Page 17 of Shaken Knot Stirred

I cocked my head and looked at the dead dolly. Its body looked rotted; half its face was gone and bugs crawled in and out of a hole in its skull. I could never quite tell if the lace had been pink; it had long since turned gray and moldy. It looked haunted and possessed.

“Is the big bad alpha too scared of a little baby doll?”

“Pick it up.” Anger bled into his voice, and I felt his aura push. My skin crawled, and my insides felt like they were being compressed. Fuck me. This wasn’t a full bark, the supernatural trick alphas could pull to get others to comply, but it was still sucky.

With all the drama I could muster, I picked up the doll. Its head popped off, but the bit of rope around its waist went taut. I yanked on the rope, pulling it hand over hand, grunting with the effort. When it got stuck, I gave it a mighty heave with a foot braced against the dead tree. It gave with a popping sound and sent me flying back, flat on my ass on the leafy ground.

“What the fuck?” Beg holstered his gun, finally, and stepped closer to the tree.

I stood, dusting off my hands. Nudging him out of the way, I used both hands to yank the black garbage bag out of the hollow of the tree before tearing a gaping hole in it.

“Voila,” I said.

Beg cocked his head, the gun twitching at his side. His aura was unsettled. I was hoping he’d do the math and figure I was too much trouble and would just leave me here. I bent swiftly and yanked the zipper, showing off the neat stacks of cash.

“Count it,” he said, not breaking eye contact.

“I am not standing in the middle of the woods with an armed alpha counting money.” I dusted my hands off.

I felt him gather himself, like a cobra about to strike. His aura swelled to take up the space between us. Apparently, a scentmatch didn’t dampen the compulsion effect, as my stomach twisted and cramped.

“I spent $327,692.” I just gave in. No need to push him too far. For now, anyway.

“On what?” He seemed shocked.

“Oh, you know, sex toys and hookers.”

He didn’t crack a smile. Maybe I was losing my touch and wasn’t as funny as I thought I was.

“On what?” he repeated.

“The bar. Life.” I wasn’t totally lying about the sex toys, but I wasn’t about to admit that right now.

Finally, he bent and dug around in the bag as if he could confirm what I had just said. His aura curled into itself and settled down. I didn’t know Beg well enough to know what that really meant. I hoped I’d never get to know him well enough.

With a little huff of effort, he swung the bag onto his shoulder and stood, using his gun to motion me back the way we came. Damn it. I kind of was hoping he would just leave me stranded in the woods.

We broke out of a clearing to be welcomed back to civilization by my shitty car.

“You could…” I started to suggest that he just leave me here, but he cut me off.

“Get in and drive.”

I obeyed, and I hated that I did. But I’d really rather not die today.

Back out on the main road, he gave directions that would take us back to the Delta Lounge. My heart raced with false hope. I didn’t believe for a second that he would just drop me off and let me go. About two miles from the bar, he had me turn into the parking lot of a deserted motel. This stretch of road was fairly well-traveled and speckled every quarter mile or so with random businesses.

The brakes squeaked slightly, and I eased to a stop behind the main hotel building. A gaudy lifted truck sat there like a golden retriever waiting for its master. I looked over at Beg out of the corner of my eye. Totally fit.

Beg was bald, and not because he was losing his hair. He shaved it off to give himself that edgy look of toughness, I supposed. Beg’s general vibe would be menace and malice, even if he was wearing a clown costume. He wasn’t overly tall, but he had a good 4 or 5 inches over my 5’7” frame. Undoubtedly, some people would find him attractive in that bully sort of way. Not my type at all.

“Get out,” he said, curling his meaty palms around the handles of the gym bag. He turned.

Out of the car, he pushed me toward his truck. Helena was all about the true crime podcasts, and that was one of the bits of advice all those retired cops gave—never let them take you to a second location. I was so screwed.

Beg doubled back to my car and ducked in to fish out my bag too. He stashed the two duffel bags behind the passenger seat of his truck before opening the door and waving me in with the gun still in his hands.

“You have your money. I’m not getting in that truck.”

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