OmegaMine (4 page)

The smell of muggy New York air hit his nose the instant he
opened the door and he
knew
. A quick glance at the open window and the
floor where her shoes and satchel no longer remained confirmed it.

She was gone.

Tossing the tray onto the dresser, he rushed to the window,
consumed by panic and fury. He never should have left her alone, not as she
was. She was aroused, but before that she had been terrified. Of course she’d
flee. He’d given her no reason not to.

I don’t even know her name.

“Trey!” he roared and strode to the bed to retrieve the
pillow she’d slept on.

Heavy footsteps from downstairs sounded like a
running-of-the-bulls stampede. His friend appeared in the doorway in seconds,
braced for war and ready to rumble.

“What’s wrong?”

“She’s gone,” he snarled in disgust, furious at himself. “I
shouldn’t have left her alone. Not until I explained things to her.”

He threw the pillow at Trey and went to the closet to
retrieve his shoes. “That’s hers. When everyone else gets here I want you to
have them take a sniff, memorize it and split up. Tell them she’s wearing a
sweatshirt covered by my scent and that she’s on foot. I’m going to try to
track her from here.”

“Why don’t you call Wade? He can locate anyone with a few
clicks of his laptop.”

Diskant returned from the closet, shoes in hand. “Because
you have to have a name to give him.”

Trey narrowed his eyes. “You said her name was Pinkie.”

“I started calling her that while she was unconscious.”
Diskant pulled a pair of socks from the dresser and sat on the bed to put on
his shoes, adding sheepishly, “I didn’t have the chance to ask for her real
name when she came to.”

“So you don’t know her name?

“No.”

“Or where she lives?

“No.”

“How about where she works?”

“No,” he snapped.

“Then what
do
you know?” Trey asked impatiently.

“She’s lucky if she’s an inch over five feet. She’s blonde,
beautiful and has the biggest blue eyes I’ve ever fucking seen.”

And she smells like heaven.

“That’s all you’ve got to go on? In a city as big as New
York?”

He stood and collected his cell and wallet. “Correct.”

“I hate to tell you this,” Trey stopped him with a hand on
the shoulder and nailed him with a level stare, “but you’re fucked.”

Chapter Three

“I need two shots of Jack, two shots of Hennessy and a tall
mug of Smithwick’s. And can you put a move on it? I’ve been waiting over ten
minutes.”

Ava nodded at the abrasive command and kept moving down the
line, working on three previous orders while trying to keep the incoming ones
separate. The club was slammed, the bar was packed and it wasn’t even close to
peak yet.

What a crappy way to spend—

“You’re the birthday girl, huh?” A roaming hand accompanied
the question and she was forced to remain still as a dollar bill was placed
into the clip affixed to her blouse that announced she was another year older.
When the man finished he patted the area above her breast. “Don’t spend it all
in one place, sweetheart.”

She smirked at the asshole and kept going. All she had to do
was make it through the next four hours. After which she would be on a bus to
Sevierville, Tennessee. Her own private haven from the world. The time couldn’t
pass quickly enough.

“Ava!” her boss barked from the other end of the bar. “We’re
going to do the auction in a few minutes. I want to get it done before ten!”

She stopped in the middle of pouring a shot of Crown, turned
to him and shook her head. “No way, Brett,” she screamed over the voices. “You
suckered me into working tonight but that’s it.”

Brett topped off a mug of beer and handed it to a server. He
wiped his hands on a towel tucked inside his black dress slacks and walked
over. She returned to the half-empty shot glass and resumed pouring when she
felt him at her back.

“It’s tradition, Ava.”

“I don’t care.” She walked to the left and placed the drink
on a tray. “I’m not auctioning myself off to the highest bidder to make a quick
buck.”

“You know it’s not like that. It’s all in good fun.”

She spun around and faced the bartender, part-time DJ and
owner of Club Liminality. He was a woman’s wet dream—tall, blond hair, green
eyes, a masculine face with a slightly crooked nose and the most amazing smile
you’d ever seen—but the boss wasn’t one to sleep around. That was one of the
things she admired most about the man. However, Brett dabbled in some kind of
magic she pretended not to be aware of. Months of working together and she
still didn’t have a fix on what he was.

“I said no. We’re not in Kansas and this isn’t a barnyard
social. When I want strange men to bid on my,” she lifted her fingers and made
bunny ears, “picnic basket, I’ll let you know, Yogi.”

“What’s with you?” Brett stayed her hand with a light touch
of his fingers when she reached for a clean shot glass under the counter and
called another server over to pick up the slack when he pulled her to the side.
He lowered his voice when they stood against the backdrop. “The last few weeks
you’ve been edgy as hell. You don’t stick around after close. You don’t come in
early to shoot the shit. You don’t even cut up with the customers anymore. You
come in, do your job and clock out. Don’t think everyone hasn’t noticed.”

His concerned face was too difficult to deny and she found
herself caving with a half-truth. She was sure her coworkers noticed the shift
in her behavior. Four weeks after leaving a certain Omega high and dry and she
still couldn’t get the man out of her head. Following what could have been sure
disaster, she had barricaded herself inside her home, ventured out only when
necessary and told Craig Newlander he could take the locket and shove it where
the sun didn’t shine. Unfortunately, after a few weeks the hermit lifestyle had
started to get to her. She was a social creature by nature and missed the
interaction at the club. Not to mention her rounding ass missed her usual
routine at the gym. It was time to reconnect with the world and get her head on
straight.

“I just really need this vacation. Some quiet time alone
will help me regroup.” When he frowned she patted his hand. “Scout’s honor.”

Brett moved close to whisper, “I know you don’t want to do
the auction but think of it as an early vacation present. It’s crowded, the
alcohol is flowing and people are bound to be loose with their wallets. It’s
one dance.” She met his grass-green eyes and he continued, “Humor me. Let the
club send you off with a nice, fat bonus.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I’ll work your schedule so that you’re on every Saturday
night for a year.”

That elicited a wince. A year of Saturday nights would damn
near kill her.

Brett smiled when she rolled her eyes and nodded. He hiked
his head to the right, in the direction of a large group of shifters. “Take
care of the bikers and meet me on the center stage.”

She watched Brett walk away before she turned her attention
to the group at the far end of the bar. A pang of apprehension stalled her. To
the average bear they would look like bikers—covered in leather and sporting
multiple tattoos—but when she reached out with her mind there was nothing to
greet her.

Damn.

Another thing that had changed in the last few weeks was the
notable absence of shifters at the club. She noticed the first night she had
returned to work after meeting Diskant Black that the fur-sprouting populace
weren’t making their usual appearances and had hoped that maybe they found a
new club to frequent. Apparently not, since they were back in force. There were
six of them total, four men and two women. The men were regulars, although she
could only place their faces. Snagging a clean towel and wiping her hands, she
marched over and stopped when her breasts pressed against the wooden counter.

“What can I get you?”

One by one they named their poison—vodka, whiskey, whiskey,
Cape Cod, Orange Rambler—until she got to the last man perched halfway across
the counter. He was a regular she recognized, one who usually sat quietly at
the bar observing everything around him. His short brown hair was messy and his
face was scruffy by lack of a recent shave. Yet his caramel eyes were on full
alert, and when she met his stare she realized they were frozen on her.

“Yuengling on tap.”

She steeled herself not to look away when she asked, “Tall
or short?”

“Tall.”

As she made the drinks she felt the weight of the shifter’s
stare. He watched her as she collected the glasses, poured the shots, mixed the
Rambler and Cape Cod and made her way to the station to fill the tall, icy mug
with the lager of his choice.

She brought the drinks over and placed them onto the
counter. “That’ll be thirty-two even.”

“I’ve got it.” He broke his stare to retrieve his wallet. He
sorted through the cash inside, removed a couple of bills and passed them over.
“Keep the change.”

She shied away when she extended her hand to accept the cash
and, instead of handing it over, he brought his head closer, sniffing the air.

She yelped when his chin brushed her hand and she staggered
across an empty box on the floor. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Your perfume,” he answered. “It seems familiar.”

Angry now, she took a step forward, snatched the cash and
informed him briskly, “I don’t wear perfume,
Pepé
.”

His hand shot out before she could make a hasty departure,
strong fingers winding snugly around her wrist. He brought his body halfway
across the counter and pressed his nose to her palm, his nostrils flaring at
the mound of Venus. The shifters with him went quiet, observing curiously.

“Definitely familiar,” he growled in a low timbre.

“Let go of my arm,” she said each word distinctly. “Before I
call security over.”

“Trey…” One of the men next to the shifter started to
interrupt when abruptly he released her. His caramel eyes shifted, becoming
gold.

She left before any of them could see how unnerved she was.
Her hands were trembling and her heart was racing as she cashed the till and
stuffed the remainder into the tip jar. Shifters were the oddest creatures.
Always sniffing, licking and fighting over pecking order. Undoubtedly he was
trying to reinforce his position with his group and mark his place at the club.

Or maybe he gets off on scaring women shitless.

“Ava!” Delmar, one of the friendlier bouncers, called out
for her from the floor. “Brett said to move your ass!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she grumbled.

Before she exited the bar she chanced a look at the shifter
with a sniffing fetish. He was on a cell phone now, talking quietly, and those
gleaming eyes were focused solely on her. Her stomach flip-flopped and she spun
around, marching off to face her doom on the auction block.

Tonight can’t get any crappier…

The music stopped, the spotlight on center stage permeated
the darkness of the club and she heard Brett’s deep voice cut through the
crowd. “Can I have your attention, everyone? We have a birthday in the house,
and you know what that means!”

A chorus of cheers and sexual innuendo carried to her ears
and she cringed.

Strike that. It just did.

* * * * *

Ain’t that a pisser
?

Trey Veznor couldn’t believe the turn of events. Here he
was, out with pack mates for the first time in a month and the cause of his—and
the rest of the packs’—suffering was standing directly in front of him with a
scowl on her face. He’d never forget that sweet scent, and the description D
had passed along was a spot-on match—delicate and small, blonde hair with
shades of pink buried within, big blue eyes.

Undeniably beautiful.

D had gone ape-bitch when the little sprite vanished and had
called on the assistance of all the shifter communities to locate her. Since
the Omega had been born a werewolf—inside Trey’s very own pack some two-hundred
plus years previous—that meant the request was personal. He had chosen one
place to scour each week—Brooklyn, Queens, the Bronx, Staten Island—and
Manhattan was the final stop.

Of all the dumb luck.

It appeared that Pinkie worked in Times Square, smack-dab in
the center of the action, and had been just around the corner from D the entire
damn time.

Un-fucking-believable.

His eyes never left the tiny female as he retrieved his
phone and found D’s number. Allowing her to vanish into nowhere couldn’t
happen. The last few weeks had been awful. Even now D was one grumpy-ass son of
a bitch. Thank god he was finally about to get laid and mated. Trey couldn’t
stand his surly attitude much longer.

Diskant answered on the second ring. “You’d better make it
good.”

“Club Liminality. Get here. Now.” He closed the cell and
ended the call before D could ask questions. The man was already operating on a
hair trigger, and telling Diskant he’d found his female would only rile his
beasts and make him cranky as shit. Not that Trey blamed his pack mate. Twice
he’d gotten his hopes up only to have them crushed. At least now the poor
bastard wouldn’t suffer disappointment.

The hair on Trey’s nape rose and he turned his head to gaze
into the crowd. It was there again, that sensation of being watched. Over the
last few weeks the weighty feeling of someone’s eyes on him had been a
constant. He inhaled deeply, attempting to scent the air, but came up with
mostly cigarette smoke, tobacco and various other repugnant smells, including
body odor, perfume and cheap alcohol. He waited, anticipating the fleeting
sensation that sometimes followed, of a ghostly hand combing through his hair…

“Is that her?” his second, Nathan, asked and swatted
absently at one of the females when she tried to caress his face. At Trey’s
confirming nod, he said, “I thought I recognized the scent but I couldn’t be
sure.”