The Mane Squeeze

by Shelly Laurenston

  Lock stopped, stared down at the Pack of She-dogs gaping up at him. They weren’t Jess’s Pack, they were Asian wild dogs visiting from Japan and really pretty…and gaping.

  He forced a smile, knowing he wouldn’t be able to slap them around either. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” they all sighed out and, shaken, Lock sidestepped around them. He spotted Ric at a bar across the room, and headed over to him. As he walked he heard distinctive She-wolf whistles, dropped glassware, and several “Oh, my dear God in heaven!” exclamations. If they were directed at him, he didn’t know, didn’t care, and wasn’t going to ask. He wanted out. He hadn’t felt this in danger since his military days when he had to sit around and patiently wait for full-humans to get him in their sights.

  “We need to go,” he said as soon as he was next to Ric.

  “They have some of the most exquisite wine here tonight. And a sommelier to serve. Surprising as it may sound, the wild dogs are rife with class, my…holy shit! Look at you!” Laughing, Ric shook his head and examined his friend. “I thought it was bad when they made me wear this Jane Austen–suitor outfit, complete with cravat. But you! You look like you just escaped the set of Braveheart.”

  “Right. Yeah. We need to go.”

  “Why? You’re already in costume, you might as well have a drink and relax.”

  “That will not be possible.”

  “Why not?”

  Lock motioned behind him with a tilt of his head and Ric leaned over to get a look. His entire body jerked and he abruptly stood straight, facing the bar.

  “Dear God, man. They’re following you like you’re the Pied Piper of Scottish sex.”

  “There were six behind me before.”

  “Well, now you have fourteen.” He glanced again. “And the number is growing.”

  “What am I going to do?”

  “If you try and make a run for it, they’ll simply take you down. It’s best to see if they lose interest.”

  “Think they will?”

  “Maybe if you’d worn a shirt—”

  “They said they didn’t have a shirt!”

  “Then I have nothing for you, my friend. You’re trapped. I, however—”

  “Take one step away from me, you Mr. Darcy wannabe, and I’ll snap your spine.”

  Nodding, Ric settled back into place and picked up his wineglass. “Well, then, here’s to an interesting evening.”

  “Gwenie?”

  Dancing to “I’m the Face,” Gwen barely heard her friend, but when she realized every female on the dance floor was staring off, Gwen looked over at Blayne. And, yep, her friend was staring in the same direction as all the other females.

  “What’s going on?”

  “You need to see this,” Blayne said, grabbing Gwen’s arm and yanking her over.

  Gwen expected to see that her mother had arrived or Mitch had decided to do something particularly stupid. But it wasn’t either of those painfully atypical scenarios. Instead, it was Lock MacRyrie simply standing by the bar. Yet it wasn’t that he was merely standing there, it was that he was wearing a kilt. And it was the “full kilt experience,” as Roxy liked to put it—and one of the reasons Roxy and her sisters insisted they go to the Highland Games every year although they were Irish.

  The pattern was a combination of dark green, blue, and white with the kilt reaching Lock’s knees, a large brown belt around his waist, and a swath of material stretching from his waist and over one shoulder, held together by a big brooch with a coat of arms printed on it. He also had brown leather armbands on both wrists and fur boots with thick flannel socks…and that was it. No shirt.

  And wow…was that a lot of perfection to look at. Seven feet and three hundred and fifty pounds of perfection.

  While most guys—most guys being her brother, cousins, and uncles—would be lapping this up—pocketing numbers, getting girls to strip, and playing “who can get my kilt to rise”—Lock looked more like a bear cub cornered by hungry grizzly males. But what exactly did he expect in that outfit? She didn’t want to imply he was asking for it but…he kind of was!

  “What do you think?” Jess asked as she and Maylin stood next to them. “Doesn’t he look great?”

  Gwen pointed a finger in Lock’s direction. “Who are those women?” Those women all over him!

  “I’m going to guess they’re fans of Scottish culture and that kilt I have him in is a perfect replica of the MacRyrie family kilt.”

  Fans of Scottish culture, my ass! “They’re checking out his legs.”

  “He’s got great legs,” Jess said as one of the bouncers from the front whispered something in her ear and she walked off.

  But that was no problem, because May quickly took her place and said, “He’s got big strong thighs, huh? Like a Clydesdale.”

  “My Clydesdale,” Gwen ground out between clenched teeth, making the dog jump back from her.

  “Well, if you’re going to get all upset,” Maylin looked at the whores surrounding Lock, “then you better get over there and get him.” Maylin reared back from the slashing claws. “And there’s no call to get nasty!”

  Gwen cracked her knuckles and said to Blayne, “Watch my back.”

  “Go get your man, Gwenie.”

  The friends banged fists, then Gwen took several steps, crouched, and leaped forward. The legs she’d inherited from her father launched her from the dance floor, landing her directly in front of Lock. She slammed down in front of him and spun around to face the whores crowding around him.

  “Hey!” some She-wolf complained. “We were talkin’ to him.”

  Great. More horny hillbillies.

  “Fuck off.”

  “Why don’t you make us?”

  Gwen unleashed her hiss-roar and the wild dogs took off running, the felines sidled away, and the She-wolves snarled back.

  “I don’t see your name on him, feline,” another hillbilly complained.

  “How about I put my name on you?” Gwen slashed her claws across the female’s upper chest to get her meaning across. “Would you like that, whore?”

  Covering up the gushing wounds with her hands, the She-wolf backed off and the others did the same, easing back until they seemed to fade into the dancing, partying crowd.

  Snarling around what suspiciously felt like a hairball, Gwen caught hold of Lock’s arm and dragged him over to one of the tables. She looked at the three males taking up her space and snarled, “Move!” They snorted at her and went back to their conversation. That’s when Lock quietly said, “Move.” And they did.

  Gwen pushed Lock into a chair, paced off, and, after two seconds, paced right back.

  “Have you lost your mind?”

  He gazed up at her, looking so cute and sweet and unbelievably sexy she could eat the bastard alive! “In what way?”

  What kind of answer was that exactly?

  She was about to ask him that question, too, when some She-jackal eased up to his side and asked Lock in what could only be described as a disgustingly forced baby voice, “So are you really Scottish?”

  “Oh, my God!” Gwen bellowed, beyond fed up. “Fuck off!”

  “If you’re going to get so defensive,” the She-jackal sniped, that baby voice miraculously disappearing, “you may want to mark him so we’re all clear.”

  Gwen’s head lowered, her eyes locked on the target in front of her, and she growled out, “I will kill you.”

  Lock quickly grabbed Gwen’s arm and dragged her onto his lap while she watched the jackal practically sprint back into the crowd.

  Yanking her arm out of Lock’s grasp, Gwen faced away from him, her legs straddling his big thighs, and she scowled at any encroaching females. No one was getting near what was hers. Nobody.

  “Hi, Gwen,” Lock finally said to her back.

  “Don’t talk to me,” she snapped, still good and pissed.

  “Ever?”

  Gwen looked at him over her shoulder. “What were you thinking, sashaying around here dresse
d in that outfit?”

  “I didn’t sashay. Although I might have swaggered a bit.”

  Turning her body around so she faced him, Gwen moved up on Lock’s lap and said, “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “It’s not my fault.” He pointed at the crowd. “It’s their fault.”

  Without turning her body again, Gwen’s head snapped around until she could look behind her.

  The wild dogs standing behind her screamed in horror and ran off. All except two. Sabina, who looked as if she didn’t run from anyone, no matter how terrified she may be. And Jess.

  Gazing in fascination, Jess asked, “How do you do that? Is it a genetic deformity?”

  Gwen pulled her gums over her fangs, and Sabina caught Jess’s arm and dragged her off into the crowd.

  “But I need to know!” Jess argued. “That is not normal! But, I mean, how cool!”

  Feeling surprisingly better knowing that Lock didn’t pick this costume himself, Gwen faced him again and said, “You can’t wear outfits like this around predator females, Lachlan. They’re worse than males. They descended on you like vultures at a lion kill.”

  “I think you’re blaming the victim.”

  “Shut up.” She pointed a finger. “And don’t laugh,” she added when she saw his lips tighten.

  “Okay.” He gazed over at the bar and she knew he was holding it in. “I won’t laugh.” A few seconds later, he looked back to her. “Can’t I laugh a little?”

  “No!”

  She wasn’t surprised when her answer made him laugh anyway.

  “I should have known you let Jess ‘Weepy Eyes’ Ward-Smith talk you into this.”

  Lock reached up and tugged the ends of Gwen’s hair. “You cut it.”

  “What?”

  “Your hair.” He ran his hands through her hair. It was much shorter and she’d blown out the curls but…“I like it.”

  “Thanks.”

  He sighed. “And they ganged up on me.”

  “Who?”

  “The wild dogs. I didn’t stand a chance.”

  “You’re so weak.”

  “I know, I know.

  “And something else—” Gwen began, but it wasn’t movement that snagged Lock’s attention away from her but a change in landscape from the corner of his eye. One second they had a nice ring of space around them, the next a She-wolf was standing beside them. Gwen hissed and bared her fangs, but unlike the others, canine or feline, this She-wolf didn’t run.

  “That’s a very nice how-do-ya-do.” The She-wolf smiled at Lock. “Hey, MacRyrie.”

  “Don’t sneak up on me, Dee.”

  “Lord, when did you get so sloppy? There was a time nobody could sneak up on you. Now you’ve got your hippy hair—”

  “Told you your hair is too long.”

  “Let it go, Gwen.”

  “—and your feline girlfriend and you have become one lazy bear.”

  Chuckling, Lock introduced them. “Gwen O’Neill, this is Dee-Ann Smith. Dee-Ann, this is Gwen. Dee and I were in the Unit together.”

  “This?” Gwen asked with a definite snarl. “This is your Marine buddy?”

  “Why do you say it like that?”

  “We both know why!”

  “Hi, Dee-Ann.” Ric smoothly stepped in and smiled at Dee. And with his glass of wine and his Jane Austen-inspired costume, he couldn’t look more wrong for Dee-Ann Smith. Not that that particular fact, Lock knew, would stop a determined Van Holtz wolf. Especially such a wily one. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “You, too.” She slapped him on the shoulder and Ric kept his smile until he turned his face away and then Lock saw the poor guy’s expression contort into one of surprised pain.

  “What are you doing here, Dee?” Lock asked. “A wild dog party doesn’t seem like your speed.”

  “Figured what the hell. They’re family now and all. Nice costume, by the way.”

  “Don’t start.”

  “Well…” Dee looked back and forth between Ric, Gwen, and Lock. “See ya.” Then she walked off.

  “Friendly girl,” Gwen muttered.

  “Leave her alone. She rescued me from a bear trap once.”

  Gwen threw her hands up. “How can I compete with that?”

  “No one asked you to compete with anything—now let it go.” Lock glanced over at his friend and couldn’t help but smile. “And Ric, how’s that shoulder?”

  Ric sat down at the table. “Fine. Fine.” He moved it around a bit. “And with some reconstructive surgery and ten to twelve months of physical therapy…I’m sure it will be perfect again.”

  The two friends laughed while Gwen just rolled her eyes.

  “She’s sitting on his lap,” Jess said, while spying through the partially opened door of their temporary Ye Ol’ Tailor Shoppe.

  “Only so she can scare off other She-predators,” Sabina complained while trying to push Jess out of the way to get a better look. “It means nothing.”

  “She’s not just sittin’ there,” May noted. “They’re talkin’. Looks deep.”

  “It looks like arguing.” Sabina observed.

  Blayne went up on her toes to see over all of them. “It is arguing, but that’s not bad.”

  “It’s not?”

  “Not with Gwen. She doesn’t argue unless she gives a shit about you.”

  “I have to admit—” Jess went up on her toes, trying to get a better look “—I never thought your plan would work, Blayne, but it seems that it has.”

  “Told you they were perfect together. All they needed was a little nudge in the right direction. And I have to say, ladies, excellent choice on Lock’s costume.”

  “It wasn’t us.” Jess motioned behind them to their “Insider.” “That was her idea.”

  “Lord knows,” their Insider said, “there’s something about a man in a kilt that just—”

  “Ahhhhhh-Haaaaa!”

  Screaming and slamming into the door, the wild dogs and hybrid spun around to see Mitch and Brendon Shaw standing behind them, having found the second doorway in the back of the room. Ronnie came in behind the two men and shrugged an apology. “Sorry, y’all. They got away from me.”

  “You traitor!” Mitch said, pointing an accusatory finger at Sissy Mae, a.k.a. their “Insider.” “You’ve been helping them all this time! How could you?”

  “Now, darlin’—”

  “Don’t ‘darlin” me! You’re working with her.” That accusatory finger moved over to poor Blayne and Jess cringed. “She’s already tainted my innocent baby sister with her insanity, now she’s gotten you.”

  Jess grabbed Blayne’s arm before the wolfdog could start swinging. “You’re being a drama king,” Jess sighed.

  “I’m protecting my baby sister!”

  Blayne crossed her arms over her chest. “You know, this is so typical of you, Mitch Shaw. You’re barely in Gwen’s life until you get your ass shot, and then, now that you’re no longer a cop and seem to have way too much time on your hands, you want to roar in and take over like you have a right.”

  “And you,” Mitch snarled back, “wanna mind your own goddamn business!”

  “I like to see you make me!”

  “Y’all!” Sissy stepped between them. “I can’t handle another slap fight. And maybe, Mitch, it’s time you open your eyes and realize that the grizzly out there is perfect for a woman who does that freak thing with her neck. ’Cause let me tell ya, he doesn’t blink an eye when she does it, but it makes me want to call up an exorcist!”

  “That’s my sister you’re talking about!”

  “And we only want what’s best for her.” Jess stood next to Blayne now, both of them with their arms crossed over their chests. “I’m also telling you as your friend and worshipper of your karaoke skills that you need to give Lachlan MacRyrie a chance. It’s the fair thing to do.”

  “Fair?” Mitch pointed at his face. “Lion male. Totally irrational, self-absorbed, all about me. There is no fair in
my world. Wake up to the reality, ladies. This bullshit is over.”

  Gwen crossed her arms under her chest and Lock looked to Ric for help. “Tell her, Ric. I told her about Dee, so I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Ric was still moving his shoulder, wincing from whatever that She-wolf had done to him. What Gwen found a little scary was that she doubted Dee tried to purposely hurt him. “Actually,” Ric admitted, “you do have a tendency to downplay things.”

  “Ha!” Gwen crowed, triumphant.

  “Dude! Where’s the Bro-love?”

  “I’m not sure what that is…nor do I want to know. But remember in tenth grade, when I wanted to go out with that junior and you said, ‘Eh. I don’t think she’s the right girl for you’?”

  “She wasn’t.”

  “Because she was setting things on fire!” Ric announced loudly, making Gwen burst out laughing and Lock roll his eyes. “I’m serious, Gwen.” Ric went on. “And when I say setting things on fire, I mean entire buildings. Mostly schools. She’d been setting them on fire or trying to, for weeks. I didn’t find out until the cops came and arrested her during gym class. But does he say to me, ‘She’s setting things on fire! She’s crazy! Stay away from her!’ No. He says, ‘Eh. I don’t think she’s the right girl for you.’ And he’s all calm about it over our chocolate pudding in the cafeteria.”

  “I don’t see the point of getting hysterical.”

  “I didn’t need you to get hysterical. But a little more specificity when these types of issues arise would be greatly appreciated. I’m sure if you said to Gwen, ‘My old Marine buddy, the heavy-handed but statuesque beauty with’”—Ric sighed and stared off—“‘perfect breasts, soft pink lips, and silky-soft hair,’ Gwen would have been fine.”

  “I’m doubting it.”

  “You know,” Gwen admitted, “I’d have to go with Lock on this one.”

  Smitty walked up to the coyote pair who headed security for the evening. He’d be the first to admit, he was never a fan of coyotes. Had no real reason for his dislike other than an instinctual need to wipe them off his territory, but when it came to business, Smitty put all that aside and even he had to admit that coyotes did a good job when it came to securing locations. He knew this when the male escorted him to the back room they held for any interlopers who may try and get into the party and found his cousin handcuffed to the table.