Ranger Knox (Shifter Nation: Werebears Of Acadia Book 1)

by Meg Ripley

  “American girls are pretty easy from what I hear, dude,” Christophe points out as he finally starts to disinfect his station for real. “And you can talk them into doing some really freaky things.”

  “Pfft,” I say. I notice I need more yellow, and I’m almost out of gloves. “I have more than enough options right here in Rouen already.”

  “Hey, look at it this way,” Christophe counters. “You can get in there and tap that ass, and by the time you’re tired of her, she’ll be on her way back to the US.”

  I roll my eyes. “If it’s so important to you, why don’t you take a shot at getting in her pants, man,” I say. “I just want to keep working on coming up with some new designs, practice with the Four Pistols and let the pussy come to me.”

  I grab some inventory from the supply closet and check over my station one more time before heading out of the shop for the night.

  By the time I get home, I’m bone-tired. I start to pull my shirt off before the door is even shut behind me and let it fall to the floor on my way to the bathroom. I strip off my jeans and kick them into the corner. My boxers come next, then I’m standing on the bath rug in nothing more than my socks.

  I turn on the shower and wait for the water to heat up as I pull off my socks. I step under the shower head, turning around so the jets pulsate over my back and neck, relieving the tension that’s built up after leaning over clients all day. For a second, my mind wanders to what Christophe brought up this afternoon: an American girl’s moving into old Claude’s place, right across the alley. I wonder if it might be worth picking her brain about life in America, if the opportunity came up.

  I start scrubbing myself down, trying to imagine what would bring a young American to Rouen for any length of time. It’s not a big city like Paris, but it’s not a tiny village, either. There’s the university—maybe she’s a student?—but it’s still hard to imagine why she’d pick this town to come to.

  Whatever, I decide. Unless she wants a tattoo or is interested in checking out the music scene, there’s no real point in talking to her.

  I finish my shower and dry off, wrapping a towel around my waist before heading into the kitchen to grab some Thai leftovers and a beer from the fridge. I head into the living room, snatching the remote off the coffee table as I flick on the TV and triumphantly collapse onto the couch. Flipping through Netflix, I’m drawn to a new American series they’ve just released and start watching the pilot.

  Tomorrow, I’m meeting with Pascal, Yann, and Sam for practice, if Pascal can get his ass out of bed before five. My phone rings and I head into the bathroom to grab it; sure enough, It’s Yann.

  “Yo, Jacques,” Yann says as soon as I pick up. “Pascal’s working late so we’re going to meet at three, is that okay with you?”

  “Yeah, works for me. I can get my groceries before then and be ready to load up the car.” Pascal lives outside of town, on a farm he inherited from his parents; it’s where we practice, since there aren’t any neighbors to piss off out there.

  “Christophe told me there’s some new chick moving in across the alley from you. You seen her?” Yann is weird when it comes to girls. He loves them, he’s protective of them, but he’ll go after every last one who’ll give him the time of day. He’s one of the favorites with our fans for that very reason.

  “Nah, dude,” I say. “If Claude’s just talking about it now, she probably doesn’t even have her papers to be in the country yet, you know? She probably won’t be moving in for a while.”

  “Well, let me know when you see her,” Yann says. “I’ve never been with an American chick.”

  I laugh at his stupidity. “Yeah, whatever, man. She’s going to have half the guys in Rouen after her because everyone around here thinks American girls are easy,” I point out.

  “Well, if American girls are easy, then it shouldn’t be a problem,” Yann points out. “Maybe she’ll need someone to protect her.”

  I laugh again and use this as an opportunity to change the subject. “So, you’re bringing the beer to practice tomorrow, right?”

  “Right,” Yann says. “Remember: three o’clock!”

  “Got it. See you then.” Throwing my phone onto the cushion next to me, I get back to eating my dinner and drinking my beer, grabbing the remote to unpause the episode I’d started to check out.

  An hour later, just as I’m about to turn in for the night, I notice a light from my living room window and decide to peer across the alley to see what’s going on. Claude is there, apparently cleaning the place up, getting it ready for his new tenant. I crank open my window and lean out; Claude has the windows open, probably to keep the fumes down.

  “Hey! I heard you’re getting a new tenant!” I call across.

  Claude looks up, startled, and then walks over to the window to say hello.

  “Yeah, I posted it on one of those websites, and she called and said it would be just the thing,” he tells me. “Seems like a nice girl. Just finished her degree in art.”

  “Pretentious, right?”

  Claude shrugs. “She seems nice,” he says. “She paid me the deposit with no problem and even helped me set up something called PayPal to do it. She should be here tomorrow afternoon.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Wow, tomorrow? That was fast.”

  “Her flight comes in sometime in the morning, but she won’t get here until later that evening,” Claude says. “Something about wanting to take a quick detour on her way from Paris.”

  “She’ll have plenty of time to check out Paris,” I point out, and Claude nods. “She must be traveling light if she’s going to be here after tromping around Paris all day.”

  “She’s having some of her stuff shipped, and she’s only coming with what she needs for the next week or so. She’s probably using the short-term storage lockers at the train station or something,” Claude points out, and I nod.

  “Christophe and Yann are both pretty excited,” I tell him. “Can you pass along anything about her that I can share with them?”

  “Not much. She’s twenty-one, here for a year, then going into a graduate program for art. Seems nice, but who knows?” Claude shrugs. “She’s cute, though.”

  “How do you know?”

  Claude gives me a little grin. “I had her send me a picture, so I’d know it’s her when she picks up the keys tomorrow,” he says.

  I laugh at that. Christophe and Yann, at least, will be pleased to hear it. “Does she speak French?”

  “Eh, not very well, but she’s able to get her point across,” he says. “Good thing, too. I haven’t spoken English to anyone since I was working full-time.”

  I haven’t spoken English to anyone since I was in school, so he’s at least got one up on me. I wrap up the conversation and close the window, wondering if it might be worth it just to see if all the hype about this American girl amounts to anything.

  She’s probably just like every other girl, I remind myself as I turn down the blankets and get into bed. I have to wonder though: why would someone choose to come to Rouen? Why would she come all on her own, at that? Nothing Claude told me makes me think she’s got a boyfriend moving in with her, but of course, she might not have mentioned that to Claude.

  I fall asleep, wondering just how easy American girls actually are. I’m willing to bet that Christophe and Yann will both be disappointed.

  Chapter FOUR

  Nora

  By the time I get my keys and finally walk through the door of my new apartment, my head is aching from spending the day in constant movement through Paris and then via train to Rouen, surrounded by the French language. I probably should have waited until after I’d had some time to settle in Rouen to go back into the city, but since I’d had to land in Paris anyway, I figured I would take some time to at least check out a few things before I went to my new home.

  I put the keys down on a little ridge along the wall next to the door and lock the door behind me, shoving my rolling suitcase across the kitchen
floor. The rest of the stuff I’d scavenged from my life back in the States—the stuff I couldn’t bear to part with, or let my parents hold onto for me—would come in a couple of days, but for the time being, I have clothes and a couple of pairs of shoes, my laptop and toiletries. I keep kicking the suitcase in front of me, through the kitchen and down the short hallway alongside the tiny living room, into the open door of my bedroom.

  The real selling point of this place when I’d seen it online was that it was partially furnished. There was a bed, which my new landlord had been nice enough to make up for me, an armoire, a kitchen table and a battered old couch in the living room. I have water and electricity, but no internet access until I can get a France-based bank account set up first.

  I won’t have to buy too many things, and for that, I can be grateful. While I’d been sitting in a cafe in Paris earlier in the day, freshly through Customs and Border Control, I’d put in my order for dishes and some cooking supplies from a company called Hema that a friend of mine recommended.

  I take a moment to look around a little bit, to make sure everything is as it should be. “Actually, this place looks pretty great,” I muse out loud, taking a few minutes out of being bone-tired to appreciate my new home.

  I’d been hoping to take a short trip to France before everything fell apart with Ethan. Discovering how deep his cheating went and breaking up with him had made it impossible for me to even think about starting my master’s degree in the fall. Instead, I’d talked to my parents about my trip, and they’d agreed that they’d give me cash instead of my graduation present so I could take a longer break away from the States.

  After four years of studying classic, modern, and postmodern art—and making some pieces of my own—I wanted to delve into the culture that so many of my favorite artists came out of. I had spent the week between final exams and graduation getting my paperwork together for a one-year visitor visa, and applying for freelance work that I could do anywhere in the world so that I wouldn’t be completely dependent on my parents’ money.

  I’d sent the Pratt Institute Graduate program admissions office a letter telling them that I was deferring my start for one year due to “personal issues” and had been advised in response that all I would have to do is submit a new application for the following year by the deadline, and I would be able to start on schedule. But now that I’m in France, I’m considering that maybe—possibly—I can at least look at applying to graduate programs here; after all, the worst they can do is tell me no.

  I stand around in my kitchen, at a loss for exactly what to do with myself. I’m exhausted, but restless at the same time, and I just can’t seem to make myself do the responsible thing and go to bed. I’ve gotten into town too late to go to the store and pick up any groceries—I’ll be starving in the morning—but after a day of stuffing my face with the best fast food Paris has to offer, I’m not hungry. I still have about half of a 1.5-liter bottle of water, so if I get thirsty before I can fall asleep, at least there’s that.

  As I’m pondering what to do in the middle of the night in my new apartment, I suddenly notice a light come on in a window across the alley. I probably shouldn’t stare, but I’m tired and curious, and I can’t quite help myself.

  I watch as a guy appears, walking into the living room of the apartment, carrying what looks like some kind of long, tough-sided case with stickers all over it.

  The guy is tall, broad across the shoulders and super muscular, wearing tattered jeans, a tight tee shirt and a leather jacket. He’s got dark hair with closely-shaved sides, and when he takes off his jacket and tosses it onto his living room couch, I notice that his heavy, muscled arms are covered in tattoos. He looks like someone out of a 1950’s motorcycle gang, some amped-up James Dean type who I have to imagine spends at least an hour at the gym every day—totally unlike my scrawny douchebag of an ex-boyfriend.

  He throws himself down onto the couch and then, out of the blue, I feel a tickle in my nose and let out a huge sneeze, catching his attention. His head whips around and, in a split second, we lock eyes.

  I see his eyebrows go up, and it’s like the spell has lifted. I feel the blood rushing to my face as I realize I’ve been caught staring, and start to head into the living room, though there’s not really anything for me to do there without internet or cable. Oh, God. I’m such a freaking idiot, I tell myself.

  I try to talk myself out of the deep embarrassment I feel, and start pacing the living room, my heart pounding in my chest, more restless than ever.

  Just then, I catch a fleeting glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye, and turn my head to see my neighbor from across the narrow alleyway standing at another window in his living room, right across from the one I’m closest to. His window is open and he’s waving his thickly muscled arms, presumably to get my attention.

  Oh, God, how can this get any worse? I think about just closing the curtains over my own window and making a dash to my bedroom, but he’s already seen me.

  He knows I’ve seen him.

  He waves his massive arms again, one eyebrow raised, and my curiosity wins out over my embarrassment. There’s a little hand-lever on one side of my window, and after fumbling with it a few times, I realize which way to turn it to be able to pull it open, almost like a door.

  “Oooh-ooh,” the man calls out. “Vous avez passé un bon voyage?” It takes my tired, scrambled brain a minute to process the question. “Vous êtes le nouveau locataire, non?” That gives me a little more trouble, but I finally translate it all in my mind. Did you have a good trip? You’re the new tenant, right?

  “Oui—oui, je...j’ai passé un bon voyage,” I call back, confirming that yes, I had a good trip. “Tu—no, vous. Connaissez-vous Claude?” My tongue tries to rebel and mess up my pronunciation, but I manage to get the words out, mostly, as I ask him if he knows my landlord, Claude.

  “Ah, ouais, je le connais bien,” the man says. Oh, yeah, I know him well, I translate mentally. “Il est génial.” He’s great.

  “Ouais, n'est-ce pas?” I reply in agreement. What else do we have to talk about? I feel weird, especially since the guy’s deep voice is surprisingly smooth, and I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to be fluent enough to talk to him in an actual conversation instead of this awkwardly-strained small talk we’re exchanging. “Comment vous appelez vous?” What’s your name? It’s a stupid question, but at least it’s a normal stupid question.

  “Je suis Jacques,” he says. “Et toi?” Apparently, there’s no real rule for when someone shifts between tu and vous, I think to myself.

  “Je m’appelle Nora,” I answer. Now I’m really out of things to say. “Je dois…” I try to think of what the right verb is and realize that I’m using the wrong conjugation anyway. “Je devrais aller me coucher,” I say, trying to sound apologetic as I tell him I should go to bed.

  “Ah, bon—tu as eu une longue journée,” Jacques says. Oh, right. You’ve had a long day.

  How does he know? I want to shake my head at myself as I realize that if he knows my landlord, Claude has probably mentioned me to this guy, and that it would be obvious it was a long day for me, just getting there at night.

  “Ah…” I lick my lips and try to think of what it is you say to end a conversation politely. “Bonne soirée.” I wish him good night, giving Jacques a quick smile. God, I’m such a tool.

  “A toi aussi,” You too. Jacques takes my way of saying good night as just the normal thing, and as embarrassing and awkward as the whole situation is, I pat myself on the back, realizing that I’ve somehow successfully made my way through all of the conversations I’ve had in French today. No wonder my brain feels like someone’s been poking it with a hot stick. I manage to get the window closed, draw the curtain and wander into my bedroom.

  “Okay, it’s been a ridiculous day, and you need to just get out of your travel clothes, clean up a bit, and go to bed,” I tell myself, scrubbing at my face with my hands. I want to believe tha
t I’ve been feeling better ever since I moved off campus and put hundreds—then thousands—of miles between me and Ethan, but I’m still trying to make sense of what happened.

  I start to strip off my clothes and toss them on the floor. In the back of my mind, ever since I found out about Ethan cheating on me, a little voice has been saying that it was because I wasn’t good enough; I wasn’t hot enough, or kinky enough, or something enough for him to be faithful to me. No matter how many times I keep telling myself that it has nothing to do with me—that Ethan is just a disgusting, sorry excuse for a human being—I can’t quite shake the feeling. All that time we’d been together, he’d at least made some kind of show of being in love with me, of being committed to me. Shouldn’t I have figured it out on my own? Shouldn’t I have known something was wrong?

  I shake off the idea yet again and open my suitcase to get to my bath towel and toiletries. I drape the towel around me and walk from my bedroom to the bathroom. When I lose my grasp on one end of the towel for a brief moment, I quickly grab it and wrap it around myself tightly, glancing at the window that still has the curtains open in the living room. My new neighbor across the alley seems to have left, though the light is still on in his living room.

  I dart into the bathroom and spend more time than I would want to admit figuring out the shower. There’s a kitchen sink-type faucet hanging over the tub, and a handheld sprayer and shower head that has a mounting up above my head but sits on the bar with the hot and cold water knobs. Finally, I figure out the right temperature and set my towel on the sink for when I’m done.

  You have to admit, though, he’s pretty hot—at least from a distance, anyway. An image of the brawny, tattooed man across the alley reconstructs itself in my mind. It’s been a little over a month since I broke up with Ethan, and I don’t think I’m ready to get involved with anyone, but what harm is there in a little fantasy?

  I lather up my coconut-scented shower gel and spread the bubbles over my arms and shoulders, down over my breasts, and wonder what a guy like Jacques would be like in bed. He’s so hot that I have to think his hands would be all over someone in an instant—in this case, in my little fantasy, me—pulling and kneading and rubbing with the insistence of a hungry animal, almost greedy for more. I imagine he’d nibble and nip at my sensitive skin and reach down between my legs, stroking me, and as I’m imagining it, I find myself mimicking what his powerful hands would be doing.