by Liza Street
Fuck the backpack. She had to find Jase.
2
The loud whine of the tile saw filled Jase’s ears, drowning out all other noises. He always felt slightly vulnerable working like this, with one of his senses completely blocked, but he also liked the way the tools could obliterate all other distractions. He couldn’t hear Alleman’s annoying humming as he skulked around the dump. He couldn’t hear Markowicz trying to pick a fight with Ephraimson. He couldn’t hear his own damn thoughts, which were the worst of all.
Especially right now, when all he could think of was Blythe.
She was too pretty for words. And tough, too. She was still human, but he loved her nerve and her badass spirit.
Looked like even the audio onslaught of his tools wasn’t enough to banish thoughts of her. He shook his head and tried to refocus on his work. He was able to do so for a few minutes. Then, under the scent of wet stone that came from the tile he was cutting, he caught the faintest whiff of pineapple.
He let go of the saw and the blade slowed to a halt. Looking up, he saw none other than the red-haired woman of his fantasies.
“Hey,” she said. “Do you have a minute?”
“For you? Sure do.” Yeah, he couldn’t play it cool with her. He didn’t know how, and he didn’t really care to try.
Her nose wrinkled slightly as she took in his workshop. Did she not like what she saw? But her eyes were smiling, crinkled at the edges. “This place is amazing.”
“Thanks.” He looked around, trying to see it from her point of view. The dirt floor was hard-packed from months and months of him walking over it. Bits of metal and larger pieces of old furniture lay stacked against the walls. He’d scoured most of the dump for the best pieces already, and the other shifters didn’t seem to mind.
He had a few tools—a soldering iron, a table saw, a tile saw, and several others that he’d slowly saved up for with each piece of reclaimed furniture he’d been able to sell. The generator was off to the side. Opposite his work space was a mattress on a low bed that he’d made from wooden pallets. Next to that, some metal shelves he’d spent days working on, intending to sell, only to realize he’d much rather keep them.
That was a risk of being a creator; sometimes you fell in love with your creations. Luckily for Jase, he could keep what he wanted, and sell the rest. He didn’t often fall in love with a project, thankfully.
Blythe stepped closer as she turned around to survey the rest of the shop. Her hand came dangerously close to the tile saw. All Jase could imagine was her hand getting shredded to ribbons.
“Back up,” Jase said sharply. “Do you want to lose a finger?”
Blythe stepped away, eyes wide. “I wasn’t going to touch anything. Jeez.”
“Sorry.” He hadn’t meant to sound angry. It was just she was so damn fragile. If he got cut by the saw, it would hurt, and then he’d be better in a day or two. If Blythe got cut, it could take her weeks to recover—and that was hoping she didn’t get an infection.
Humans were fragile. Jase had learned that the hard way.
“Anyway, what did you need?” he asked.
“Oh. I’m here about that mates thing.”
He sat up straighter. “Yes?”
“I’m thinking…we should do it. I know I said I didn’t want to, earlier, but I’ve changed my mind. It would be safer, and I could use every extra bit of safety right now. And I’ll start carrying my pipe around with me, too—”
He cut her off. “Sorry to interrupt, but did something happen?”
“No, just taking precautions.”
He didn’t remind her that he could sense dishonesty, and instead let the lie go. Something had happened, but she didn’t want to tell him about it. Seeing as how she was all in one piece and didn’t smell afraid, he’d check in later, if necessary.
However, that didn’t mean he couldn’t have a little fun with her now.
“I don’t know,” he said slowly, returning his attention to the partially-cut tile in front of him. The tile would form one part of a round tabletop, which would alternate in colors because he didn’t have any full packs of tile in any one color. Fine with him. This “junk chic” style was never going to die, especially if Jase could keep coming up with new pieces.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Blythe’s voice was laced with annoyance.
He flicked up a glance to see she’d put her hands on her hips. She looked like an irate grandma in that pose, and he had to look down fast before she could catch him smiling.
“I just don’t think we’re a match,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
He couldn’t resist glancing at her again. Her hands were on her hips and her head was cocked like she was going to tear his face off.
He faked a nonchalant shrug. “I mean, you’re not interested in me, that much has been obvious. We’d make a terrible pair. I don’t think we could sell it to the rest of the Junkyard.”
“We’d make a fantastic pair. If there was a movie about the Junkyard, the entire audience would be shipping us.”
“You think so?” he said, trying to sound skeptical. “Why the hell would they do that?”
“The gangly, awkward girl with no boobs always gets the super hottie,” she said. “Fans of cheesy romance eat that shit up. They love it almost as much as watching a sequel where the vixen best friend with super curves finds a hottie of her own. Sort of like Jessica and Marcus. I know I’d watch the hell out of a movie like that.”
Jase nodded, pretending to consider her point. Standing up, he paced to one end of the shop. “There’s one problem with that theory of the gangly awkward girl,” he said.
“There is?”
“Yep.” He finished his circuit around the shop and returned to her side. Getting close to her, but not too close, he said in a low voice, “There’s nothing gangly or awkward about you. You’re an attractive woman with what I’d consider perfect curves.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it. He eyed the curves in question, the soft swell of her tits, barely visible through the baggy t-shirt she wore. The completely hidden curves of her hips, concealed by the giant jeans. She was fucking perfect, and she had no idea. It was a damn shame. She should know how beautiful she was.
Her breathing was faster now than it had been, and her gorgeous green eyes dilated as he drew closer.
Leaning back slightly, Jase grinned. “But it’s nice knowing you think of me as a super hottie.”
“Psh.” She looked away, her cheeks faintly pink. “So you’re not going to do it? I guess I could ask one of the other guys. Stetson seems like a decent dude—”
“Wait-wait-wait,” Jase said.
Her dark red eyebrows went up on her forehead.
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it,” Jase continued.
“I don’t believe this,” she said, looking indignant. “You were messing with me earlier, weren’t you?”
His non-response was response enough, it seemed, because her indignation plummeted into aggravation.
“Whatever,” she said. “Yes or no? Are we telling the others that we’re mates?”
“Yes,” he said, nodding for emphasis.
“Well, good then.”
“Yep. Good.” He thought ahead, to what that would actually look like. “The other shifters will sniff out a lie, though.”
“Oh, right. Jessica mentioned that. It’s one of your superpowers or whatever.”
He couldn’t hold back his grin. “More like, we’re attuned to subtle changes in scent, heartbeat, breathing—things that even other shifters can’t disguise. So if we waltz over to the group and announce that we’re mates, they’ll know we aren’t telling the truth.”
She ran a finger over the filigreed edge of a large, rusty frame Jase had cobbled together. The work was finished, and Grant was lining up a buyer. Jase liked the thoughtful look on Blythe’s face, as if she was seriously considering it as a work of art.
When she looked back u
p at Jase, though, her green eyes blazed. “So, saying we’re mates is hopeless? Why was this even an option, then?”
“Because if we really, truthfully are mates—if we commit to it—they’ll believe us.”
The skeptical look on her face made his heart clench like the vise on his tool bench was clamped around it.
“Watch,” Jase said, reaching for her hand. He was pleased when she didn’t pull away. A warmth traveled from where her fingers touched his, all the way up his arm and into his chest. “Blythe…wait, what’s your last name?”
“Reimberg.”
“Blythe Reimberg, will you be my mate?”
“This is it? This is all we have to do?” she said.
“Well, we have to agree, and promise.”
“Oh. Okay. Then yes, Jase, I’ll be your mate.”
He nodded. “You’re the only one for me, and I’m the only one for you.”
A furrow appeared between her auburn eyebrows. “Um, really?”
“That’s what mates are to each other,” he said.
He didn’t know how to protect her if she didn’t agree to this, but he’d find a way. He tried to tell himself that his only disappointment, if she said no, would be because of that difficulty in protecting her. It would have nothing to do with his own feelings about her.
“Fuck it,” she said. “Okay. You’re the only one for me, and I’m the only one for you.”
He thought it over. That was probably enough, right? Maybe one more thing, for good measure. “We have to promise this to each other, so are you promising?”
“Yes.” Her gaze was directly on his. She meant what she said.
He meant it, too. “Good. I’m promising that you’re the only one for me.”
She pulled her hand from his, wrapped her arms around her waist, and looked away. “So is that all? We just make the promise and…we’re mates?”
“Pretty much,” he said.
“Fantastic. Thank you.” Her breath exhaled from her in a whoosh of air that smelled like mint. Flashing him a smile, she turned around to leave.
Jase cleared his throat and she looked at him over her shoulder.
“If you’re hoping to use this as added protection,” he said, “we might want to tell everyone about our newfound bliss.”
“Oh. Um, okay. Do you want to handle that?”
“I’m thinking it might be time for another feast,” he said.
Even in her baggy clothes, Blythe was beautiful. Jase couldn’t seem to get over it. Her appeal was more than her appearance, which was, in his opinion, incredibly fine. It was the way she held herself, the way she seemed to stare down other shifters with an expression in her eyes that dared them to try something shady.
As dusk approached and Jase walked around lighting lanterns in the clearing in the dump, Blythe eyed the shifters who’d come to the feast. Stetson was here, of course. And Jase had convinced Markowicz to run the barbecue. Ephraimson and others, including Barnum and Alleman, were hanging back in the deep shadow of a hulking crane. The scents of savory meat, tangy barbecue, and sharp moonshine filled the night, but Jase mostly smelled the sweet fruity scent of Blythe.
She sat on top of an empty cooler. As it was nearing time for their new shipment of food, the Junkyard shifters had started bringing their empty ice chests to this part of the dump, closer to the unloading zone.
Jase bent and finished lighting the final lantern, a few feet away from Blythe. He watched as Ephraimson approached her. The wolf shifter was blond-haired and looked like he could star in one of those bloody Viking television series. Immediately, Jase bristled, ready to pounce and protect Blythe.
But Ephraimson held out a meaty hand and said, “The name’s Noah. I brought you this.”
As Blythe shook his hand, he brandished a large bottle of moonshine.
“Welcome to the Junkyard,” Ephraimson said. “Sorry your stay started off…you know.”
Eyes sparkling, Blythe said, “Yeah, I know. Thanks, Noah.”
Jase felt his eyebrows jump up on his forehead. Ephraimson wasn’t bartering with Blythe for anything, but giving her a gift. Damn. Jase hadn’t seen Ephraimson hand over anything for free, not once in all his time here.
Blythe accepted the bottle, uncorked the top, and took a swig. She immediately started coughing.
“Sorry about that,” Ephraimson said. “I know it’s a bit strong.”
“Even better,” Blythe said, her face red from coughing, but a gamely smile on her face. “It’ll last longer that way.”
Ephraimson walked away, looking pleased as a dog who’d been called a good boy.
Maybe Blythe would tame this unruly group of shifters. As far as Jase was concerned, she’d already tamed him.
Once everyone had plates, the eating began. Stetson sat off to the side, a book in one hand and his plate balanced on his knee. He occasionally scribbled something onto a piece of paper stuck in the book.
Blythe came over and leaned against a half-buried refrigerator next to Jase. “Do you think it’s working?”
“Yep, and we’ll talk about it later.” He kept his words short, cautious. She might not know about shifters’ excellent hearing.
“Oh,” she said. “Right.”
The announcement hadn’t been made yet, but as Blythe stuck close to Jase, the bad guys gave her a wide berth, and the good guys said respectful hellos. Alleman and Barnum had shown up, and other than an uncomfortable leer from Alleman, things were going mostly positive.
After several minutes of eating and idle chatter, Blythe’s plate was nearly empty.
“Did you get enough to eat?” Jase asked.
She nodded, eyes bright, and took another drink of moonshine. Fuck, she was adorable.
Markowicz, Ephraimson, and Vezirov started a play fight, swinging slowly so everyone would have plenty of time to dodge. Jase watched them carefully, wanting to make sure it didn’t escalate.
Jase had to admit, the barbecue with his fellow Junkyard inmates was going pretty smoothly. Not only that, his fake mate was standing next to him, clutching her bottle of moonshine. He wondered if she knew how sexy she looked in that t-shirt and baggy jeans, with her red hair piled on her head.
The guys lost interest in the fight, and Markowicz stretched and flexed, preening while he sent surreptitious glances toward Blythe.
Jase narrowed his eyes at Markowicz. Blythe was Jase’s. Nobody else’s. Markowicz could take his feline vanity and shove it up his ass.
“So what are we here for, besides eating?” Markowicz asked when he was done making a fool of himself. He leaned against an old Datsun pick-up truck and picked up a mason jar full of moonshine he’d hidden inside of it.
“Well,” Jase said, looking around at the assembled shifters, “I wanted to introduce you to my mate.”
“No shit,” Ephraimson said, eyebrows raised.
“Seriously?” Markowicz said, sounding disappointed. “Damn.”
“I don’t believe it,” Barnum said from the other side of their gathering area. His new beard hid his frown somewhat, but Jase could hear that he wasn’t pleased.
“It’s true,” Jase said, speaking slowly and clearly. It was important they all hear the truth in his voice.
“Pipe Dreams?” Barnum said. “Is it true?”
Jase flicked his gaze to Blythe—his mate.
“Yeah,” she said. “We’re mates. We just figured it out a few hours ago.”
Fuck yeah. She was his.
“Did you try to get over the boundary?” Alleman asked, voice sly as he glared at them with his charcoal eyes.
“I don’t want to get over the boundary,” Blythe said before Jase could make up an excuse.
And she wasn’t lying when she said it. That was something. He wondered why she wanted to stay.
Stetson set his book down. There was a mischievous look on his face.
“Well, Blythe and I should be going,” Jase said, standing up. He didn’t like Stetson’s expression—it mea
nt trouble.
Jase took Blythe’s arm in his. Relief washed through him when she didn’t pull away.
“Not so fast,” Stetson said. “We don’t need a wedding or anything, but I’d like to propose a toast.”
Jase glared at him. Why couldn’t the man stay silent like he usually did, and let Jase and Blythe beat a hasty retreat?
Stetson’s smile grew wider as he said, “Let’s raise our liquor to the Junkyard sweethearts, Blythe and Jase. To their everlasting love.”
Jase was pleased when everyone raised their cups and bottles. Even Blythe took a sip from hers, then she shoved the bottle at Jase so he could have a sip as well. The moonshine was harsh against his throat, warming him as it went down.
Then Stetson said, “Y’all show us a kiss goodnight, then get out of here.”
“A kiss?” Blythe said.
“Well, don’t sound so disgusted,” Jase said, keeping his voice playful but telling her with his eyes that they were in a pickle. Real mates wouldn’t have a problem with a kiss in front of their friends.
And then someone started the chant, and everyone joined in. “Kiss her, kiss her, kiss her.”
Blythe’s eyes were wide, like an animal caught in the middle of the road with a semi barreling toward her.
3
“Kiss her, kiss her, kiss her,” the guys kept chanting.
Blythe read the panic in Jase’s eyes. He didn’t want to kiss her, which was downright insulting. He’d made her feel attractive earlier—she’d felt wanted, even—back in his workshop when he’d said those things about her curves. Perfect curves, he’d said.
Words she’d make herself recall during low moments for as long as she lived. Not one boyfriend had ever told her she had perfect curves. She distinctly remembered one guy saying that she didn’t have a lot to work with, but he’d make do. Like sex with him had been a favor to her.
And at the time, she’d been in a low point anyway, and she’d accepted that.