Prickly Business (4 page)

Pulling Chance into a hug, Dylan held him close for longer than necessary before letting go. He noticed a sheen of tears in Chance’s eyes but did the gentlemanly thing and ignored it. He didn’t think it had anything to do with their botched date, and it wasn’t Dylan’s place to ask.

Without preamble, Chance reached out and snagged Dylan’s phone from his pocket and sniffled while he busied himself tapping the touch screen. As Dylan watched, the thought of figuring out how to lock his phone with a passcode flitted in his mind. Not that his phone held any state secrets—Dylan had just figured out how to make calls and text on the damned thing. Technology was not his friend. And that was
if
he remembered to charge it or to grab it when he left the house at all. If he didn’t need it for work, Dylan would’ve tossed it a while ago.

“There.” Chance smiled and handed it back. “You have my number. You know, in case you change your mind.”

Warmed, Dylan brushed his lips over Chance’s forehead. “Thank you,” he said, “for everything.” Dylan tapped his phone and listened for the ring. A buzz sounded from Chance’s back pocket. “Now you have my number. Call if you ever need anything.” Dylan was surprised that he meant it, but the sadness and vulnerability Chance tried to hide had Dylan wanting to make sure he was safe, in the most platonic of ways.

“That I do. Thanks.” He nodded and stepped back. “Take care of yourself, Dylan.”

“You too, Chance.” Then he watched as Chance got into his hybrid and drove away.

Dylan’s pulse raced—partly with a need to return to the bar and claim his mate, partly out of anger toward the same man. He shook his head and walked toward the two-wheeled black devil he’d custom built for himself. Getting away from Avery would do wonders for straightening out his head.

Dylan had told himself the lie more than once. Maybe this time he would believe it.

U
NDER
NORMAL
circumstances, Avery wouldn’t have been able to resist the throb of heavy bass or the sight of hot, sweaty bodies grinding together on the dance floor. He would’ve thrust himself into the center of the action, certain of the admiration he’d receive for his ass-hugging skinny jeans and the loose turquoise T-shirt that dipped low enough in the front to display his sharp collarbones and some of the ink that adorned his lightly toned chest. He’d be confident in his haircut—shaved close on the sides and back, but long enough on top to either slick into a pompadour or fall unfettered over one of his eyes—and that it perfectly flattered the contours of his face. And of two things, Avery would be absolutely positive: he knew how to flirt, and he damned well knew how to make a man want him.

Except tonight, his typical self-assurance had abandoned him. He couldn’t let his mind go blank, nor could he lose himself in the music like usual. Couldn’t find one appealing face or smell in the men that surrounded him. Couldn’t bring himself to order another drink to invite oblivion. Couldn’t stop thinking about whether or not Dylan had taken that human home, whether Dylan was fucking him right now. And it was
bullshit
.

But tell that to the stubborn little bastard inside him. Stupid hedgehog was incensed. It’d curled up into a furious, prickly ball of “hell the fuck no” and refused to so much as consider allowing him to be touched by someone who wasn’t his mate. Never mind that his “mate” had been on a date with someone else, or that Dylan had rejected them both two years ago. Avery’s animal didn’t understand anything beyond its baser instincts. It wanted food, warmth, shelter, sex—and it wanted Dylan in particular for those last three things.

Why did seeing Dylan always make those feelings come back? Avery kept expecting the desire, the need, to lessen. And it did, to a point. Until the next time he saw Dylan again. Then he was transported back to that moment when they’d first recognized each other, that instant he’d scented his mate and felt such an overwhelming surge of hope and lust and yearning and
home
. The knowledge that he’d found his other half had resonated inside him like a gong being struck.
There he is. Right there.

Then it had all gone to shit.

Granted, that last part might have been partially—well, mostly—Avery’s fault. He didn’t want to think about that, though. No point in dwelling. And really, it wasn’t as if the impression Dylan had gotten from him back then was entirely wrong. Perhaps exaggerated because Avery’s defensiveness had kicked in. But not all wrong.

Avery pushed those thoughts aside. Unfortunately that left him with nothing but his despondency. He’d figured Dylan hadn’t been abstinent in the time since they’d discovered each other—Avery hadn’t been—but imagining it and having it shoved in his face were two very different things. The tiny part of him that still coveted his mate felt heartsick at the idea of Dylan with someone else, no matter that they had no official claims on each other.

Suddenly he longed for the comfort of his den, the minimalistic, industrial loft he rented in the Pearl District. He needed to escape to his bedroom, where he could curl up in a nest of blankets and tend to his sore heart in private. By nature, he was a solitary creature—all hedgehog shifters were. Too much social interaction made him grouchy and snappish, and right then, he’d had way more than his recommended daily dose.

Finding Jaden in the crowd was easy. His red hair blazed fire-bright beneath the swirling lights of the club. Avery signaled to Jaden that he was leaving. At Jaden’s wave and nod of acknowledgment, he made his way to the restroom for a quick pit stop before heading out. Those five tall glasses of ale had officially caught up with him.

He didn’t bother looking when the door opened while he was fastening his jeans. The men’s room at The Cavern never stayed empty for long. He was surprised there weren’t a few couples locked in the stalls already. Then a familiar scent infiltrated his nostrils beneath the stronger odors of floor cleaner and stale urine.
Oh fuck.
He knew who that smell belonged to, and the wolf’s presence meant nothing but trouble. He’d probably been following Avery all night, waiting for a moment to catch him alone.

Damn.
He should’ve never gotten out of bed this morning.

Biting back a sigh, Avery turned slowly and met Josiah’s brown eyes. Josiah leaned back against the door, his massive arms crossed over his beefy chest. From the hallway behind him, Avery scented another wolf. No doubt it was Rory, the Tweedledee to Josiah’s Tweedledum. A couple of stooges, those two. All brawn and no brains. But their general lack of intelligence didn’t mean they couldn’t put Avery in a world of hurt if they wanted to. He knew why they were there. Thanks to what he’d thought was an insider tip, he’d bet on the long shot at the werewolf races almost two weeks back. A bet that had indebted him to Victor Llewellyn for fifteen thousand dollars—money he couldn’t repay until he got his allowance from his parents at the end of the month.

Now he recalled Victor’s words: “This ain’t Kmart, kid. We don’t do layaway.” As if Avery would ever be caught dead in some big box store that sold everything from bulk packages of underwear to power tools and goldfish. He preferred boutique shopping. His three-hundred-dollar Dior Wayfarer sunglasses and thirteen-hundred-dollar John Lobb boots could attest to that. So maybe those boots and sunglasses were part of what had drained a good chunk of his allowance from last month. That was beside the point. He’d promised to have the money to Victor ASAP. Apparently two weeks was pushing his luck.

“I’ll have the money at the end of the month,” Avery said when Josiah stood there staring at him.

Josiah straightened and stalked forward. “Vic told you we don’t do payment plans, hoggie. He wants his money now.”

Avery swallowed and took an unconscious step back as Josiah loomed over him. He forced himself to still and lifted his chin, bringing his haughtiest mask down over his face. He was Avery Babineaux, of the Mandeville, St. Tammany Parish Babineauxs. His family had roots extending to Great Britain and France. He would not be intimidated by some lowlife werewolf thug. “Do you know who you’re talking to? I’m good for the money, believe me.”

Josiah arched a thick dark eyebrow and laughed, standing so close Avery both heard and felt the vibration against his chest. “You are? Or your daddy is? Rich little Louisiana twink, all alone up here in the Northwest. How long would it take them to notice you were missing? One week? Two? Or maybe they don’t even think about you.”

Heat crawled up Avery’s neck into his cheeks, fury and embarrassment entwined as the words struck too close to home. Aside from the deposit that went into his account every month, he had the rarest contact with his parents. Several times during the last few years, he’d been forced to call them, usually when he was in some sort of financial bind like this one. Every month he got a ten thousand-dollar allowance to cover his rent and expenses. Giving it all to Victor would leave him dead-broke for four weeks. At best he could part with half, maybe two thirds if he starved himself and skimped on everything until the next deposit. But no more.

“Maybe we’ll dump you in Forest Park,” Josiah murmured. “Plenty of places to hide you there.”

Avery’s bravado faltered. “I-I can give him half by the end of the month, I swear.”

Josiah snagged one of his wrists in a meaty fist and crowded even closer. “You’ll have it all for him next Friday.”

“But I can’t—”

Josiah squeezed until Avery’s bones ground together. “One week,” he said in a menacing whisper. He snapped his teeth and growled in Avery’s sensitive ear. “Got it, hoggie?”

Avery only just kept himself from shuddering. Somehow he managed a quick, jerky nod. “Y-Yeah. Got it.”

He tried to pull away, but Josiah’s grip tightened until something in Avery’s wrist cracked, sending a white-hot streak of agony into his palm and up his arm. He cried out, blinking rapidly to fend off the reflexive tears that flooded his eyes.

“A reminder.” Josiah released him with a shove, sending Avery stumbling back against the tile wall. “One week, kid.” He turned and left the room.

Only once he no longer sensed Josiah or Rory did Avery allow himself to sink to the piss-stained floor, cradling his forearm to his stomach. Fear and adrenaline had left him woozy, and the beginnings of a headache throbbed in his temples. Already his wrist was swelling, dark bruises forming beneath the skin. Even the slightest movement came with a bolt of excruciating pain.

He had to get out of there before Jaden spotted him and got close enough to see his injury. Jaden would never let him leave without an explanation.

Groaning, Avery hefted himself to his feet. What the hell had he been thinking, getting involved with these sorts of wolves? What would his mama say? No, he didn’t have to wonder. She’d say the same thing she’d been telling him for years:
“That fool pride of yours is going to land you in a heap of trouble one day, boy. You mark my words.”

She was right.

T
HE
NEXT
morning, prepared with a story about a car clipping his bike as he crossed the street, Avery visited one of the two Portland pack doctors to have his wrist examined.

Dr. Scully eyed him critically when he saw the finger-shaped bruises marring Avery’s fair skin, but he didn’t question him further, for which Avery was grateful. He couldn’t risk telling Dr. Scully what had actually happened. Doctor-patient confidentially didn’t exist within the pack when it came to situations like these. It would be Dr. Scully’s duty to report Josiah’s actions to Alpha Odell, and that would put Avery in a hell of a lot more trouble.

Alpha Odell didn’t know about the wolf races. Avery hadn’t even shared his knowledge of the underground gambling ring with Jaden, not wanting to put his best friend in the awkward position of keeping secrets from his father. The races weren’t illegal in the strictest sense. Not according to human laws, anyway. But they’d be unpardonable in the eyes of the pack, where it was considered a grievous offense to harm a fellow wolf for any reason outside of a rightful challenge or a blood debt.

Wolves competing and injuring one another—sometimes irreparably—for sport? For money? Everyone involved would be punished, and Victor likely killed as an example. Especially if Alpha Odell caught wind of his other transgressions. Loan-sharking, drug-dealing, extortion. Gambling wasn’t even the half of it, which was why some people feared Victor more than the alpha. Rules governed the pack, and in turn, Alpha Odell. Any offenses were usually handled within the pack itself, but Victor considered himself above both pack and human laws. If he thought Avery posed a threat to his business, he’d crush Avery without a second thought.

The sole reason Avery had chanced visiting the doctor was that he wanted to make sure the bones in his wrist were properly aligned before the healing process got too far along. Shifters healed a lot faster than humans, but it wasn’t instantaneous, and it wasn’t perfect. The bones would mend as they were—which meant if they weren’t lined up correctly, they might have to be rebroken later.

Avery wanted to avoid any additional breaking, thank you very much. Sharp stabs of pain still radiated from his wrist whenever he moved, and he knew from a childhood leg fracture it would continue to ache for days as the bones mended. At least it would be days, not weeks.

“Everything looks all right,” Dr. Scully told him as he examined the X-ray. “It was a clean break. Should heal without any complications.”

Avery heaved a sigh of relief. “That’s good to hear.”

Dr. Scully resumed his seat behind his broad oak desk. “Keep it wrapped and wear the sling. And be sure to check both ways before you cross the street from here on out, huh?”

Avery didn’t miss the sardonic edge to that last sentence. He flushed, but forced a smile to his mouth. “Of course, sir.”