Bear Mountain Daddy (Bear Mountain Shifters)

by Sky Winters

  “Welcome.” Pete stretched out on a chair and asked, “So you sing?”

  “I do.” The words were reluctant. Her fingers curled around the stem of the glass. The sun lay thick and heavy on her head and shoulders, and she turned her face up to it.

  Pete asked, “You any good?”

  “Man, you should hear her. She can play rhythm, too.”

  Drake sure was pushing hard—wasn’t he?

  “We tried it, like me and him, but I don’t think it will work,” she said.

  Pete said, “Oh. Shit. That is too damn bad. I don’t know what it is about Drake, but he seems to run people off left and right for some reason. No idea why—he’s a good dude but he scares folks or something.”

  Her eyes met Drake’s. His held a troubled expression. The wine warmed as her fingers moved up to cup the glass. “I get that. Sometimes people are jerks.”

  Or they sensed the difference and got scared—or mean. Sometimes both.

  There was something Drake’s eyes that triggered a feeling of kinship. He was running away, too. He didn’t want to be a part of his pack. He wanted a life filled with music and normalcy. So did she. But they were different and always would be. They could never escape that, no matter how hard they tried.

  The food was delicious, and she was starving. After the meal was over, they went inside. Pete had a whole room dedicated as a music space and Angelina took one look at all the gear and went to go get her guitar.

  I’ll just play with them today, but that’s not a promise to be in the band. She settled onto a low sofa with the guitar over her legs.

  Drake wrote down the lyrics and the chords to a song. “Can you just strum along? Don’t worry about trying to figure out a pattern just yet, just do the chords on the time and sing the words?”

  “Sure.” Angelina looked down at the paper and nodded. “I need a capo though. I suck at the B minor chord.”

  He laughed. “I hate that chord. I always capo the third and play it with the G, C, and so forth.”

  “You could have just written that down,” she teased as she grabbed a pen and began to make the changes on the paper.

  Drake said, “Well, I had to know if you’d try, anyway.”

  “We had a guy who was a piano player turned guitarist, and he insisted on playing the hardest chords because he could. Drove us nuts,” Pete added.

  “Well, you don’t have to worry about that with me.” Angelina blinked. What am I saying? This has to be the last time I play with Drake, in every way. I can’t be with him!

  She shook that off. There was far too much uncertainty going on right now. Music was static, it was a good thing, and she needed it just then, and badly.

  Her fingers met the frets and formed the chords. Notes rang out. The supple strings bent and she closed her eyes, getting the sense of the rhythm from Pete’s throbbing bass lines and Drake’s long string of melodies. She strummed along instinctively, putting some sixteenth note strums in, varying the pattern.

  When they reached the end and started the song over, Angelina began to sing, her husky voice lingering over the melody and then wrapping around the words and sliding behind the beat.

  The song ended. Pete let out a whoop and said, “Hell, yes! Man, you’re awesome!’

  “You’re awesome,” Angelina said. “You can really play that bass!”

  Pete grinned. “Now if we could just find a decent drummer before Saturday!”

  Drake said, “I had a guy call me earlier. I could call him back and see what he says—if he wants to come jam or whatever.”

  Now was the time to bow out. Now was the time to say she couldn’t stay.

  Angelina knew that, and she knew she should speak up.

  But all she said was, “That would be great.”

  “Hey, man, do you mind if we stay here for a few days?” Drake asked Pete.

  “No, why would I?” Pete replied.

  Angelina caught Drake’s eye. She knew what he was thinking. If Joaquin dared to go to bear territory to find her, he’d find nothing. Her scent at Drake’s would have dissipated by now and a few days at Pete’s, high in the hills where shifters did not go, would be the perfect way to keep him off their trail.

  But what would happen when they did get found and caught?

  CHAPTER 7:

  The Whiskey was packed. The band, with its new lineup that included Angelina, Drake, Pete, and Zeke, the new drummer—an eager and hyper guy fresh off the bus and from a tiny town somewhere in Idaho—stood in the miniscule dressing room located down a dingy hallway in the back of the Whiskey. The night’s headliners had the big dressing room and their entourage spilled down the musty concrete hallway, making one hell of a drunken racket.

  Angelina took a long breath, trying to steady her nerves.

  Drake put a hand on the back of her neck. “You okay?”

  The warmth and weight of his hand on her nape helped a little. “I don’t know,” she admitted.

  It was true. The last month between the day where she had fled Joaquin and her pack had gone by in a blur. She’d moved in with Drake and so far they had managed to keep everyone at bay, even his MC, but she knew that could not last long. The gigs they were playing had been all that she had allowed herself to think about.

  She spent her days and nights in a haze of making music with the band and love with Drake. It was a special moment, a long and winding time where she could actually believe that everything was going to be okay even with all the obstacles in front of them.

  Drake’s bear-ness didn’t show most of the time, and she kept her wolf-ness out of sight, too. There were times when that was harder than others but she was in full-on survivor mode, desperate to keep both her and Drake safe.

  The emcee was speaking and the runner, an older man with a shock of gray hair and a heavily tattooed right arm, stuck his head into the dressing room. “Time, guys.”

  Angelina grabbed her guitar and held it tightly. Drake gave her a wide smile. Pete, usually cool and collected, stumbled and nearly tripped over his own feet. Zeke gulped and jerked a few times, his eyes showing his nerves.

  “Cool out, dude,” Pete said. “We’ve been here before.”

  Zeke didn’t look too convinced. He just swallowed a few times and nodded. Drake whispered into her ear, “That guy’s nervous every time. I don’t know if he’s going to make it if we make it big.”

  She chuckled. Once onstage, Zeke was a wonder. Drake knew it, too.

  “I love it that you think we’re going to make it big,” she told him.

  “I know we are.” His eyes held determination. “How could we not?”

  It was their dream. To hit it big and play all the big arenas. It wasn’t the money. Drake didn’t care about money, and Pete didn’t need it. Zeke was about money and maybe even the fame. She and Drake were in it for something else, for the sheer pleasure of getting to play. The more people in the audience, the better, because both of them fed off that energy in a way that was both wonderful and wild. It often sent them straight to bed, their bodies and hearts eager to shed some of the crazy, electrically charged excitement that always filled them after a gig.

  The audience was already hyped up. It was like walking into a party that had already started and as soon as they hit the stage, Angelina felt the charge of it all.

  Her guitar was poised, and she looked at Drake, who nodded and called out a one, two, three count before they charged into their first song, rocking it out in a hard and fast groove.

  Pete played tight in the pocket, and Zeke kept perfect time. They had gelled in a way that was inexplicable and magical. Drake, with his guitar slung across his body and hanging low, strode across the stage—beyond hot in a pair of black leather pants and a plain white tee that outlined every inch of his smoking body.

  Just looking at him made her want to grab him and haul him off to a dark corner. He prowled closer, all drive and thrusting hips, flashing fingers and wailing strings. Her voice and his blended, their g
uitars making a perfect counterpoint and harmony to each other.

  The set was short, just thirty minutes, but for those thirty minutes, Angelina forgot about everything but Drake and the music and the crowd.

  She was soaring when they got off stage and headed back to their dressing room. Drake grabbed her hand and asked, “Should we go watch the other band?”

  She nodded eagerly. They cased their gear and hauled it out the back door and into the van then dashed back inside and down the hallway, just in time to watch the headliners take the stage.

  Drake caught her in his arms and they started to dance. Angelina let go.

  Her body swayed to the beat and met his. The ever-present desire between them intensified with every note and heavy bass beat. His hands rested low on her hips and she laughed as she collided with his body, her crotch meeting his.

  He grabbed her up in an embrace and hauled her off the floor, spinning her in a slow circle for good measure while she laughed, her fingers clutching his broad shoulders.

  The small hallway was empty. The wall scratched at her back through her damp tank top. His fingers wound into her hair, fisting it, and her breath caught in her throat as his mouth slanted down on hers, claiming her mouth in a long and furious kiss.

  Her body arced toward his, and his hands slid into the waistband of her skirt then out, his hand going up her thigh and leaving a trail of shivering flesh in its wake.

  Her skirt bunched around her waist. Her panties were thrust to one side. Her fingers found the buttons on his jeans. This was going to be fast and hard, and she wanted that as much as she wanted to dance and sing and be alive.

  His staff met her hand, pulsing and thick. Her shoulders dug into the wall as she climbed up his body, her legs twining around his waist while his hand positioned his cock at her opening and then he thrust upward into her, filling her so completely that it took her breath away.

  Heat and friction exploded in her clenching core. His lips muffled her cries. Her body lifted and she slid downward again, impaling herself on his cock, taking it all in and then swinging her hips in a slow revolving circle before lifting again, reluctantly releasing him so she could plunge downward again.

  His cock pressed against the sides of her inner folds. Heated oil, creamy and thick, spilled from her body and coated his rigid flesh, easing his passage into her as she continued to lift and drop, her hands braced on his shoulders now as she strained to reach the orgasm hurtling toward her at top speed.

  Her walls clenched and tightened, sucking him into her. Her eyes rolled back in her head and her fingernails bit into his shoulders. His tongue met hers and his breath blew into her mouth. Her pants became faster and harder. The scent of their sex came to her nose, making her even hotter.

  Crying out now, coming and shuddering, her inner walls closing and opening as thick spurts of cum poured out of her body, all she could do was hold on while he moved faster.

  His groan was guttural and loud, echoing down the short hallway.

  Angelina hung there, pinned against the wall on his cock, her body slowly cooling as he braced a forearm on the wall and tried to get his breath back.

  When he could move again, he lowered her gently to the floor. She looked up at him and then burst into laughter.

  Drake gave her a confused look. “What?”

  “I was just wondering what we’d do if we were in a big arena with dozens of people around us and we couldn’t do this,” she teased.

  Drake gave her a mischievous grin. “Baby, I swear to you those are going to be some shocked people.”

  She laughed all the way back out and onto the dance floor.

  CHAPTER 8:

  Angelina sat up, her shoulders gleaming above the crumpled and messy sheets. “Bikes,” she said. The thread of fear in her voice caught Drake’s attention.

  “I heard them.”

  Her breath hissed in, hard. “Your guys, I take it.”

  He nodded. They had to show up eventually. I’ve been too busy with her and the band and I haven’t been riding, and they want to know why. He threw the sheets aside and slid out of bed. Angelina was already up and out, too, grabbing for the clothes she had worn the night before, which now lay on the floor.

  He was not afraid, not for himself, but he knew that if Morgan smelled her, he would react and fast. Morgan didn’t have the senses that Drake had—and he had managed to overlook her shifter, but Drake couldn’t guarantee that Morgan or one of the older bears riding in the MC would do that, too.

  Angelina didn’t have to be told that. He could see on her face that she was scared. “Stay here. I’m going outside, okay?”

  She nodded, but he saw her gaze dart around the room, either looking for a weapon or a way out.

  He strode out, his thoughts churning as he wrenched open the door and stepped outside into the early morning sunshine.

  Morgan swung a leg off his bike and came storming up. “Where the fuck were you last night? I kept trying to call you.”

  “At a gig, a big one. One that was important to me.”

  Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “Hell’s breaking loose, Drake, and you better get your shit and ride right now, because we have tigers in the hood, and what’s more—we got a few wolves upsetting the whole apple cart, so to speak. It seems that Joaquin’s sure that one of ours has his mate, and is calling for war.”

  Shit. Drake didn’t let his eyes drift to the house. “You’re kidding.”

  “Fuck, no, I’m not. Magda’s calling for order or death, and she doesn’t care which.”

  “Of course, she doesn’t. She’s been itching for war for years.” Goddammit. “Let me grab my keys.”

  He headed back into the house and grabbed a jacket and his keys. He went into the bedroom. Angelina stood near the door, a baseball bat in her hands. He held up his hands. “Don’t swing, I’m unarmed.”

  Angelina’s eyes flicked over his shoulders. There was distrust in every line on her pretty face and in every rigid angle of her body. “What’s going on?”

  “I need you to get somewhere safe and let me know where you are.”

  “What’s happening?”

  She was not going to let him off the hook then. “I don’t have time to explain it, but we have tigers in the hood and…”

  “Joaquin.”

  No use in lying. “That, too. I have about three seconds before Morgan crashes into the house. I have to go. Let me know where you are; promise me you will. In fact, I want you to go to Pete’s. He’ll let you hang, and he won’t try anything crazy. He won’t even ask for a reason—he’s that kind of dude.”

  She nodded. “Okay.”

  Not quite a promise, and he knew it. He wanted to press, but time was running out. He turned to go then paused and swept her into a quick embrace, pressing his lips to hers before heading back out.

  His thoughts tangled and ran too fast for him to make any order of them. He had to protect her and right now the best way he could do that was to ride, and to get her out of the house and out of the way.

  Drake swung a leg over his boke. Everyone else was waiting. He hit the switch and the engine roared into life, the powerful motor purring and rumbling below his body. His hands found the handlebars, and he let the idle ratchet up a little higher.

  Morgan led the way, Drake falling in right behind him.

  Resentment gnawed at him. He had never wanted to be Alpha, and that was the honest truth. He did not resent Morgan for being Alpha either, but he damn sure resented being ordered around and never being able to live his own life without the constant reminder of loyalty to a pack he didn’t really want to be a part of. He also resented the fact that he was a rider in a club comprised of criminal activity that could, and likely would, one day result in a prison sentence for him.

  There was no doubt in Drake’s mind that if shit went wrong, he would be called upon to take the fall for Morgan, because Morgan was Alpha and they were twins and that was what Magda would demand.

  His life
was not his own, would never be his own.

  The air ran across his body, and he kept the bike tooling along at a high speed. Morgan was careless and wild on the back of a bike, just like he was careless and wild in every other way.

  Morgan thrived on the criminal element of his life. He loved it and the pack. He loved being Alpha, but unlike Joaquin and Magda, he was not power hungry, or willing to do whatever it took to get and keep power, which was probably his best and saving grace.

  They hit the end of the hood, riding hard along the narrow and crooked streets. The houses, all middle-income and ranch style on that end, lay huddled under the splashes of sunlight and shade from the tall palm trees dotting the yards.

  Morgan lifted a hand. Drake looked forward, and his senses lit up. There, sitting at an outside table at a little café, was a man they both knew all too well. The bikes turned and Drake leaned over his handlebars as he goosed the bike up higher, racing along behind Morgan as Morgan waved a hand again, telling the others to split off and go to the right, a move that would cut off the man if he tried to run and make sure that if he had anyone at his back, they would know it. Plus, that would give Morgan and Drake the ability to speak with the tiger shifter in private, a boon.

  Drake and Morgan coasted to a halt near the curb. The man stood and walked toward them, a smile on his wrinkled face.

  Drake said, “Patel, you’re in the wrong hood.”

  “I knew you would scent me, and I am not running, now am I?”

  Morgan cut off his bike. Drake did the same. They’d have to keep shouting otherwise, and this was not a conversation they wanted anyone else to hear. The rest of the café patrons were far enough from the actual curb and traffic was heavy enough to cover their words, as long as they spoke softly.

  Drake eyed Patel, who was old now, a wizened man with weathered skin and dark eyes.

  “What do you want and how dare you come into our territory?” Morgan asked.