Page 46 of Depraved
My stomach churns as I give my drink another stir, mashing the mint leaves as I try to think of other, happier thoughts, like my conversation with Jonah last night. Apparently, Pluto’s taken him under his wing and been teaching him things; I guess they’re bonding after that near-miss they both had. I miss him fiercely, but he’d sounded happy. So that’s good. It’s at least one weight off my shoulders.
I stiffen as the scent of another alpha wafts through the bar. It’s an attractive scent, chocolate chip cookies, and melted butter, and I quickly duck my head so Black can’t see that I like the smell. I can only imagine how much that would piss him off.
A thick, regular clomp heads towards us, and somehow, I just know the alpha I smelled is heading our way. I glance over at the sticky, stained floorboards to see some large, black leather biker boots, which are out of place for this little country joint, stop next to our table. “Well, Alpha Maddox. Welcome to my little watering hole,” the man says.
I glance up to see a man who looks straight out of some dangerous movie. There’s a diagonal scar across his forehead, a tattoo on his neck, and his salt and pepper hair is cropped close. He’s dressed all in black, which I’d normally approve of, except for the fact that he’s got a cut on that clearly screams ‘motorcycle gang.’ I didn’t even know shifters had motorcycle gangs.
Even though everything about him screams dangerous, he doesn’t give off any aggressive scent. His posture isn’t set like most alphas, who stand with their dominant foot back so they can throw a punch at any given moment.
I release a breath. Hopefully, the relaxed stance means this guy isn’t looking for a fight.
“You’ve got a nice place here, Buck,” Black says. He must know the man.
“Not that nice,” Buck wrinkles his nose and then reaches across the table. He plucks the drink from my hands. “They mess up your order, sweetheart?”
Black growls, and I quickly put my hand on his knee. “Nope. No. It’s fine.”
“Doesn’t smell fine. Is that ginger ale in there?” He takes a sip and then cringes. “I’ll get that fixed for you.” He snaps, and a waitress scurries forward.
After putting in a corrected drink order for me, he leans on the table and looks at Black. “So, why are you here? Don’t tell me it’s for the dancing.”
“Looking for Thomas.”
Immediately, Buck shuts down and stands up stiffly. “He doesn’t come in here.”
Black leans back in his seat, eyes processing every inch of the other shifter’s response: eye contact, scent, posture, tone of voice. “Not anymore.”
“Nope.”
“But he did.”
“Yup.” The gruff response leads to a tense stare-off between the two alphas. Appropriately, Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” comes on over the speakers.
I can’t help myself. “This is the perfect soundtrack for this moment,” I say. Both alphas turn to me, and I shrug innocently.
Buck bursts out laughing. “What a pistol.”
“You have no idea,” Black squeezes my knee underneath the table. I’m not sure if it’s in praise or warning. But he relaxes into his seat once more. “You know anything about Kendra? She used to date him.”
Buck’s face drops, and his attitude shifts from warm to frigid at the mention of the girl. “She quit.”
“Really? Know where she is now?”
“I don’t stalk former employees.”
I try to sniff subtly, to see if this man’s lying. But I can’t tell. Dammit.
Black nods and stands just as my new drink arrives. “Well, then, we won’t waste any more of your time.”
“Don’t go sniffing after Kendra,” Buck counsels as Black helps me stand and puts my coat on for me.
“Why not?” Black responds as he puts an arm over my shoulders and tucks me in close.
“She doesn’t talk to him anymore.” Staring up at Buck’s face, I think he’s telling the truth. “It’ll be a dead end.”
“We’ll see.” Black’s noncommittal. I understand why—we need a lead, and even if Kendra doesn’t talk to the insane Stone shifter any longer, she might know someone who does. Though, considering the fingers we found yesterday, I don’t know if I want to talk to her. Who’d date a guy like that? What is she like?
Maybe she didn’t know.
