by Lynn Lorenz
“What’s up, Billy?” Scott asked as he got out.
“Frank Commeaux lost control of his cruiser and rear-ended a truck.” Frank was another of his deputies and a pack member.
“Is he hurt? The other driver okay?”
“No, Frank’s just shaken up. The other guy is fine too.”
“What the fuck happened?” Scott looked over the head of the younger man toward the accident scene. Frank stood to the side with two other officers as they took notes. The nose of the cruiser sat crumpled under the tail end of a large delivery van. The van’s driver leaned against the side of the van, shaking his head.
Billy glanced at Frank, exhaled, and hooked his thumbs in his utility belt. “He had his eyes on Marissa Waters. She was walking on the side of the road. Hitchhiking over to Beau Bridge.” He shrugged. “She’s awful cute, you know.”
Like that was a good enough excuse.
Scott slapped his hand over his face and slid it down, biting back the words bubbling up from his throat in a low growl.
Billy stepped back. “Sorry, sir.” He leaned in. “It’s that time of month.”
Scott stared at him. “Time of month? What are we, a pack of women?” He pushed Billy to the side and headed straight for Frank, determined to make an example of the deputy.
The other men saw him coming and faded into the background, leaving Frank alone as their boss and alpha descended.
“Frank, you’re suspended from duty for a week without pay, and on desk duty for two more weeks.” He pointed to the man, who nodded, accepting his punishment. If Frank had been in wolf form, he’d have his head down and his tail between his legs.
Scott spun to face the others, all young men of his pack. “Y’all? I don’t care what the damn moon is doing, get a grip on yourselves. This is not the way law officers behave. I want a full report written up and on my desk in two hours, get it?”
“Yessir!”
“And get this mess cleared up, ASAP! The Pasqual funeral is scheduled for this afternoon, and they’ll be passing this way.”
Scott spun and headed back to his car, fists clenched and fighting more than just his anger.
The moon’s pull had hit him hard too, dammit, but he’d been man enough not to succumb to it. Couldn’t the others get some control of their bodies, like he did?
Despite his urges over the last two nights, he’d kept it in check, jerked off alone in his bedroom each morning and night, and concentrated on his work, not his needs.
As alpha, he had to set an example, and hell, he’d managed to control himself for the last five years, why couldn’t they?
Damn horny wolves.
He slammed the door shut, threw the car into gear, and turned it around. Frustration surged, and for a moment, his wolf whined to get out, the soft noise filling the cabin of the cruiser. As he drove to the station, he rolled down the window, gulping air in an effort to quell his anger and subdue his wolf before he lost it.
He pulled through a fast-food place, got a cup of coffee, and headed into his office. After the first few sips of the hot black java, he felt almost human again.
Chapter Two
Ted crossed the street toward the bar. This was the second night in a row he’d woken up from that damn dream and gone in search of a quick fuck. What the hell was up with him? He was as horny as a sixteen-year-old.
“Canedo,” a sharp, hard voice called out to him. Ted spun, reaching for the gun tucked under his armpit as he squinted into the darkness.
A cop stepped under the street light. Dougherty.
Shit. This was not what he fucking needed and especially not from this homophobic bastard.
“What is it, Dougherty?” Ted waited for the cop to get closer, making him come to Ted, keeping the upper hand.
“Where you headed?”
“Since when are my whereabouts of any interest to NOPD?” Ted continued the movement of his hand up to brush the straight bangs out of his eyes.
“Since you got your partner killed and we kicked your sorry ass off the force.” The cop shrugged, a mean snarl on his face.
Ted’s stomach cramped, but he hid any reaction. He’d gotten good at that over the last two years. He didn’t bother defending himself; everyone on the force in the Quarter knew the facts of the story.
Or at least they thought they did.
They knew Ted and his partner of three years, Douglas French, known as “Frenchie” to his friends and coworkers, had stopped at approximately eleven p.m. at the Quick Mart on Dumaine Street to get a couple cups of coffee.
They knew Douglas had gone in ahead of Ted. Ted had stopped to check out a car parked illegally across the sidewalk.
They knew that Craig Morris, a career criminal with a rap sheet filled with dozens of robberies and breaking and entering, was in the midst of robbing the place at gunpoint when Douglas walked in.
They knew Morris panicked, opened fire, wounding the owner and shooting Douglas, and that Ted burst through the door when he heard the shots, returned fire, and killed Morris.
They knew Douglas died in Ted’s arms, bleeding out of a clean hit to an artery, soaking the floor and Ted in his blood before the ambulance could get to him.
They knew Douglas left behind a wife and three kids.
What they didn’t know was that Douglas hadn’t stopped just to pick up coffee, but to pick up that week’s protection money the Vietnamese owner had been paying him.
They didn’t know Douglas was a dirty cop. His wife didn’t know it, not even Ted had known it, but Ted had taken the heat for it instead of Douglas’s reputation. It had been the least he could do for his partner’s widow and kids.
They also didn’t know that Ted had been in love with Douglas from the moment he’d met the man on their first day of patrol.
Not even Douglas had known that.
“You got a point? Because if all you wanted was to say hello, consider it done.” Ted turned away.
“Looking for some action, faggot?” Dougherty sneered.
Ted hesitated, just a fraction of a second, then continued on.
“I’m watching you, Canedo,” the cop called after him.
Great. Watch this.
Without turning around or breaking stride, Ted held up his hand and gave Dougherty the finger.
»»•««
Ted slid onto the barstool and ordered a Jack and Coke. One of the bartenders, Derek, winked at him and fixed the drink.
He sauntered over to Ted, giving him the clear signal he’d be willing to leave the other bartender for as long as it took to make both Ted and him happy men.
“What are you looking for tonight?” Derek asked as he set the highball glass in front of Ted.
Ted scanned the bar. Lots of available action for a Wednesday night. The real crowds were on Fridays and Saturdays, but you could find a pickup any night of the week in most of the gay bars.
“Something young. Eager and willing.” Ted gave Derek a quick smile.
“Well, that leaves me out. I’m way too old for eager and willing.” Derek laughed and nodded toward the back wall where several young rent boys lounged. “Take your pick.”
Ted got off his stool, downed his drink, and gave the guys the opportunity to see him. He’d worn his tightest jeans, and they emphasized his package to perfection. Then he headed to the bathroom.
He pushed through the door and stood at the sink, washing his hands. Like clockwork, one of the young men entered. With a fast glance in the mirror, Ted got a nod from the guy, then headed to the large stall and stepped inside.
The guy followed.
Ted locked the door and leaned against it.
“Sit on the toilet,” he ordered.
The twink sat with his legs on either side of the commode. Ted moved within reaching distance and unfastened his belt, unzipped his pants, and pulled out his meat.
“Suck me.”
He nodded, grabbed the base of Ted’s shaft, and swallowed it down. All the way to the root.
Ted groaned. “Damn that’s good.” The rent boy’s hot, wet mouth, soft tongue, and firm grip worked Ted up and down, back and forth, until his balls drew up.
“Gonna come,” Ted whispered as he threaded both hands through the guy’s hair, spiked with some stiffening product. He didn’t try to pull away, so Ted held him down as he shot his load down the guy’s throat.
The door to the bathroom opened.
Ted froze. Listened. Inhaled.
Heavy breathing.
A cop. He’d know the stink of cheap cologne anywhere.
Shit.
He pulled the kid off, clamped his hand over the guy’s mouth, and signaled for silence with a finger to his lips.
Wide-eyed, the guy nodded. Ted motioned for him to climb up on the toilet. Then Ted zipped up, flushed, and left, closing the door behind him.
Dougherty stood against the door of the bathroom, blocking his exit.
“Had to take a piss, Dougherty?” Ted went to the sink and washed his hands clean of the kid’s sticky hair product.
“You in here alone?” Dougherty’s gaze darted at the three stalls. Ted could tell he was looking for something.
“Yeah. Why? You want to lock the door?” Ted grinned at him in the mirror. “Get a taste of what you know you want?”
Dougherty narrowed his eyes. “Fuck no, you queer. I’m not a faggot. Just thinking you might be doing something illegal, that’s all.”
“Well, if taking a dump and a piss are illegal now, call me guilty.” He hit the air dryer with his elbow, and it roared to life as he held his hands under it, taking his sweet time.
Dougherty snorted. “I guess Frenchie shoulda known having a fag for a partner instead of a real man would get him killed. You saw the car, knew Morris was in there, and let him go in first, didn’t you?”
Ah yes, the old chickenshit fag story was still making the rounds. Ted’s anger burned, but he’d never let anyone see the truth, not in his expression and never in his eyes.
“If you’re not going to get on your knees and suck my dick, then get out of my way.” Ted advanced on the cop.
Dougherty’s gaze fell to Ted’s crotch, jumped up to Ted’s face, and with a “Fuck you!” he spun, jerked open the door, and fled.
The door shut.
“You can come out now.”
The twink opened the stall door and peeked around it. “Sure?” He stepped out, paler and still wide-eyed, with his hand over his heart.
“Yeah. Thanks, babe.” Ted gave the guy a twenty and left, the door shutting behind him.
As he strode through the bar, Ted glared at the bartender, who shrugged and mouthed, Sorry. Ted exited, glanced up and down the street, and turned toward home, ignoring Dougherty standing in the shadows of a doorway.
Stupid beat cop.
A part of Ted missed that world, but a bigger part of him refused to ever go back into it. He’d willingly sacrificed his career and his reputation, so he had no reason to bitch about it or feel sorry for himself.
It had been the right thing to do. He’d have taken that bullet for Douglas if he could and would never have thought twice about it. But he’d failed.
The least he could do was take the blame.
»»•««
The next day, Ted surveyed his bags piled in the living room of his apartment. He’d packed everything he’d need for his next PI job; all that was left was to load up his SUV and head out on the highway.
After he’d taken the assignment two weeks ago, he’d signed up online for the art workshop in Bayou Loup where he and a dozen other students would be painting ‘en plein aire,’ the fancy French words for ‘outdoors,’ for an entire week with famous landscape artist Darcy Wentworth. Their subject matter would be antebellum mansions, cottages, quaint townscapes, quiet cemeteries, deep woods, and of course, the bayous of south Louisiana.
The job was simple, keep an eye on the young wife of Judge Malcolm Charbonnet, one of the richest and most powerful men in New Orleans, and report back, preferably with photos. Kirsten was Charbonnet’s trophy wife, and the judge didn’t trust her as far as he could throw her.
Trust? It had become a huge issue for Ted. He’d trusted Douglas as a stand-up cop, and Ted’s faith had been shaken to the core by Douglas’s betrayal.
So Ted could understand not trusting someone, especially if you’d taken on a wife young enough to be your daughter and more beautiful than a man like Charbonnet could ever attract without the scent of money.
Well, if Ted were married to that old bastard, he’d cheat too. The man looked like a bulldog, jowls and all, including the short, bowed legs. It wouldn’t surprise Ted if he heard the man bark.
Charbonnet had really creeped him out when they’d met, and it took a lot to do that. Ted had seen a lot in his line of work, both as a PI and as a cop, from mafia types to crazed gangbangers, but there was something inherently odd about Charbonnet.
Ted didn’t know much, but he did know Judge Charbonnet was not what he seemed, not by a long shot, and frankly, he really didn’t want to know what it was.
However, Charbonnet had money, old money, and in New Orleans, that’s as close to royalty as you can get. So Ted fought down the urge to pass on the job since he needed the money and took it. Besides, Charbonnet had paid half the sizeable fee, in cash, up front.
Ted didn’t get so much work he could let five grand walk past, let alone the full ten thousand once the job was done.
The wife would be attending the art workshop in the bayou country, which is why Ted had signed up for it also. It would be far easier to keep her in plain sight than to sneak around, sitting in a hot car all day and all night, trying not to get spotted by his subject.
Or the local police.
Besides, he’d get to break the rust off his once-upon-a-time talent, oil painting.
Ted ran down the list of supplies for the course for the last time, checking off the items on the list sent to him by Wentworth’s assistant when he’d registered.
Hauling it all down to his SUV took him three trips. The duffle bag, folding easel, and all the art supplies hadn’t looked like much until he had to carry it down the straight stairs to the tiny backyard, through the narrow alley back toward the street, and to his car. Emergency blinkers flashing, it sat parked between two NO PARKING signs, half on and half off the miniscule sidewalk on St. Ann.
He went all the way to the back, locked the door to his apartment, then walked down the alley to the street, locked that door behind him, and climbed into the car.
At last, sweating like a stevedore in the liquid humidity that made May in New Orleans feel like it was August anywhere else, he maneuvered between the two signposts and pulled away, air conditioning blasting.
Chapter Three
Scott took the measure of the men gathered in the conference room of the small office building where the pack held its meetings. Someone, years ago, created a charity organization called the Rougaroux Social Club, to help the members and families of their fire and sheriff departments in the small parish.
The play on the name always gave Scott a chuckle. Every kid in bayou country knew of the rugarou, the legendary werewolf of the swamp. But the founders of the society changed the spelling from rugarou to rougaroux, added the x on the end in deference to the roux that every good Cajun chef seems born knowing how to make. What better place to hide a pack of werewolves than in plain sight?
Since most of the pack’s men were firefighters, EMS, or deputies, it also worked well as a cover for their meetings. The group did charity work, held cook-offs, sold raffle tickets to raise money, and every October, sponsored the annual Rugarou Festival, in honor of the legend of the swamp. Three days of dancing, Cajun music, and food, including a contest for the best rugarou costume.
But tonight, it was pack business.
“I understand we have some celebrating to do.” Scott nodded to Clancy Delacroix. “Clancy’s found his mate, and the wedding is going to be in June.”
Applause broke out, along with a few howls, and the men nearest Clancy did some backslapping, all of which Clancy took with good grace.
“Clancy, I need to speak with you, afterward.” A few of the guys made noises and warned Clancy he was in trouble, but Scott shook his head and winked.
His gaze met the cool blue eyes of Bobby Cotteau, former sheriff and their pack’s previous alpha, who lifted a salt and pepper eyebrow at him, giving him a small wink. More than any man there, Scott respected Bobby, especially since he’d thrown his support behind Scott as both sheriff and pack alpha.
“The rest of you? Seriously. Get a grip on yourselves.” Frank had the good sense to look sheepish. “I know the moon’s pull, trust me I feel it just as bad as you. But you don’t see me chasing after every piece of tail that walks down the street, do you?”
Some of the men shook their heads in answer.
“Yeah, Scott.” Wyatt Boudreau stood, hitching his belt up. “Why are you so good at resisting temptation? Getting kinda old, aren’t you?” He drawled out the words in a thick Cajun accent. “You sure you got what it takes to lead the pack?” He scratched his balls and sneered at Scott.
Scott bristled, his hackles rising at the insinuation. Of course, Wyatt would be the one to try to take him down a peg. Nothing Wyatt wanted more than to be alpha, but Scott didn’t plan on stepping aside anytime soon.
“Anytime you want to challenge me for my spot, just name it. Place and time, Wyatt.” Scott folded his arms over his broad chest as muscles honed by hours in the sheriff department’s weight room pulled his T-shirt tight. He cocked his head at Wyatt, who just stood there, glaring in open defiance.
“Didn’t think so.” Scott looked around the room, checking his pack’s support. As far as he could see and feel, they were firmly behind him, not Wyatt. Only one or two held his gaze. The rest lowered theirs in submission.
Even Bobby Cotteau.
“Now, Fire Chief Hawkins and I want you men to be on time and paying attention to your jobs. He can’t run the fire department, and I can’t run the sheriff’s without y’all. We need each of you to pull your weight. Got it?” Scott surveyed the group. They all, to a man, nodded, even Wyatt, a firefighter.