by Liza Street
“Yeah. I called a meeting yesterday with the others—I’m on my way to talk about it with them now. Anyway, thanks for breakfast.” He took a bite of his toast and started forward.
When he began walking, she fell into step beside him. “Can I come to the meeting?”
“Sure. I thought this was your writing time, though?”
“All day, every day is writing time,” she said with a grin. “I want to know what’s up with the food.”
Jase munched his toast, and Blythe ate hers, as well.
“Those sweats look good on you,” Jase said.
She wrinkled her nose. “I need to wash my other clothes.”
“I should’ve thought of that,” he said. “There should be some detergent in the cabin—stuff that doesn’t hurt the environment so we can wash our clothes in the lake or pond.”
“Thanks, I’ll work on that today.”
“If you want, I can wash them when I do my own. I’m running out of clean clothes, too.” Probably because he’d given half of them to her. He supposed he could wear the clothes Marcus and Carter had left behind. He was a little taller than those two, but the shirts, at least, should be okay.
“Thanks,” she said, glancing up at him. Her mouth tilted upward in a smile that made his heart leap in his chest.
“You’re my mate,” he said gruffly. “I take care of you.”
When they reached his workshop, several of the guys were crowded around it. Jase’s shoulders fell.
“So, nothing arrived during the night?” he asked.
“Nope.” Stetson leaned back against an old van and tucked his book under his arm.
“Fuck.” Jase looked at the assembled shifters. Their expressions ranged from worry to fury. A food delivery had never been late before. The shifter packs, prides, and clans on the outside were responsible for feeding the Junkyard shifters. If that supply chain got messed up, things would turn very bleak in here very fast. The few fish they could catch in the lake wouldn’t be nearly enough to feed two men, much less ten.
And Blythe. He couldn’t stand the idea of her going hungry, either.
“Okay,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Nobody’s starving yet. We still have plenty of food left from last week, yeah?”
“I don’t know if it’s ‘plenty,’” Stetson said.
Ephraimson spoke up. “It’s enough for a day or two.”
Nobody else spoke. They all seemed to be waiting for Jase. Somehow, he’d become the de facto alpha of this crowd.
Jase nodded. He could do it. Leading wasn’t his dream, but someone needed to do it, and he could do it fairly, he guessed. “I’ll talk to Grant, ask him to make some calls for us.”
Grant was the guy who lived just on the other side of the boundary. He’d been pulled into the Junkyard once by accident, then gotten out. Rumor was that him bonding with his mate was what had allowed his escape.
“And if that doesn’t work?” Ronan Markowicz called out.
“We’ll worry about that if it happens,” Jase said. “I’m sure whoever was up to bring food this week just forgot. I’ll remind Grant and he’ll get it fixed for us.”
“It fucking sucks that we’re dependent on outsiders,” Damien Buenevista grumbled.
A tentative hand touched Jase’s shoulder and he spun around, ready to fight whoever had touched him.
Blythe was standing there, her mouth open in surprise and fear. “Sorry. I just…I was wondering if there’s anything I can do.”
Her scent reminded him of pineapple—tart and sweet. Immediately relaxing, Jase gave her a tight smile. “Sorry for spinning around like that. Did I scare you?”
“No.” She returned his small smile. “Maybe a little. You’re so fast.”
“It comes with being a shifter.”
The other guys were leaving the area, finding their own things to do. Stetson tipped his hat at Jase and Blythe, then walked off. Blythe and Jase were left alone—or as alone as they could get in the middle of the dump.
“Anyway,” Jase said, taking her hand, “I can’t think of anything for you to do. Unless you know how to fish.”
“I do, actually. Sort of. One of my foster sisters taught me how.”
He loved the earnest look on her face. “I don’t think we’ll be stuck eating fish quite yet. I’ll let you know if we need help with that. I’m going to go talk to Grant. You’re welcome to come, or do your writing.”
“I’ll go back to the cabin and write, I guess. I just got a new idea involving a feast.” She raised her eyebrows at him.
“The cabin’s on my way to Grant’s. I’ll walk you there.” Regretfully, he let go of her hand. As they walked, he said, “What are you writing, anyway?”
“Hmm. I guess you’d call it a suspense novel. It has twists and turns, and an unreliable narrator.”
Jase looked at her. He didn’t know what that meant.
“You know the book Gone Girl?”
“I heard about the movie, but never saw it.” It had come out shortly before he’d been brought to the Junkyard.
Blythe said, “Well, what I’m writing is kind of like that. Twists and surprises. You don’t know if the person narrating the story is telling the truth or not.”
“Sounds like it would be hard to write,” Jase said.
“It is. I’ve been working on it for two years, and I still don’t know what I’m doing.”
He looked over at her. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
“Maybe. I know I should have a back-up plan. And I’m working on one. But perhaps hunkering down here will give me the time I can’t get when I’m struggling to pay for rent and food out there. I’ll work, though—I’m not expecting handouts from you or the other shifters. I don’t want to eat anyone’s share.”
They reached the cabin. The punching bag Carter had hung up swayed gently in the breeze.
“I’m not worried about you eating anyone’s share,” Jase said. “Besides, you can’t get out even if you want to.” That fact pissed him off more than anything. It was fine if she wanted to stay. He wanted her here, and he doubted she’d make much of a dent in the food supply. But if she couldn’t get out and the guys started acting up again, he didn’t know what he was going to do.
Blythe went into the cabin and Jase didn’t even try to disguise the longing he felt as he watched her go. Luckily for his pride, she didn’t turn around to see him staring after her like an abandoned kitten.
He needed to shift. That would help. Transforming into his animal form was often the balm he needed. It was a chance to turn off his intrusive human thoughts and experience the world around him. After walking a few yards into the trees so he’d be out of sight of Blythe and not offend her human sensibilities, he took off his clothes and shifted into his mountain lion form.
The change was quick and he relished the stretch and faint pain. The bright light that surrounded the shift—energy with nowhere else to go, he thought—was also welcome. He felt enshrouded, embraced in magic and the chance for escape.
When he stood in his lion form, he looked at the world with new eyes.
Immediately, he glanced toward the cabin. From between a gap in the trees, he could see one of the windows. And framed within it was Blythe’s face. Her mouth was open, her eyes wide.
He should’ve tried better to hide himself before shifting. Had he scared her? That was the last thing he desired—to freak out the woman who’d captivated him. The lion side of him wanted to rush to the cabin and convince her that he wasn’t dangerous. The human side of him shut that idea down fast.
Picking up his clothes with his teeth, he took off into the woods, heading north toward Grant’s cabin. His big paws were soft against the pine needles and dry forest floor. The scents of trees and earth surrounded him. No thoughts. Just nature and his own powerful speed.
He reached the cabin in minutes and was relieved to see Grant’s car in the driveway. The man was usually home, as it was his job to make sure things went smo
othly in the Junkyard.
Jase shifted back into his human form, which was a bit more painful this time, happening so quickly after his last shift. He hadn’t had nearly long enough to enjoy his lion. Getting dressed came next. Grant wouldn’t give a damn whether or not Jase was naked or not, but Grant’s mate, Caitlyn, was human.
Once his clothes were on, Jase called out, “Hey! Grant! I need to talk.”
A few moments later, the door to Grant’s garage opened and the man stepped out. He had light brown hair and his eyes were green like Blythe’s, but darker.
“Good to see you, man,” Grant said, wiping his hands on a pair of paint-streaked jeans. Grant was a painter and always a bit more colorful. Jase had thought, more than once, of commissioning Grant to paint some of Jase’s furniture before selling it, but the perfect project hadn’t materialized yet. At any rate, the artist in Jase recognized the artist in Grant, and they usually got on pretty well.
“Good to see you, too,” Jase said. “We have an issue over here.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Food delivery was supposed to come in yesterday.”
“And it didn’t?” Grant said.
Jase shook his head.
“Let me make a call. I’ll be right back.” Grant jogged back to the garage. Jase could hear the faint sounds of him speaking to someone, or leaving a message. It was too quiet to make out the words. Grant was silent for a moment, then spoke again. He came out of the garage, holding the phone against his ear. “Right, got it. Thanks, Gabe.”
Approaching Jase, Grant ended the call and said, “Looks like the Jagged Forest Clan couldn’t get it together for whatever reason. But the Sierra Pride will send food as soon as possible.”
“Thanks,” Jase said. “We’ve got some hangry shifters in here, worried they won’t have any meat next week.”
Grant gave a pretend shudder. “Yeah, I can only imagine a hungry version of Derrick Alleman.”
It was an idea too horrible to give more thought to, so Jase thanked Grant again. He’d solved his first problem for the Junkyard, with very little effort. Maybe he could be an alpha, after all.
5
Blythe woke to find herself plastered to Jase. Her head rested on his shoulder, and she’d thrown her arm around him at some point during the night. Even her leg was stretched out across his.
Damn, did she look desperate, or what?
She froze and listened to his breathing. Slow and even. He was still asleep. Thank goodness. If she was this embarrassed to be snuggled against him while he was asleep and unaware, imagine how humiliated she’d feel if he were to wake up and see her like this.
Her face burned like she’d jumped into a volcano. She carefully, oh so carefully peeled her arm and leg off of him while rolling onto her back.
Safe.
He smelled good, like sandalwood and a distinctly male scent. Something about it calmed her, made her muscles relax. And apparently it also made her glom on to the poor man in his sleep.
Well, he was an adult—he could shove her off if he woke up and didn’t like the cuddling.
She held the back of her hand to her face, trying to cool her cheek. Cuddling. What the hell was wrong with her?
Unfortunately, the bed was pressed against the wall. The only way out of it would be over him.
She couldn’t keep lying here, secretly mortified. Taking a deep, bracing breath, she sat up. As carefully as she’d slipped away from him moments ago, she eased herself over the top of him. This time, there was no contact. She hovered over him, a knee on the outside of each of his hips, her face directly above his chest. Breath held, she eased her weight to the other knee to prepare to climb off the bed.
“Well, good morning.”
Gasping, she lost her balance.
“Oof,” he said as she fell onto his stomach. “That’s one way to wake up.”
Jase’s voice was a rumble of sexy sleepiness, his smile lazy and his eyes only half-open. Pure sex, that’s what this guy was.
Blythe froze, caught on top of him. His entire front was hard against her chest, stomach, and legs. This was a hundred times worse than being caught mid-cuddle.
“Sorry,” she whispered. Why was she whispering? They were both awake. “Just didn’t want to wake you.”
His smile widened. “No problem.”
“I’ll—I’ll get off of you now.”
“Okay.”
He held himself completely still, but Blythe couldn’t move. He smelled good and he felt good and she didn’t even want to move, if she was being honest with herself. And he was hard all over. All over.
She could hear the amusement in his voice when he asked, “Do you need some help?”
“Maybe?” She said it like a question.
His hands came up to her hips and he clamped them there tightly before lifting her up and off of him. As soon as she was upright and standing on the floor, she turned away as fast as possible.
“I am so sorry,” she said.
“It’s not a problem,” he said lightly.
She’d never felt more mortified. He moved around on the bed behind her; she could hear the rustling of the quilt against his clothes. As always, he’d slept fully clothed. Before, she’d thought it was to help her feel comfortable and she’d thought it kind of sweet. But now she wondered if it was a safety measure for him, to keep Blythe grabbing him in the night and having her way with him.
“Blythe, it’s cool,” Jase said.
He was close behind her, and his breath tickled the hairs against her neck.
“Yeah, of course,” she said. “Thanks.”
He sighed. “I’ll be at my workshop today. I don’t need breakfast—I think there’s one piece of bread left, so go for it. We should be getting that food shipment from the Sierra Pride later this morning.”
His voice held a note of concern. She turned to see him frowning at the window.
“You’re worried about the food shipment?” she asked.
“Yeah. I mean, just mildly. It shows me how dependent we are on the outside world, and I don’t like it. But seriously, the Sierra Pride’s good people. If they said they’re sending something, they will. So you’re welcome to the last piece of bread—I mean that.”
“Thanks,” she said.
He held her gaze for a long moment. Face on fire, she looked down again, remembering how he’d held her hips so tightly to help her off the bed.
She didn’t look up until she heard the door open and close, then she hurried to the window.
The other day, she’d watched Jase strip out of his clothes and turn into the most beautiful mountain lion. He’d been muscular and sleek, with a body built for power.
This time, he kept his clothes on and walked toward the dump. While she regretted the clothes, there was no denying he looked just as muscular and powerful this way as he had as a lion.
Blythe spent the bulk of the morning camped in the little cabin, her notebook in front of her. The words were coming. She wasn’t sure if they were any good, but as one of her college professors had told her, “You can’t revise a blank page.” So she drafted her scene where the gaslighted victim began to question why she was even trying to fight her abuser. Wouldn’t it be easier to simply give in, take the easy route?
The problem was, Blythe wasn’t sure how to convince the character that she should fight. There simply wasn’t motivation for her to do so. But the plot needed her to fight.
Frustrated, Blythe set down her pen and stood, stretching. She needed a project, something else to focus on to clear her mind. She thought about Jase’s worry over the food supply. It didn’t seem fair that he should take that on for the entire Junkyard.
As she stretched, her gaze landed on a fishing pole that rested in the corner. Maybe she could catch some lunch for Jase and her. It seemed like a fake mate kind of thing to do, didn’t it? Next to the pole was a small metal box—sure enough, when she opened it she found lures, weights, and other fishing accessories. Perf
ect.
Gathering the pole and tackle box, Blythe headed toward the lake. The late morning was warming up, so she was wearing just a t-shirt with the giant sweats Jase had brought her. She liked wearing Jase’s clothes, although she’d never admit it. It would be nearly as embarrassing as falling on top of him while trying to sneak out of bed.
Ugh. Just the thought of that little interlude had her face feeling too hot again.
She resolved to pay attention to her surroundings and try to drown out embarrassing thoughts. The air was dry and held the scent of vanilla and pine. She loved the way the sun fell through tree branches, casting lines of sunshine over the needle-strewn ground.
When she reached the water, she threw back her head and inhaled. The air was amazing out here. It was clean and remained cool in her lungs even after the day had warmed.
Exhaling, she set down the tackle box and got to work.
An hour passed, maybe more, with no bites on her line. Maybe she didn’t remember how to do this as well as she’d thought. Aimee, her favorite foster sister, had shown her how to fish. But that had been at a pond near the golf course, and now that Blythe thought about it, they’d never caught more than a couple of tiny fish. Aimee had shown Blythe both how to cast a line and how to roll a joint. Life lessons, Blythe thought with a snort.
She stared at the lake, shielding her eyes when the sun peeked through clouds and sparked brightly off the surface. If she wasn’t careful, she’d get a migraine from this. Standing up, she decided to go in search of her backpack. Her sunglasses would be in there, plus all of the notes and new scenes for her manuscript—assuming the “waterproof” claims on the backpack were true. Otherwise she’d find her sunglasses, and everything else would be a sodden mess. She had a flash drive with old versions of her manuscript on it, too. Not that she had a laptop in here to work with, but eventually she’d figure something out.
She hadn’t gone three steps before the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. She thought of continuing forward, ignoring the feeling of being watched, but she wasn’t that good at pretending. If someone was watching her, they knew that she knew. So instead of striding forward, she turned on her heel, scanning the trees around her as she went.