Page 22 of Shaken Knot Stirred

“You put all this money into this truck and it’s still uncomfortable.” The pain was intense now. I reached across my body to squeeze the rigid knot that was forming in my shoulder.

“So, it’s true?” Beg asked.

“What is? That you’re a narcissistic douchebag or you have mommy issues?”

“Auracles can read minds?”

I paused at that because A) fuck me. Who told Beg I was an auracle? And B) was it better for Beg to keep believing the myths and lies or was it safer to convince him of the truth?

“Auracle?” I picked C) deny. “I don’t know where you get your information from, buddy, but you’ve been swindled there.”

I couldn’t tell if that was the right answer because it didn’t matter what the truth was to someone like Beg… I could only see what an aura was up to and that wasn’t always foolproof.

Beg jerked the wheel, veering us hard onto the off-ramp exit for downtown Port Haven. My head made contact with the side window.

I stifled my “ouch” knowing that hearing it would give him some minor satisfaction.

I pushed the window button again. It only made it down two inches before Beg rolled it back up. Even the hint of fresh air was welcome at this point. Beg’s scent was choking in the cab ofthe truck. I hated that the pine was starting to smell familiar and comfortable.

He made another sharp right. I was ready for it and didn’t smack into the glass like a goober. I sighed heavily.

We were rolling into the heart of the Mired District. The row houses and strip malls were giving way to multi-family buildings with shop fronts on the ground level. Spruce Street paralleled Pleasant Street, the main drag of the Mired District. It was more sedate, a bit run down, and lacked the throngs of people seeking a walk on the wild side.

Your friendly neighborhood unmarked, yet totally obvious, cop cars usually littered the side streets here. Not that they kept the peace, really. They weren’t paid to serve and protect the common folk.

Beg slid his gun out of the shoulder holster and rested it on his knee. I guessed that was Beg-speak for “no funny business, little lady.” I couldn’t exactly make a break for it now, nor would I ever rely on the Port Haven Police Department to provide aid. Once they discovered I was an omega, they’d turn me over to the alpha who claimed me.

The truck tires squealed as he cut a hard left into a parking garage that was surprisingly well lit until we descended into its belly. Parking was a problem in the Mired District. The city fathers, in their infinite wisdom, had decided that trolleys were quaint and cars were the devil. They wanted a walkable city full of picturesque boulevards. Which meant they could effectively choke off the undesirable areas by limiting access to public transportation, giving us only one subway stop, and a handful of buses and none of the charming trolleys. Seeing an opportunity to make a buck or a billion, entrepreneurs had stepped into the transit void and you could find everything from pedal cabs to tricked-out heat limo buses trolling the 2-mile stretch of Pleasant Street to get party-goers from A to B.

Beg pulled up to an automated kiosk and punched in some numbers. The doors split and rolled back. Fluorescent lights flickered to life, revealing a garage inside a garage. The vast room was more like what you might find at a suburban pack house. One wall was all storage lockers. There was a classic car up on blocks, maybe waiting for an oil change. There was a white four-door sedan. That was the spitting image of my car, except in better shape. Like its little sister.

Beg opened the passenger door and filled the space. The edge of a knife glittered in the artificial lighting. Reaching up, he slid the knife between my skin and the zip tie, which gave with a soft pop. I clasped my arm to my chest and rubbed the raw skin. He stepped back and offered me a hand to get out of the truck. I stared at it.

“Oh, you’re a gentleman now?”

His face froze for a second before a delighted grin wiped across it. He grabbed me by the shirt and hauled me out of the truck. I lost my footing and went down to one knee. Like the gentleman he was, he helped me gain my feet with his fingers pinching my upper arm and his other hand wrapped around my throat. I swatted at his hands and tried to push him away. The bastard was a brick house, compact and dense.

He nodded toward the door. I turned, and he slapped me on the ass to get moving. I tangled my feet up on a scattering of auto parts, plastic bottles of oil, and antifreeze. His hand shot out again. Those fingers digging into my arm were the only thing keeping me from going down.

Thumping on the keypad, he opened the door and pushed me through. The walls seemed to vibrate with muffled club music. We were in the Pax, famous or infamous depending on who you asked.

Beg manhandled me down hallways, some dingy, some overly bright.

The Pax was a three-story nightclub and bar but connected to a full city block of warehouses. Beyond the legitimate facade, all manner of entertainment could be found. Nico had spent some time casing the more restricted areas.

I careened into a wall when Beg pushed me to take a turn.

“Fucking use your voice.”

“Left,” Beg said as he came up to another turn.

“Say please.” I didn’t know why I said it. It was a reflex. I’d gotten far too used to bullying people around inside my own bar.

Beg grabbed me by the back of the neck and pushed me face-first into the wall. He pressed his body up against me. His pine scent was so thick it coated my tongue.

“I’m starting to like your bitch mouth. It’s making me hard.” He pressed his dick into me to prove his point. “I doubt you’d enjoy exploring that as much as I would.”

Without waiting for a response, he yanked me off the wall and pushed me toward the door. Another keypad waited.

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