Running With Wolves Read online

  On the other hand, Zeke didn’t show up either. Greta hadn’t seen him since the fight and didn’t care to. She also didn’t know what had started the fight, but she didn’t have a good feeling about it. Zeke wasn’t exactly welcoming to other shifters in what he considered his territory — and lately, he seemed to be considering Greta his territory.

  Just the thought sent a wave of disgust through her, and she could almost feel her fur stand on end. Zeke was a prime example of why she was single, since he had the sort of swaggering, utterly unearned machismo that crumbled at the first sign of someone standing up to him.

  Like Shane had.

  Greta frowned and scolded herself, stacking pint glasses on the drying board behind the bar. For most of her adult life, she’d avoided that kind of guy like the plague. Anyone who got into a bar fight his first night in town was bad news, and she knew it.

  So why did she keep thinking about Shane naked? Or worse, thinking about him and Elliott, the former nerd, shirtless and making out, maybe leaning her over the bar right here and then...

  The door swung open again. Greta finished her stack of glasses, and looked up.

  It was them. Her mouth went dry, as Elliott looked her straight in the eyes, and smiled. Shane turned his head and said something to Elliott, and they both laughed.

  Greta felt heat rush to her face, but just tossed a bar towel over her shoulder and nodded at them, trying to look casual.

  “Look what the wolf dragged in,” she said.

  They didn’t look great, but they didn’t look terrible. Elliott was wearing a black t-shirt and still had a cut across his nose and the remnants of two black eyes, but he smiled at her dumb joke. A bandage stuck out from under Shane’s shirt, but his face was fine.

  “He get you?” she asked, nodding at the bandage.

  Shane nodded and made a face. “Yeah,” he said. “I deserved it, though.”

  He paused for half a second.

  “Sorry for fighting in your bar,” he said. “I shouldn’t have taken the bait like that. Did we fuck anything up?”

  His light blue eyes searched hers, and Greta couldn’t find words. She wanted to be pissed that he’d seen fit to get into a brawl in her bar, but now that he was here, apologizing, she just couldn’t find it in herself.

  “Just yourselves,” she said, glancing from him to Elliott, and then nodding at him. “Honestly, you got it the worst.”

  “I know it,” he said, and pretended to glare at Shane.

  “You two want to know a secret?” she asked, leaning forward.

  They leaned forward, too, and she could practically feel the heat coming off of them and toward her.

  “Yes,” said Elliott, a smile playing around his eyes.

  “It’s not bad for business to get a good fight once in a while,” she whispered. “Not every night or anything, but after a good fight like that one, everybody sticks around to have another drink and discuss who won.”

  “Who did win?” asked Shane.

  “I’m pretty sure I did,” said Greta, teasing. “I think I remember two wolves slinking out the door of my bar when it was over.”

  Elliott looked at his mate, a devilish smile on his face.

  “She’s right, you know,” he said.

  Shane looked slightly pissed. Greta stood up straight, cocking one hip against the bar. Then she straightened.

  Come on, she thought. You’re at work. Try not to pose like a burlesque dancer.

  “What can I get you?” she asked.

  “Jack Daniels, rocks,” said Shane.

  “What whiskey do you have?” Elliott asked.

  “He thinks he’s a connoisseur,” grumbled Shane.

  “Just the basics,” said Greta. “Jack, Jim, Maker’s, and Knob Creek. We’re not fancy,” she said.

  Then she winked at them.

  What’s gotten into me? She wondered.

  I know what I’d like to get into me.

  STOP.

  Greta blushed, and turned toward the liquor, grabbing the bottle of Jack Daniels from the shelf, scooping ice into a glass and pouring the whiskey over it, a little more generously than she usually did.

  “You decide yet?” she asked Elliott.

  “I’ll take the Knob Creek on the rocks,” he said.

  She poured it, then slid the drinks in front of the two of them.

  “Enjoy,” she said, as they both took long sips, then nodded at her.

  At the other end of the bar, another customer raised his glass, and Greta went to refill his beer.

  For a few minutes, she busied herself doing barback stuff: cleaning glasses, straightening bottles, wiping off surfaces. She wanted to go back and flirt more with Shane and Elliott — she was almost certain that that’s what it had been, flirting — but she was conflicted.

  They were local wolves, and worse, they were local wolves who got into bar fights. Greta knew what the men of the Rustvale pack were like, and she didn’t think she needed them in her life.

  She sneaked a glance and the two of them, though, and as she did, Elliott said something to Shane, and Shane laughed. Shane’s laugh made Elliott grin.

  Greta’s heart thumped.

  Maybe they’re different, she thought. Elliott sure was when we were teenagers, after all.

  She let herself stare for one more moment.

  I can’t believe how hot he got, she thought.

  Then she gave up and walked over.

  “How are the drinks?” she asked.

  “Perfect,” said Elliott, still smiling.

  “I came up with a solution,” Shane said.

  “What needed solving?” Greta asked.

  “The problem of who won the fight, of course,” Shane said, smiling at her.

  Greta’s spine stiffened, her wolf perking up a little.

  Who cares? She thought. It happened. It’s over. Is he one of these guys that always has to win?

  Her heart started to sink, and then Shane pulled a pen out of his pocket and grabbed a bar napkin.

  “I challenge you to a game of tic-tac-toe,” he said, ceremoniously drawing the grid on the paper.

  “And whoever wins this won the fight?” Greta said.

  This isn’t so bad, she thought. Still, weird that he cares so much.

  “Right,” said Shane. “Though I thought maybe we could make it a little more interesting. Put conditions on the win.”

  “Like, if I win, you guys pay double for your drinks?” she asked, leaning against the bar again.

  Then she straightened.

  “And if I win, we cook you dinner at our place,” Shane said, grinning.

  Greta’s heart flipped in her chest.

  “Hope you like eating off of boxes,” rumbled Elliott.

  “Best two out of three?” Greta asked, pen poised in the air.

  “Sure,” said Shane. Elliott drained his whiskey, and looked on in mild amusement.

  Greta drew an X on the napkin, and moments later, she’d won the first game.

  Then she lost the second.

  “I’m biting my nails over here,” said Elliott, laconically.

  “You should be,” Shane said. “This determines how fast we have to unpack our kitchen.”

  He drew an O on a final napkin, and Greta drew an X.

  The game was a draw. Shane tossed the pen down on the bar and leaned back a little.

  “That was rough,” he said. “I guess nobody wins.”

  “I guess not,” Greta said.

  You should have thrown that last game, she thought. What the hell is wrong with you?

  She could practically hear her mother, chiding her that this was exactly why she wasn’t married yet.

  “We could still cook you dinner,” Elliott said. “If you ever take a night off.”

  She smiled, her heart racing.

  “I’m off Sunday and Monday nights,” she said. “I’ve got the new girl tending bar.”

  “Sunday it is, then,” said Elliott.

 
; He turned to Shane.

  “Any idea where our cooking stuff is?”

  “Nope,” said Shane, and he drank the last of his whiskey.

  They left after another hour or so, and Greta practically hummed for the rest of her shift at the bar. She usually closed up around ten on weeknights. Rustvale was a pretty small town, and it wasn’t like people were having nights out much on weekdays. In fact, most of them were probably in bed by nine, since ranchers tended to get up with the sun.

  She took the trash out, lifting the dumpster lid with one hand and tossing the bag in with the other.

  As she turned around, she felt a hand grab her shoulder. Adrenaline surged through her whole body.

  Greta didn’t have time to think, and she shot her elbow out, following through with her fist. She spun away, crouching in the dark, fists up as someone shouted in the darkness.

  “Aw fuck, Greta!” said a familiar voice.

  Zeke’s voice.

  She stood up straight, still breathing hard, the sweat starting to leak down her body.

  “Zeke?” she said.

  He took a step forward into the light, one hand on his jaw where she’d gotten him. Down the side of his face was a long scratch, just starting to heal over.

  Probably from the bar fight, she thought. A tiny measure of pride swelled inside her, before she quashed it down.

  At least Shane gave as good as he got.

  “That hurt,” he said.

  “What the hell are you doing, grabbing me in a dark alleyway?” she asked, her voice rising quickly. “I thought you were about to attack me.”

  He pouted, still rubbing his jaw. He wasn’t bad looking, exactly, but all his features seemed to just barely mismatch. His general manner didn’t help at all, and he ended up seeming like an overgrown child.

  “Sorry,” he said, a little sulkily. Greta had to fight not to roll her eyes. “I just wanted to surprise you.”

  She took a deep breath, about to lose her patience, then exhaled.

  “I’m surprised,” she said. “What do you want?”

  “Go on a date with me,” he said.

  Greta raised her eyebrows. It wasn’t a question.

  “No, thank you,” she said.

  He frowned, and in the darkness she could see a slight shadow forming under his heavy brow.

  “How come?”

  “I’m just not interested in you that way,” Greta said. She tried to sound gentle, not annoyed, even though she was.

  She knew the kinds of tempers that wolves had. After all, she was one herself.

  “You clocked me in the jaw but you won’t even go on a date with me?” he said, still sounding sulky.

  “You’re the one who hid in a dark alleyway,” she said.

  She could feel her wolf temper flare.

  “Your mom said you liked surprises,” he said.

  Greta squeezed her eyes shut, her pulse pounding through her temples with irritation.

  Breathe deep, she counseled herself.

  “You talked to my mom about me?” she asked.

  Zeke just nodded.

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. Clearly, he didn’t see anything strange about consulting with her parents before a date.

  “I saw her at that pack BBQ they threw a couple of weeks ago and she came up to me and we got to talking,” he said.

  Greta waited for the next part of the story.

  “And?” she said.

  “And she said that you were single and could really use a good man in your life,” he said. She could hear the note of scorn in his voice, and it only made her rage boil hotter. “You’re not getting any younger.”

  Greta marched forward, her fury at full force. She jabbed a finger into Zeke’s chest, looking up at him.

  He smiled, totally misinterpreting her signals.

  “You can tell my mom that just because I’m thirty and unmated, it doesn’t mean she can try to hook me up with the town moron,” she said.

  Zeke held his hands up in the air, still smiling down at her.

  “And, since I know that all of this is a front for how desperate she is for grandkids, please inform her that while I am still perfectly fertile, I’m just about positive that owning and working at a bar has pickled every single last one of my eggs so will she please fuck off about this!”

  “That’s a lot to remember,” Zeke said, his smile fading.

  “AAARGH!” Greta shouted at the top of her lungs, the sound bouncing around the alley. “Don’t call me! Don’t talk to me! Don’t come to my bar, don’t talk to my mother, and especially don’t wait in a dark alleyway for me!”

  She turned and stomped back through the door of her bar.

  Zeke followed her, hands out.

  “But what about—”

  Greta slammed and locked the door in his face.

  Then she whipped out her phone and called her mother, pacing back and forth furiously as she waited for the call to connect.

  “Hi! You’ve reached the Waltz household,” said the voices of her mom, dad, and papa in unison on their answering machine.

  Greta dropped the phone on a table in disgust. Then she went and kicked the solid wood bar, just for good measure.

  Chapter Five

  Shane

  “I swear if you eat one more before she gets here I’ll come over there and chop your finger off,” Shane called into the dining room.

  Utter silence.

  He better not be in there fucking it up, Shane thought. He cleared the garlic from the knife he was using to chop it, wiped his hands on the towel over his shoulder, and backed up to peek through the door.

  Elliott stood there, right next to the table filled with appetizers, trying to look innocent.

  “You’re not fooling me,” Shane said, his tone relaxing a little.

  “I rearranged the bread so it looks like I didn’t eat any,” said Elliott.

  Shane kept chopping garlic and made a face.

  “You always say that, and it’s never true,” he said. “Tell me how much time is left on that timer.”

  Elliott walked into the kitchen, picked up a tomato-shaped timer and inspected it.

  “Between one and three minutes,” he said.

  Shane wiped his hands off again and bent down to peer into the oven. Above him, Elliott flicked on the oven light.

  “Thanks,” said Shane. “I think this oven might run hot. Bread looks done.”

  “It does?” asked Elliott, bending down next to Shane.

  “This is why I’m the cook,” Shane teased, then opened the oven and removed the bread.

  Casually, Elliott moved back toward the dining room.

  “I can see you!” shouted Shane, and Elliott came back toward him, then nuzzled the back of his neck.

  “Just one more slice,” he said. “The focaccia dipping sauce you made is amazing.”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere,” Shane said.

  Elliott put his arms around Shane, and for just a moment, Shane let himself relax.

  “Everything will be fantastic,” he whispered into Shane’s ear, sending a shiver down Shane’s back. “Don’t worry.”

  Shane leaned his head against his mate’s and took a deep breath.

  “Thanks,” he said. He waited for a moment, then looked at Elliott, smiling.

  “You still can’t eat any more bread before she gets here,” he said.

  “Come on,” said Elliott, his voice lowering to a growl as his hands made their way to the waistband of Shane’s pants.

  Shane laughed.

  “A handjob isn’t gonna change my mind,” he teased. “Now go check that the mushrooms aren’t burning.”

  “Fine,” said Elliott, grinning. “I can’t eat the appetizers, I can’t give you a handjob in the kitchen...”

  As he unhanded Shane, he smacked the other man’s ass.

  “Mushrooms look fine,” Elliott reported.

  At 7:05, the doorbell rang.

  Elliott and Shan
e looked at each other for a moment of perfect stillness. Shane was cutting apart lamb chops, up to his elbows in meat juice.

  “Can you let her in?” he asked.

  “I got it,” Elliott said.

  First he walked over and kissed Shane on the shoulder, and then walked through the dining room and to the front door.

  Shane held his breath.

  He felt out of his element here, like he couldn’t even quite keep everything straight. Greta and Elliott knew each other, sort of, or at least they had plenty in common. They’d both grown up in Rustvale, and they knew tons of the same people. They belonged to the same pack, though Elliott and Shane hadn’t gone to their first meeting yet, since it wasn’t for two more days.

  Shane didn’t have any of that. He didn’t know anyone in Rustvale besides Elliott, and this was the first time in his life he’d belonged to a pack. He’d grown up in the only wolf family in his part of rural Oregon, in a town without very many shifters. They hadn’t had a pack, so he didn’t entirely understand pack structure.

  Also, he’d already gotten into a fight with another wolf, one he assumed was part of the wolf pack. According to Elliott, if you lived in Rustvale and you were a wolf, you joined the pack. Being a wolf shifter and not joining up just wasn’t done, but Shane didn’t know how he’d feel about the whole “Obey the Alpha” thing.

  He was guessing that he wasn’t going to feel great about it, but he’d promised Elliott that he’d try.

  For that matter, he barely understood relationships, and felt like he was stumbling along in his own with Elliott, that he’d somehow lucked into this amazing man who put up with all his faults and still loved him.

  Therefore, he was making lamb chops with a red wine reduction sauce, asparagus glazed in lemon brown butter, and rosemary and parmesan stuffed mushrooms. He’d already made focaccia bread, and it was in the dining room next to a dipping sauce and a cheese selection, or at least it was if Elliott hadn’t eaten it all.

  For dessert, he’d gotten up early that morning to bake a cheesecake, staring at it in the oven before daybreak even came along, praying the bottom didn’t burn.

  Maybe I’m a little stressed about this, Shane thought, quickly taking stock of his situation. He sliced another lamb chop apart, and heard Greta’s voice at the door. His heart did a little flip in his chest.