primal stuff. ’S where the mate switch is, they think.”

“He tried to tell me,” Lark mumbled.

“’Scuse me?” TJ demanded. “What’d you say?”

“I said, I think he tried to tell me. He ashked me—he ask
ed
me to stop him, or make him stop, or if I wanted to st—whatever, you know? Like he felt guilty. I thought it washh just the big brother thing, like he wash—was—trying to protect me. Cause he does that, you know. Really pisses me off. Always Mr. Bossy.”

“Um, alpha, shweetie.”

“Well, that’s no way to run a relashunship. Mr. Sensitive he ain’t.”

“But now you’re his mate, you can do something about that. You can’t really change him, and he’ll shtill be a-a alpha—crap, I think I’ve had enough.”

Lark sighed drunkenly. “Me too. I can’t go to bed like this.”

“Me neither.”

“We need to eat. Wanna order pizza?”

“Sounds good. You call.” TJ managed to lurch into the kitchen with an armload of glass and no bumps or bleeding. She called from the kitchen a minute later.

“Hey, Lark?”

“Yeah?” she replied as she wiped the margarita rings off the table.

“There’s a big brown werewolf across the street, shtaring—
staring
straight at my kitchen window.”

She sat down on the couch. “Okay. Is that shtalking, or is that guarding?”

“Let’s call it guarding, and let’s ignore it. Call for pizza.”

“Okay.” She pulled out her cell, but didn’t dial. “Teej?” she wailed. “I don’t wanna call Papa John’s! I wanna call Taran. Like right now, and tell him I’m sorry, and I love him, and—”

TJ staggered back into the living room. “NO. Lark Manning, no. Drunk dialing ish not what you need to do right now. Even I know that, and I’m drunker than you. Here.” She held out her hand. “Gimmee your cell phone.”

“I could just call him from your phone, you know.”

“Oh. Yeah. Okay, don’t. Bad idea.” She stood up, swayed, righted herself. “Lish—listen to me. You need to take a few days and think this over, sweetie. He’s not going anywhere. This is a huge change in your life. Don’t act on impulsh—” She hiccupped. “I’m drunk, but I’m right. Sleep on this a while. Get ushed to it before you call.”

“I know, I know, you’re right,” she said miserably.

Her every nerve screamed to call him, run to him. On the other hand, she’d acted on pure emotion earlier, and look where it got her. She needed to get her head straight before she poured her heart out.

***

He spent the next six nights on four feet outside TJ’s apartment, enlisting friends always willing to help a wolf guard his mate. Maintaining a discreet stance in the shadows of the office complex across the street, someone kept an eye on Lark’s arrivals and departures from dusk to daybreak. Between the apartment surveillance and the GPS tracker on her car, he covered her as well as he could hope.

She could see her uninvited security detail, but so what. He didn’t do it to goad her into communicating; he did it to protect her life.

He’d anticipated complaints from people in the area. Even in a twenty-first century metroplex, many people recoiled at werewolves loitering about in public. After dropping a couple hints to the rent-a-cop who drove the little golf cart—he didn’t explicitly call it a stakeout, but if the rent-a-cop got that idea, Taran wouldn’t disabuse him of the notion—no one approached him or his buddies.

It reminded him of stories older werewolves told, of the days before werewolves came out. Everyone knew certain parts of the city and surrounding countryside—Memorial, Katy, Sugar Land—experienced less crime than other areas. Most people assumed higher incomes made safer neighborhoods. Residents knew better. Even the roughest working class parts of Sugar Land suffered little crime. Something besides money or fear of cops protected those neighborhoods. Years later, everyone learned it was werewolves. Good werewolves ate bad guys.

He called Nick three times a day, to see if the roughneck had emailed the could-be photo of Kuba and if the lawyer had called about a poker game. By Monday, Nick quit answering his phone. Taran started calling from other people’s numbers, but TJ started taking Nick’s calls, and he couldn’t bring himself to talk to her. Once, after answering the phone and hearing nothing for a few seconds, she said, “Taran, do you want to talk? We could talk.”

He could handle a hell of a lot—Army Ranger training, live combat, gang violence, formal challenges, his mother’s attempts to fix him up, his first unsolvable case, even his mate’s rejection. He couldn’t handle Tyler Jean Turner’s sympathy. He hung up on her.

Nick finally called on Thursday afternoon as Taran drove back to headquarters after making arrests in a moonshine ring. He could still solve cases, just not his most important one.

“Hail, Alpha. This humble wolf is grateful for your attention.”

“Watch the ’tude, wolf. You want to talk about Lark, I’m listening. I just got tired of telling you I hadn’t heard from my wolves.”

“Oh well, at least TJ is doing real secretarial work for a change.”

“TJ’s my assistant, not my secretary, she works her ass off, and that’s the last attitude warning you’re getting.” Nick paused for a minute. “She’s worried about you.”

“I’m not comfortable with that.”

“She’s worried about both of you. Lark is—”

“I can’t talk about Lark, Nick. Not attitude, just fact. You calling about my case?”

Nick exhaled sharply, and he steeled himself for another tongue-lashing, perhaps a command to submit for discipline. But after another pause, Nick said only, “Yeah. Lawyer’s name is Petri. He’ll meet you tomorrow night at seven. Warehouse downtown, 7000 block of McKinney, white brick with red trim. There’s a goth club in the front of the building. Go around to the back, gray door, tell them Petri sent you, password is Brunson.”

He laughed in spite of himself. “Fuck. It’s like an old speakeasy. If the cops show up do all the tables slide into the floor or something?”

“No idea,” Nick replied drily. “What do you expect, with the dumbass gambling laws we have? Petri will meet you inside. Tall, blonde, yuppie, radiates lawyerness. He’s nervous as hell about bringing a cop, but I told him you’re my best friend. You better just hope Vice doesn’t have a raid planned tonight.”

“I’ll make certain they don’t. Thank you, Nick. This could be the break I need.”

“Don’t thank me. You’re my wolf, and I want these curs brought down. Talk to you later.”

They hung up. On impulse, and before he had a chance to come to his senses, he dialed Lark’s cell phone. As expected, he got her voicemail. He wouldn’t hang up; alphas didn’t hang up. They just talked real fast when they had something difficult to say.

“Look. I don’t expect you to call me back. Christmas is gonna be hell, it’s my fault and I’ll worry about it. Shit, I’ll probably have to leave town.” He took a deep breath. “I should’ve tried harder to tell you. I just wanted you too much. I’m sorry I yelled at you. I’m sorry I told you to grow up and, and—everything else. I didn’t mean to—no, scratch that. I lied. I’m sorry I hurt you, I’m sorry I scared you, I’m sorry I yelled. I’m not sorry I claimed you. I wanted you before I knew you were my mate. I think I loved you before then, and I know I love you now. I’m
no—”

Beeep.

Goddamn it. The first and only humiliating apology of his life—getting cut off in the middle of it didn’t do much for his self-esteem.

Alphas didn’t have self-esteem. Alphas
were
self-esteem.

Fuck it. He dialed again.

“You need to understand something, Lark. I’m never gonna regret fucking you, hear me? It was the best night of my life, and it was the best night of yours. I’m gonna think about it every day single day.” He felt himself growing hard just saying this out loud. Maybe he really was an asshole; he’d live with it. “I’m gonna think about how you looked, how you smelled, what you did, the way you begged me to make you come. And when we see each other—because we will—you remember this—I’ll be thinking about it whenever I look at you.” He stopped, panting heavily. “I love you.”

He hung up.

She always turned her cell phone off when she worked. Sometimes she forgot to turn it back on till long after she got home—or, in the present case, TJ’s apartment. Around nine-thirty Thursday night she saw she had six missed calls, including two from Taran. Hands trembling, she looked to see if he’d left a voicemail.

She stared at the screen for five minutes before she pressed “send” to listen. The first message set her pulse racing, her stomach flipping and turning itself in knots. The second message turned her legs to jelly and she had to sit down, because her body ached and burned like he was in the damned room, saying all those things in person.

She listened to it at least a dozen times, turned on and trembling. Then she started to panic with the (largely) irrational fear someone could get hold of her phone, hack her password, and listen to the message. She emailed the voicemail to herself and then erased it. When she got home, she’d print the email from her computer and add it to the Taran Box, which no one, not even TJ, knew about.

It contained every item, memento, or, most rarely, gift she ever received from him, including the ticket stub from the showing of
Beauty and the Beast
. He had taken her and two girlfriends to see it the first time he came home on leave following her parents’ death. After the movie he took them to Bennigan’s for dinner, three giggly eight-year-old girls and one gorgeous eighteen-year-old wolf. Their constant squealing, he said later, made his ears ring for days. Over the years, she’d filled the box with silly shit like that. Nothing like the message, though. That message was the hottest thing any guy had ever said to her. “
I’m glad I fucked you; I’ll remember it every day of my life; I love you.”
It was probably as close to romantic as Taran could get, and it was all she needed.

***

He stopped by the office Friday night to confirm plans with his captain: no raids on the party, nobody cared if he won money, and a couple guys in the unit hanging out in a bar one block away from the warehouse in case Kuba showed. Taran would send a prearranged text, they’d show up and take the Czech downtown for questioning. Given Kuba’s rap sheet and the information from Miami, they could hold him at least twenty-four hours without a warrant for his arrest.

Taran wouldn’t talk about Kuba or Eurowolves at the game. Someone there might know Kuba and tell him people were asking about him. A wolf like Kuba didn’t like people asking about him. Taran would watch, wait, listen and hope. Mostly hope, because this shot was miles fucking long.

He’d just shut down his computer and put on his leather jacket when Denardo walked in.

“Hey!” The rookie was clearly surprised to see him, “Why are you here so late?” They hadn’t spoken since Denardo got back from Vegas.

“I’m about to go play poker,” Taran replied with a frown. “Wolf, maybe you should give up the bike. It’s not for everyone, you know.”

The bruise beneath Denardo’s right eye was almost as dark as his iris. Once again, he limped. He had a split upper lip and contusions on his cheek.

“Not the bike this time,” Danny muttered, reddening. “The reception got a little out of hand. A fight broke out in the hotel bar.”

“Did your side win?” He grinned.

“I don’t even remember,” replied the beta, easing into his chair. “I’m just lucky I didn’t end up in jail.”

Taran stopped and turned when Denardo said, “Wait a minute. Poker? You’re going to play poker?”

“All in the line of duty. Nick heard from a wolf who thinks he played with Dominik Kuba at a big game downtown. He’s getting me in tonight. Wanna come along? Real undercover work, plus you get to gamble and drink.”

“Um, no thanks. I don’t play, and I’m still kinda sore. I was gonna check my messages, then go home and sleep till noon.”

“I’ll let you know if anything shakes out.”

“Good luck,” Denardo replied quietly as Taran walked out.

***

The two large rooms in the back of the recently renovated warehouse featured surprisingly comfortable furnishings, including custom made poker tables and easy chairs for players to relax and visit between games. The soundproofed walls blocked the noise from the goth club so well even wolves could barely hear it. Taran thought he recognized the anonymously catered food from one of Houston’s hippest restaurants. Whoever ran this game had a lot of money and wanted players who did, too.

“Three hundred to you, Tom,” the dealer said, using the name Taran had adopted for tonight. He didn’t see anyone he knew, but as the only Taran in the Houston pack, he couldn’t risk someone blowing his cover.

Down by a thousand bucks so far, he didn’t care because he enjoyed poker. He’d decided to stay all night in case Kuba showed. Petri the Lawyer (there couldn’t be another Petri in the Houston pack either, but Taran assured him they’d probably never talk again) promised to point him out. Two hours in and no sign of wolves with accents, Slavic or otherwise.