Blake, Her Bad Bear: A Paranormal Bad Boy Romance (4 page)

If possible, he had wanted to avoid just this, but the look in Ogre’s eyes told him that a fight was inevitable. He’d stood in the way of another bear-shifter, and while there wasn’t anything wrong with that, protocol dictated a reconciliation of sorts. In the case of shifters, that meant blood for blood.

“This is a wake, Ogre, let’s show respect and let it go,” he offered, and then suddenly realized how weak that made him look in the eyes of the others. He frowned. “If you want to play it old school, then you’ll be visiting the hospital. No one wants that.”

“To hell with you!” Ogre snarled, leaning forward. A number of the gang in the bar had turned their attention toward the maelstrom of anger bubbling in the center of the pub, and Blake realized he was now the center of attention for the second time that day.

Blake deftly ducked under one of Ogre’s punches as the big guy tried to lay down first blood, and the sound of the heavy arm over his head was enough to charge the Beta up. He recomposed himself and raised both hands, balancing on the balls of his feet as he waited for another attack. Ogre was drunk, and his aim off, but if even one of his punches landed home, that would be the end of the fight. Another swinging blow and an uppercut and Blake blocked it with the side of his arm and grunted.

“Get him, fight back!” someone in the crowd sang out, and it was joined by more cheers as the two men found themselves enclosed by eager spectators. Blake held up his fists again and looked for the woman but she was nowhere to be seen.

Ogre came again. This time, Blake stepped forward with his right food and ducked sideways under another looming punch. He twisted his body as he dodged and brought up his elbow in a back arc, feeling the satisfying impact of cartilage crunching. Ogre bubbled a whoof and staggered back, his nose fountaining blood.

“Muffucker,” he breathed, his face a red mess, and tried to grab his enemy.

Blake slapped both hands down, and lunged forward, wrapping his own arms around the behemoth and locking them around his neck. It gave him enough leverage to pull Ogre down, and at the same time he leapt up and sunk his knee deep into the man’s abdomen. Another gasping sound, like air escaping a punctured tire, and Ogre keeled over, breathing heavily on the floor and clutching at his face. It was over, fast, efficient. Even the crowd seemed surprised and bewildered at how quickly Blake had lain him out—as the Beta, he had always had to hold himself to a higher standard of behavior, according to Damian. That meant not getting in random fights among the brothers.

As a result, no one had seen Blake in one-on-one combat in a long time. And now the silent and humble reasons for why were apparent. Ogre groaned again at his feet, and even the jukebox had cut out—the pub was eerily silent for a moment. Then, all at once, it erupted back into a squalor of voices and he felt hands pushing and prodding and cheers going up.
Blood sport,
he thought
, I didn’t mean to, but I fed them.
A few of Ogre’s buddies lifted him up and dragged him back to the bar where he huddled dazed over another pint of beer, blood from his busted nose dripping steadily like a faucet into his drink.

“I told you, I told you,” Gavin was crying out in enthusiasm, “the son of a bitch is a machine. Did you see that? Hot damn, one, two and the motherfucker was out!” His excitement was infectious and seemed to carry into the rest of the crowd.

Blake tried to duck away from the attention and found it easier than anticipated. The crowd was enamored with him so much as the fight itself, and now it was over. He headed towards the door of Jack’s—it had become claustrophobic and he felt like his lungs were in a vice. As he looked back, he saw that Connor was staring at him again, and this time the two men made eye contact and held it. Connor lifted his glass in a sort of solemn salute, but his face was still the chiseled emotionless mask of a sociopath. Blake couldn’t tell what he was thinking, and merely gave a curt nod.

Outside, he took a deep breath. The rain had started to diminish, and was just a ghost of its former self. Brown puddles rippled, and the smell of the earth was pungent.
Christ,
he thought.

“Thank you,” a small voice beckoned, and he turned quickly and saw the woman from before leaning against the wall of the pub, her arms crossed. “I mean, for that. I’m used to dealing with assholes, but that guy… are you okay?”

Blake took a step toward her and up close saw how stunning she actually was. Her body was small and lithe, almost elfin, but all the right proportions seemed to inhabit her with a fluid grace. She rubbed her arm again through the sweater.

“Nothing to worry about,” he said, “and you’re not the first person to be intimidated by Ogre. He’s generally a pleasant guy—as far as ogres go—when he’s not drunk. I’m sorry about his behavior. You’re all right?”

She nodded again and held out her hand. “I’m Lily. Lily Walker,” she said, and he shook her hand, surprised at the warmth and strength of it. “You didn’t seem intimidated by him,” she pointed out. “Why was that? I thought he was going to tear you apart. You really surprised me.”

Not just you
, he wanted to say. “He’s one of the brothers,” he said simply, “I’m used to his type—just hard when he starts to get out of control. Name’s Blake.”

“Blake,” she repeated, “good name. What do you mean he’s one of the brothers?” She seemed to notice for the first time the bikes parked around the entrance of Jack’s and opened her mouth with a little exclamation of
ahh
before continuing. “The owner of the hotel told me that there was a funeral or something going on, a biker gang. Take it that’s you?”

He was surprised at her directness. Most women—especially those who were upstanding, the urbanites—wouldn’t give a guy like him a second glance.
Must be the suit
, he thought, realizing that he was still in formal attire. Any other day she’d be looking at a butch leather clad gang leader with a history of tattoos and scars, each with a story of their own.

“Something like that,” he offered. “You ought to be careful.”

“I suppose,” she said. “Probably not a good idea to go back in, heh? I’m going to head back to my hotel, I think have a bottle of wine in my bags somewhere. Suddenly, drinking on my own seems a lot safer.” She waited for him to nod, and then her eyes grew bigger and realized he was waiting for something. “I don’t want to keep you from having fun with your friends.”

“Think I’ve had enough fun,” he cracked a smile.

“Well, in that case, do you want to share a bottle of wine with me? I figure it’s the least I can do since you saved my ass back there.”

Blake eyed her again, trying to make sense of her. Lily was a fascinating woman, and like a puzzle, he couldn’t bring himself to leave it alone until he’d solved it. He looked cautiously back at the bar where music was still blaring through the walls, and shrugged.
Why not?
he thought—it wasn’t every day that he got invited back to a woman’s hotel. Usually, it was the other way around.

Maybe it’ll help clear my head,
he mused.

*

He followed her at a distance, but the whole time, Lily was deftly aware of the fact he was watching her every move with the practiced and patient eye of a predator. And yet, it wasn’t the same sort of predatory instinct she had felt when the so-called Ogre had assaulted her. Rather, Blake’s seemed to stem from some desire to understand her—he was, in a word, trying to stalk out
who she was
. She had to appreciate the irony.

She had gone to Jack’s at the warning behest of the hotel owner because the idea of actually being able to interview gang members had stirred in her that fiery reporter passion. Added to the fact that he had mentioned something about a power struggle and a possible coup within the bikers’ midst and it was all the impetus she had needed to investigate.
Samson’s article on underage drinking can take a backseat
, she thought, gliding into the hotel lobby.
If I’m right about this, it might get me into the big leagues even faster
. Not only had she found a lead, she’d managed to lure one of the key figures into her circle.

The hotel owner was nowhere to be seen and the TV was off, much to her relief, and she looked behind to make sure he was still following her. She had to admit that he did have a sort of charm, even if it was anarchical to the sort of charm most women of her station in life would deem attractive—but Lily had always been drawn to the fringe, to the exemplary, and Blake was definitely that. He gave a slight nod, and looked uncomfortable.
Probably knows how the hotel owner feels about him and his gang,
she thought, and had to giggle at the tiny crack in his armor.

“Is the gang always that rowdy?” she asked, trying to lead him into questions.

Blake took a moment to reply. “They’re a roughneck group of guys and girls,” he said, “who’d just as soon buy you a drink as clock you in the jaw for looking at them wrong. The funeral has got them up in a frenzy though—again, I’m sorry about Ogre.”

Lily shook her head and slipped the key into the lock of her room. Inside, she had neatly laid out her few belongings, and there was an almost obsessive-compulsive tidiness. She motioned for him to take a seat and make himself at home as she went into the washroom and turned the faucet on to wash her face.

“It’s no biggie, really,” she said. “Who was the funeral for?”

At this Blake hesitated again. “A friend. Actually, our leader,” he stammered, “a good guy, all around. He’s going to be missed. But you can understand why the gang is a bit broken up about it, and why they think dousing themselves in booze will help.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and surprised herself at how sincerely it came out.
I’m not a monster
, she tried to reconcile. She had a job to do, and a possible story, and had already slipped into that faux caricature of herself in order to make Blake feel more comfortable.
Then why do I have a lousy feeling about what I’m doing?
she wondered. She was used to this sort of play-acting in order to loosen the tongues of people, and took a special pride in it. And yet, as she peered around the corner of the bathroom and saw Blake sitting with his arms on his knees and his face etched in a sort of distance contemplation, she felt a stab of guilt.

“In any case,” the biker said, and he began to slacken his tie, “life goes on, as it is.”

“As it is,” she agreed, coming back out and opening a bottle of wine she had brought with her—she’d planned to drink it by herself after getting the scoop on Samson’s stories, but this seemed as ideal a time as any. She poured two glasses and handed him one. “Here’s to your friend. Your boss. May he rest in peace.”

They clinked their glasses and she kept her eyes on him as they both drank deeply. Once again, she felt herself restraining a swoon at the masculine figure she had invited back to her hotel, and she began to wonder if there wasn’t some other subconscious reason she had made the offer.

“What are
you
doing here?” he suddenly asked, blatantly, and then softened his meaning. “That is, you’re clearly not from around here. But you’ve got just about as much grit as some of those guys that were hassling you.”

She looked over her glass and her eyes narrowed behind her glasses. “Truth be told, I’m a reporter,” she admitted, and then blushed—
can I so easily blow my cover for a handsome face,
she wondered. “I mean, I’m on assignment. Just finishing a story. But I thought I’d check out the bar.” She looked for the tell-tale signs of repugnance from Blake, but was thankful to see only that quiet speculative countenance again, like he was perpetually trying to work something out behind those slate grey eyes.

Most times she confessed to people she was a reporter there was a knee-jerk reaction to suddenly recoil in suspicion.

“No kidding,” he said at last, and took another sip. He undid his tie a little more, and she saw that the top buttons of his white shirt under his blazer had come undone, revealing dark curled matrixes of black chest hair. “Wow, that must be a hell of a job. I like to write, when I can—probably the last thing you’ll hear coming from a biker. But I could never write for a newspaper.”

“It’s an addiction,” she admitted, leaning back on the bed across from him. Her sweater lifted with the movement, and she saw his eyes dart toward the narrow rim of tan flesh that peeked out above the top of her cargo pants. “But who cares about me, I’m boring.”

Blake raised a querulous eyebrow and forced back a grin. “That I find very hard to believe,” he said, and this time his eyes moved up to her chest where both breasts prodded against the fabric. Lily gulped, feeling her own innate desires swell against some inexplicable force. “You seem like a fascinating woman. And I’m not just saying that.”

“Well, you’ll make me blush,” she laughed, “if you’re not careful.”

Then, quite unexpectedly, Blake stood up and took two steps toward her. Lily held her breath and felt her heart rate suddenly spike. This close to him, she could tell that there was more to his appearance—the funeral attire had concealed something of the true grit that seemed to be iconic of his gang, and she felt herself inexplicably turned on.

“This is good wine,” he whispered, holding his empty cup toward her.

“Do you want more?”