The Mane Squeeze (24 page)

Lock opened the door and motioned her out.

“We’ll see you soon, Lovely Gwen.”

She turned to wave at the MacRyrie bears, but the door had already slammed closed and Lock stood in front of her, glaring.

“What?” she demanded. “I like them.”

“Figures.” He spun her around and pushed her. “Come on. If we’re going to do this, let’s do this.”

I
t was bad enough he let his uncles goad him into things he didn’t want to do, but now he was letting Gwen do it, too. And all she did was stare at him with those gold eyes.

Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, he wanted to show Gwen. That he wanted to let her in to the part of his life that only a chosen few had access to.

Lock pulled into one of two parking spaces at the warehouse and shut off the motor. They sat in silence for several minutes until Gwen asked, “So what exactly was going on behind your uncles’ bar?”

Surprised by her question, Lock could only stare at her.

“What?” she demanded. “You think I’m stupid? You disappear with your uncle, then Ric shows up, but he never comes inside. No one discusses what’s going on out there, and even though everyone is trying to be quiet, I can still hear ’em all out there. And I know I smelled something dead in that alley.”

Realizing that trying to get anything over on Gwen would be futile, Lock shrugged and said, “They found a shifter corpse behind the bar. And before you ask,” he said when she opened her mouth, “no, my uncles didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Someone sending them a message?”

“Doubtful. It’s no one they know and it’s happened randomly over the last five or six months. Chances are it’s just a good dumping ground.”

“For what?”

“So far it’s been hybrids. Male wolf mixes.”

“Hunted?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You worried?”

“Don’t know yet.”

“Why bring in Ric?”

“It’s the kind of thing that gets him all up in arms. He’s a big believer in protecting all shifters, full-blood or mixed.” He took her hand. “That being said, I want you to be careful. At least until we know what’s going on. You
and
Blayne.”

“No worries there. We’re always careful. We have no choice. I’m an O’Neill and she’s the best friend of an O’Neill. Now are we going inside to see what your uncles were talking about or are you hoping I’ll completely forget and you can totally puss out?”

Dropping her hand, Lock snarled, “Fine. Get out.”

Lock stepped from the SUV and slammed his door. He walked to the warehouse and unlocked the door, shutting off his alarm system and heading inside, assuming Gwen would follow.

Gwen stood in the doorway and gazed up at the high ceiling. The place was an old warehouse, but even in New Jersey it couldn’t be cheap to own or rent a place like this, even for storage. Which she was sure it was with all the furniture lying around.

And nice furniture, too.
Really
nice.

Captivated by the first thing that caught her eye, Gwen wandered over to a sweet little side table. It was made entirely of wood, and she was amazed at the craftsmanship. Gwen crouched down in front of it and ran her hand over the smooth wood.

“Well?”

She heard tone from the bear behind her, but she chose to ignore it. Besides, the more she touched the end table, the more she wanted it. “Where did you get this from?” When he didn’t answer right away, Gwen glanced over her shoulder and was surprised by how uptight he looked. “What’s wrong?” She stood, gently placing her hand on his forearm. “What’s the problem?”

“Nothing.” He shrugged and admitted, “I made it.”

Gwen looked down at the table and back at the bear. “No, seriously.”

“I am serious. I made it. And I was drawing a front door for the house. Dad’s been wanting a new one.”

Gwen reached into Lock’s back pocket and pulled out the racing form. She’d grown up looking at these and helping her own uncles with their winnings and losses. It surprised her that she and Lock had that much in common. It surprised her even more what was drawn on that racing form.

It wasn’t simply a door, as the MacRyrie bears had put it. The design was intricate, beautiful. As someone who worked with carpenters and construction people most of her life, Gwen knew when she was looking at something amazing. But could he actually create this?

Gwen stepped closer to the end table and examined it again. Straightening, she walked down to the next piece. A rolltop desk that looked like something out of the nineteenth century but had been kept in impeccable shape. She pushed the rolltop up and then down. She studied every inch carefully.

“
You
did this?” she pushed, really not sure she believed him, but he looked so nervous and embarrassed, she was beginning to realize he wasn’t lying. And if he could do this, then she doubted the door would be much of a challenge for him.

“Yeah. I did.”

“
This
is your hobby? The woodworking you like to do?”

“Yeah.”

Momentarily speechless, she stepped to another piece. This one a long dining table that she knew her mother would kill for.

“Hobby?”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

She whirled on him. “Because hobby means whittling. Or birdhouses. Remember the birdhouses?

“
You
said birdhouses. I never said birdhouses.”

“It means,” she went on, ignoring him, “a badly put-together table that your friends only pull out of the garage when they know you’re coming over. This—” she gestured around the room at all the amazing pieces surrounding her “—this isn’t that.”

Without waiting for him to say anything else, she ran her hand over the dining table. It looked similar to the table in his parents’ house. No wonder he’d gotten so weird when she’d asked about it. He’d made it! And although this table had a similar style, she could see a marked difference in skill level between the two. He was growing, getting better, becoming a true artisan at his craft.

“Okay, so how much for the table?”

Lock’s head tilted to the side. “How much?”

“Yeah. Ma would love this and Christmas is coming up.”

“Uh…”

“And don’t try and out-haggle me. I’ve learned from the best.”

“I don’t haggle.”

“All right. How much then?” She gestured to herself with her hands. “Hit me with it. I can handle it.”

“Gwen…” he seemed so confused “…you can have it.”

“Have it?” Gwen looked at the table that was slowly going from Christmas gift to her mother to Christmas gift to Gwenie.

“Lock, I can’t take this. I mean you’ll lose what? Four, five grand for it? Okay, it’s true, the sex is great and all but four or five grand? That’s a lot of money for the sex to live up to.”

“I don’t mean…” He dropped his head but she saw the smile. He wasn’t laughing at her, it was a surprised smile. A smile of pure pleasure. “What I mean is I don’t sell my work. At least not yet.”

It took her a moment to understand him. “You don’t sell your work? At all?”

“No.”

“Why? What are you waiting for?”

He shrugged. “I’m waiting for it to be…better.”

“Better?” Wow. The man had higher standards than she realized. “Lock, I mean this in the nicest way possible, but…you’re an idiot.”

“How do you mean that in the nicest way possible?” Lock demanded,
never
knowing which direction Gwen would come from.

“I mean, you’re an idiot if you’re not selling this stuff. And I don’t mean at yard sales. I’m talking about selling it to a furniture specialist shop. Where rich people go. You want rich people to buy your shit because they tell their rich friends and they tell their rich friends and on and on.”

“None of these are ready for sale,” he argued. “These are all just…drafts.”

“Drafts?”

“Right. Because I’m still learning.”

“Okay. So you’re saying everything isn’t perfect yet.”

“It doesn’t need to be perfect.” Just as close as humanly possible. “But I have to be comfortable getting money for it.”

“Fair enough.” She pointed at the dining table. “So what needs work on this?”

Lock walked over and refreshed his memory on the dining table he’d made a year ago. “Um…this.” He crouched down and pointed. “See those crossrails? They’re slightly…off.”

“Off?”

“Uh-huh.” He stood up. “I’ll make another one and try and fix that.”

“Right. Okay. And you said you had to take care of something here, right? What was that?”

“Since my uncles goaded me into coming here, I figured I could grab a chair I made for Jess, and we could drop it off at her place. If I give her the chair now, she can’t guilt me into going to her baby shower later…and she’ll try.” Oh, she would try.

“Can I see the chair?”

“Sure.” He walked her over to the chair and took off the drop cloth he kept over it to protect the wood.

Gwen studied it for several long moments before she dropped her head into her hands and groaned.

“Was it the Viking runes?” he asked, wincing. “Too much? I wouldn’t put it on anyone else’s chair, but this is Jess and she’s—”

“You’re not charging for this?” Gwen cut in.

“No.” He looked at the rocking chair, admiring the lines but easily spotting all the flaws. “I made it as a gift.”

“Let’s say you didn’t make it for a gift, but you simply made it. Would you sell it then?”

Lock frowned. “Probably not.”

“Another crossrail problem?”

Lock laughed. “No. Not this time. It’s just…I’m not real happy with this joint. Right here.”

She nodded. “Is that a problem that would have Jess falling on her ass when the chair broke?”

Insulted, Lock said, “Of course not. I’d never give her anything that wasn’t absolutely sturdy and reliable.”

“So it’ll last, let’s say, a hundred years or so?”

“More than that, I hope. And it can handle at least fifteen hundred pounds.” He knew this because he’d sat in it as bear. If it could handle his weight, it could handle a pregnant little wild dog.

Abruptly, Gwen paced away from him.

“What?” he asked, already planning to start a new chair for Jess tomorrow. “Is it that bad?”

“No, Lock. It’s perfect.” She whirled on him again, but he was glad she didn’t do that 180-degree thing with her head instead. “But, hon, I was right…you’re an idiot.”

“Why am I an idiot?”

“You’re an idiot because you’re not selling this.”

“It’s a gift.”

“Not the chair, you mongrel. I’m talking about all of it. You have a fortune sitting here.”

“No,” he said, even as his pulse raced. “It’s not—”

“What? Perfect? Art is supposed to have imperfections. That’s what makes great art.” She stopped, blinking in surprise. “I can’t believe I remembered that from Sister Ann’s stupid art history class. And let me tell ya…not exactly an ‘A’ student with her.”

“Not a big art history fan?”

“Not a big fan of Sister Ann. She was the one who started all the nuns and Father Francis calling me the devil’s whore and Blayne the devil’s whore’s lackey, which did nothing but hurt Blayne’s feelings.”

As always, amused by Gwen’s random comments, Lock smiled as he reached down to lift up the chair he would be giving Jess, but Gwen placed her hand on the seat, halting him.

“Wait.”

He looked up at her.

“Are you telling Jess you made this?”

Immediately, Lock shook his head at the uncomfortable thought. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Don’t be silly. She’ll appreciate it more if you tell her.”

“I don’t want to tell her.”

“So you’ll lie to her.”

“I won’t have to lie to her. She never asks, so there’s nothing to admit to.”

Gwen’s eyes narrowed the tiniest bit, and he knew he was in trouble. “How much stuff have you given her?”

“A few things,” he hedged.

“And you haven’t charged her for any of it?”

Her voice was even and controlled, but he could still hear the outrage in it. “No. I haven’t charged her. And I don’t plan to start now.”

As always when annoyed, Gwen placed her hands on her hips, those Philly girl nails of hers tapping against her cargo pants. “What is your deal with her?” Before he could answer, she held up her hand and went on. “What if she asks? Then will you tell her?”

“She won’t ask.”

“But if she does?”

“She won’t.

Her eyes flashed wide in warning. “But. If. She. Does?”

“Breaking one simple sentence into several sentences won’t change the fact that she won’t ask. She never asks and, like most dogs, Jess is a creature of habit.”

Gwen suddenly relaxed, which made Lock tense up instead.

“How about a bet then?” she asked.

“I don’t gamble.”

“Because once you start you can never stop or because you have moral issues with it?”

“Because I hate to lose.”