Gentry

by T. S. Joyce

  Gentry didn’t have feelings for the woman, but he sure as shit didn’t like seeing her treated like dirt. He’d watched Rhett treat women like crap from the time the asshole had shown up to right before Gentry had left town.

  Mila approached the muscled-up alpha slowly.

  “Now!”

  She jumped and pushed her legs faster, then came to stand under his outstretched arm.

  Rhett smiled a predatory look at Gentry.

  “Don’t,” Gentry warned him.

  Eyes locked on him, Rhett leaned down and kissed Mila, trapping her with the crook of his arm. Mila struggled for a second, then remembered herself and stood stock still, lips pursed and stiff.

  Gentry lost his mind. Just…lost it. He threw the shot glass before he even realized he’d done it. Right before it slammed into Rhett’s face, a hand blurred out and plucked it from the air, turned it right side up in one smooth motion and slammed it onto the countertop.

  Rhett shoved Mila away from him, fury roiling in his eyes, and opened his mouth. Before he could get a word out, Dad’s best friend, Tim, the one who’d saved the alpha’s face from the glass, was on Gentry. For a split second, in the moment Tim’s fist connected with Gentry’s jaw, he felt a potent sting of betrayal. Tim had watched him grow up, and now he was protecting that asshole. But his punch was too soft. Make this believable, Tim’s eyes pleaded as they went to the floor.

  Fuck, he was going to have to do this. He was going to have to fight Tim because he was right. If Gentry wasn’t put in his place by Tim, Rhett would have the entire pack wailing on him. So he did make it believable. Gentry went to blows with the old man until they were breathless and bleeding. Until Gentry couldn’t see out of his right eye, and crimson streamed down Tim’s face. Until two of the tables in the bar were broken and four chairs toppled. Until Tim kicked him in the ribs, and he heard the distinct snap of one breaking.

  Gentry wasn’t down and out, but he could look weak. Rhett didn’t have to know he’d kept his body in fighting shape. He didn’t have to know he was a wild wolf hunter. Gentry curled in on himself, arm slung around his ribcage. He groaned a pained sound and spat red onto the floor. “Fuck.”

  Tim backed off, but in the fluorescent lighting, he looked green, like he would retch. Well, welcome to the club. Gentry hated that fight, too.

  “Get out,” Tim snarled.

  Rhett was laughing, and so were some of the others.

  “Damn, Striker,” Rhett crowed. “You never really had a shot at alpha, did you? You just got your ass kicked by an old man.” And then his voice lost its amusement as he growled out, “You look like your dad lying there.”

  Those words caused something dark to churn inside of Gentry. That shouldn’t make sense. Alpha challenges were done as wolves. But this ugly, awful vision of Rhett fighting his dad human flashed across his mind, and once it was there, it wouldn’t let go. Something was off. Something was wrong.

  Standing over him, Tim flashed a warning with his gray-sky eyes.

  Gentry swallowed hard and struggled up, then limped out the door, daring to give the pack his back. Daring to give Rhett his exposed neck and spine.

  “Leave town quickly before you become ashes in the wind like your old man,” Rhett called out.

  His mind spun like a top as he made his way outside and let the door swing closed behind him. It was snowing harder now, big, white, fluffy flakes. His body was running too hot with the urge to Change and rip that motherfucker’s throat out. He sighed and held out his hands, lifted his face to the black sky and closed his eyes against the cold. It seeped into his bones and cooled the fury in his blood with each steadying breath he took. Is this what he was now? Fighting old friends to survive the man who’d killed his father? All he had in the world was pride, and Rhett had just ripped it from him in front of the people he used to care about.

  “Psst.”

  Gentry inhaled deeply and opened his eyes. Mila stood at the corner of the building with a bag of food. She set it down in the snow in front of her boots. Tears were streaming down her cheeks and dripping from her jaw line.

  “That was supposed to be you,” she said, her voice shaking. “You could’ve saved us.” He’d never seen her angry enough to hold anyone’s gaze, much less a dominant’s like his. Before she turned around the corner, she uttered, “I loved your father, but I hate you, Gentry Striker.” She held his gaze a second longer before she disappeared.

  He understood hate. He felt it all the time. For his brothers. For Rhett. For this town.

  It hurt being the one who was hated, though.

  He texted Asher and Roman. Where the fuck are you?

  He made his way to the food, yanked it out of the snow, and strode for his truck. Someone had bashed in his headlights and broken his windshield into a spiderweb of glass. Fuckin’ pack.

  He ground his teeth against the growl that snarled up from his aching chest. His whole body hurt from not defending himself like he wanted in that fight. Gentry tossed the bag of food onto the passenger’s seat, shut the door beside him, and glared at the Four Horsemen. And then he screamed for as long and as loud as his broken rib would allow.

  He pulled out of the parking lot. Asher and Roman wouldn’t answer his text. They never had before. He was the responsible one, the one who got shit done, the one who took care of the hard stuff. It had always been like that, but it shouldn’t be this way now. They weren’t punk kids anymore. They were grown. All he needed was for them to show up so they could spread Dad’s ashes and go on with the rest of their lives.

  Blaire would leave tomorrow. He would make it happen, but right now, he wished to God he could make that happen for himself, too.

  Chapter Four

  Okay…now what?

  Blaire looked around the cabin living room expectantly. She’d put away all her things in the single bedroom, hung her sweaters by color, organized the drawers, placed her shoes just so in the closet, put all her toiletries in neat lines on the counter in the bathroom, and was dressed in her sexiest pajamas. By sexiest, she meant a long-sleeved purple sleep shirt with cartoon llamas printed on them and matching thermal leggings. There was a zero percent chance of her getting laid if Gentry saw her in these, so when a sudden knock echoed through the door, she startled hard, almost spilling her glass of red wine, and then only opened the barrier between them a crack.

  Only Gentry didn’t stay outside, but shoved his way in and paced along the back wall like a wild animal in a cage.

  Blaire tiptoed toward the throw blanket folded neatly on the back of the moose-print couch.

  “Stop right there. Don’t come any closer.”

  Blaire froze, mid sip of her wine. When he turned and paced the other way, she got a good look at his face, which was swollen and bloody, and why was he limping?

  “What happened to you?” she exclaimed as she approached him.

  She cornered him good, and he backed up to the wall, face averted, but she wasn’t going to be put off. “You’re bleeding,” she murmured, touching the short whiskers on his jaw.

  Gentry grabbed her wrist. “What part confused you, woman? Stop right there, or don’t come any closer?”

  Blaire gulped her wine because, truth be told, she’d filled it to the tippy top, and it was sloshing. “Who did this?”

  Gentry took the glass from her hand and downed the rest like a shot. Okay then.

  She tried to pull his face toward her again, but he swatted her hand away like a pesky fly. “Stop touching me, Trouble. You’re making everything worse.”

  “I’m making it worse? I didn’t beat you, and I shared my wine with you. You’re very welcome, sir.”

  Gentry dragged a quick glance down her pajamas and then back up to her face. At least he didn’t laugh, but it was rather rude when he said, “I’ve thought about it, and you need to leave tomorrow.”

  “No.”

  Gentry looked slapped. “What?”

  “I said no. The cabin is paid for, I’m n
ot leaving my vacation, so stop being a butthole.”

  One blond brow arched up. “I’m sorry, did you just call me a butthole?”

  “I don’t cuss.”

  He looked down at her pajamas again. “Are those llamas?”

  “Don’t judge, I didn’t invite you in here. I thought you were going to pass me the food through the crack I made in the door. Wait, where is the food?” The panic set in a little. She wasn’t good just devouring wine on an empty stomach, and already she was feeling tipsy. “You’re bleeding for mysterious reasons, and there is no food. Gentry, I was serious about being hungry, and what happened to your face? Did you have a bad drug deal or a bar fight or an accident?”

  “B.”

  “What?” she asked, dumbfounded.

  “Option B—the bar fight one.”

  “Oh. Fantastic.”

  “I got food. I just left it in the truck. This was a bad idea.” Slowly, he covered his crotch with his hands.

  Heat blazed up her neck and landed in her cheeks as she backed off a few steps. Well, this was awkward. He made her horny, too, but she was a girl and could hide it better. “I’m going to…”

  “You aren’t wearing a bra…”

  She lifted her empty glass in the air. “Get some more wine.”

  “Your nipples are…”

  “You better be about to say ‘glorious’ and not ‘big,’” she muttered, walking away. She wasn’t wearing underwear either because vacation, but he didn’t have to know that.

  “Are you not wearing panties either?”

  “I told you I wasn’t trying to invite you in!”

  The wine bottle glugged and emptied completely as she filled it to the tip-top again. She even waited for the last few drops to shake into it before she took a long sip.

  “You weren’t supposed to say no.” There was a frown in his deep, sexy voice.

  “Does every woman tell you yes? That sounds boring, and quite frankly, it’s probably why you’re still single.” Yep, she was fishing. She sipped her wine and arched her eyebrows primly as she waited for a response.

  Disappointingly, he didn’t take the bait. Instead, he strode directly for the door and disappeared outside. The swinging door banged closed, startling her all over again. Gentry wasn’t a gentle man. He was stompy, and moved too fast, and didn’t care about nearly breaking everything. Maybe he didn’t know his own strength or something. Blaire craned her neck to watch him walk with his long, deliberate strides to his truck parked in front of her cabin. He would probably break her in the bedroom. Rough man. Probably spanked too hard, nibbled too roughly, grabbed too firmly, and thrusted…too…deeply.

  Blaire narrowed her eyes at his back. Gentry had turned her into a pervert.

  When he made his way up the steps with a bulging bag of food, she pretended to be reading one of the outdoor magazines that had been stacked in the middle of the counter. Something about knives, or stalking coyotes, or duck calls, or she didn’t know. The second Gentry opened the door again, he filled the entire room. How did he do that? It was as if her body were hyper-aware of him.

  She’d never had this kind of physical reaction to anyone, not even Matt, and she’d really loved him once.

  Was this lust? Was this what Ashlyn had been talking about? She’d been trying to get Blaire to go out and party for months and encouraged hook-ups with men, but she hadn’t been ready. Maybe she still wasn’t emotionally, but now her body seemed ready enough to do dirty deeds with one sexy-as-hell Gentry Striker.

  Gentry parted those sensual lips as though he wanted to say something, but instead, he leaned down, set the bag of food in the middle of the floor, and gruffly said, “Goodnight, Trouble.”

  Mmm, she liked that he had given her a nickname as if they were old friends, but she did not like that he’d put her food down like she was a rabid raccoon and then bolted from the house like he couldn’t escape her fast enough.

  She padded over to the bag, saw there was way more than she’d ordered, and bolted for the snow boots she’d left by the door. She shoved her feet into them and sprinted outside with the food. Dang, Gentry was fast. He was already to his cabin across the parking area, so she had to run. Her boots crunched through the snow, and she slipped twice on the layer of ice beneath it, but she got within yelling distance before he closed the door.

  “Wait! Aaah!” She slipped again and splayed her legs for balance.

  In his open doorway, Gentry wore the deepest frown she’d ever seen on a person. “What are you doing?”

  Huffing cold breath, she made her way in front of his porch like she was Romeo and he was Juliet. Dramatically, she spread her arms out, food dangling from one hand. “You’re alone, and I’m alone, and you left your food in here, and it’s my birthday. And holy shrimp, it’s cold out here. I’m regretting the no-jacket…”

  “Still no bra…”

  “I think I’m getting frostbite. The world is going dark.” Blaire coughed delicately.

  “Jesus,” he muttered, but he did seem to be fighting a teeny, tiny smile. “Is it really your birthday, or are you bullshitting me?”

  She was shivering and really uncomfortable. Slowly, she covered her nipples, which had drawn up like little marbles against the thin material of her pajamas. “This vacation was a last-minute thing. It was a birthday present from my best friend. Today is really my big day. Dirty thirty.”

  “Dirty thirty? You’re thirty years old?”

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Well, first off, I thought you were mid-twenties max, and two, I thought fancy women like yourself didn’t give your age readily.”

  “How old are you?” she asked through chattering teeth.

  “Twenty-Six.”

  “Oh.” She didn’t know why, but she’d pegged him as the same age as her, or maybe a couple years older. He was so confident and gave off this air of maturity that had tricked her. He was all tall and strong and, for reasons beyond her comprehension, he made her feel safe.

  But…he was younger. She had no chance in hell with a young buck like him.

  Whoa, where had that thought come from? She was here for a week, nothing more. She wasn’t looking for a “young buck.”

  Gentry didn’t look happy about it, but he twitched his chin in an inviting gesture and held the door open wider.

  Sexy, and he hadn’t uttered a single word.

  Blaire scrambled up the porch stairs and hustled inside, but not before she subtly sniffed him again as she passed. “What cologne do you use?” she asked nonchalantly. She wanted to bathe in the stuff.

  “Uh, no cologne. It’s a body spray.” Gentry closed the door and made his way to the fireplace. “This place doesn’t have central heat and air, sorry,” he muttered. While he built a fire in the hearth as if he’d done it a billion times, Blaire scanned the big cabin.

  She hadn’t known what to expect, but it wasn’t this. The cabin was very old, but had been kept up. The wood logs exposed on the ceiling were faded to a soft brownish-gray, but were polished to shining. The entryway led directly into a living area with an open kitchen on the right. In the center of the great room was the old stone hearth Gentry was currently building a fire in. The hearth was off-kilter, and none of the stones were uniform. Some stuck out farther, some sunk in. The chimney was made of the same kind of rock as it crawled up, up into the unique log rafters. A stone staircase curved up behind it and disappeared into a hallway. The railing was made of thin tree stumps and winding branches that gave this place a feeling of old and new. Old-fashioned sconces glowed invitingly on either side of a set of French doors on the back wall that showed the picturesque winter woods outside. There was no television, no electronics of any kind that she could see. Just two chairs and a couch in the middle of the great room that faced each other, and a couple of small end tables near them. The floors were scuffed and looked refurbished, like everything else in here. It was the most beautiful home she’d ever seen, which was strange,
because she’d never been a fan of cabins in particular. She liked homes that looked like dollhouses.

  “My dad lived here,” Gentry said from right behind her.

  She startled because she hadn’t heard him approach. She jumped again when he dropped a blanket over her shoulders. Gentry frowned and backed off a few steps. “I wouldn’t hurt you.”

  “Sorry,” she murmured. “I got a little lost in this place for a second.”

  Gentry cast a quick glance around, then rolled the sleeves of his sweater up as though he was hot. Impossible since this place was almost as cold as it was outside. “My dad called it ten-ten. Said there was magic in this place.”

  “Do you believe in magic?” she asked.

  “No. I believe in survival, that’s all.” Gentry took the bag of food from her hand and led her to the hearth. He scooted a chair loudly across the floor and faced it to the flames, then gestured for her to take a seat. And after he’d done the same to a second chair, sat down, and propped his feet on the ledge of the hearth, he handed her the cold food she’d ordered.

  “You want to talk about what happened to your face?”

  “Nope,” he clipped out.

  “Just making sure it wasn’t something you…you know…needed to get off your chest. For some people getting hit can be something hurtful. I mean, maybe it’s different for guys.” Blaire shrugged self-consciously.

  He cast her an unreadable glance and then bit into a hamburger of his own. “You ever been hit?”

  “Me? Oh, no, I wasn’t talking about me.” She ate a few fries and watched the flames for a bit. “My mom got hit a few times by my dad before she threw him out. The last time, she locked us in my room. I was sixteen, and I held her while she cried. I knew at the time she was in her own head saying goodbye to him. I held her until she fell asleep against me, and I hated him for what he did because I knew the pain she felt in her face was nothing compared to the pain and distrust that would be in her heart for a long time. We chased him out after that, and I never talked to him again. But I watched my mom’s recovery, and I just wanted to make sure those cuts on your face weren’t hurting your heart, too.”