“No.” She frowned.
“Then you answered your own question.” He looked at her with heavy-lidded eyes, while a delicious smirk played at the corners of his mouth. “It would be better if you still thought I was a dream.”
She snorted. “I’d rather have the truth than a lie any day of the week. Believe me.”
“Wanna talk about it?” His grin slipped as his expression grew serious.
“Nope.” Pushing her coffee cup to the side, she studied him. “Why don’t you tell me why someone tried to kill you with a silver bullet?”
“Guess I pissed off the wrong person.” His gaze hardened as he looked away, his lips set in grim determination. He was still sexy, but there was a dangerous edge to him now, making her wonder if she should have let him in her home.
She cleared her throat. “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s your business. But don’t assume I’m an idiot.”
His raised his eyebrows. “That’s the last thing in the world I would ever call you.” He sat forward and reached for her hand again. His face contorted into a mask of pain as he cradled his injured shoulder.
“Let me see.” She brushed his hand away from his shoulder to assess his wound. Bright red blood marred the pristine bandage. “Your wound is bleeding again. Let’s get you back to bed so I can rewrap it.”
A half hour later, after changing his bandage, she stayed by his bedside, watching as Braxton drifted off to sleep.
She couldn’t help but wonder just how much danger he was in. What concerned her the most was how much of the fallout was going to end up on her doorstep.
***
Damon walked into the smoke-filled bar in Branson, Missouri, a little before ten p.m. Cigarette smoke curled around him in a suffocating blanket, the stench making his stomach turn. He snarled, shaking off the layer of snow from his favorite leather jacket. He fucking hated snow. It was one reason he lived in the South. They were not supposed to get snow.
Glancing down, he grimaced at the wet spots on the leather. He should’ve listened to Ava and worn the jacket she had bought him, even though it wasn’t his style. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that it made him look like a *. He made it a point never to look like a *.
Glancing around, he expected to see a bunch of old timers in the hole-in-the-wall bar, but instead he was greeted with curious stares from pock-marked faces of young meth heads and shifty-eyed criminals. Certainly a mixed crowd tonight at the Old Irish Tavern.
“Beer.” Damon straddled the bar stool and pushed his Oakleys over his head. The bartender nodded and slid him an icy long-neck. “Thanks.” Damon took a pull and casually looked over his shoulder. Everyone was suddenly very interested in finishing their drinks and paying their tab.
“You aren’t from around here.” It was the bartender’s tone that had Damon’s instincts on high alert. Damon crossed his arms and discreetly patted his chest for his Sig Sauer.
“Nope.” He took another drink and eyed the big-bellied barkeep. “Are you the owner?”
The bartender reached his hand under the bar and leaned on the counter. “Yeah, I’m the owner. Is there a problem?”
Damon smirked. “No. Just wondering why the owner of an Irish Tavern has a Jersey accent rather than Irish.”
The bartender placed his empty hand on the counter and smirked. “Would you believe my mother was Irish and she left this place to me?”
“No. I would believe you got the deed to this place from some underhanded shit you were involved in.” Damon met his gaze. “Let me guess, you’re some kind of loan shark and when some asshole named Bubba didn’t pay up, you took his bar.”
The bartender narrowed his black eyes. “Did Bubba send you here to take care of me?” The bartender’s hand went under the counter. “Is that why you’re here?”
“What? No, I didn’t mean, literally, Bubba...” It was the South. One out of every fourth male was named Bubba.
“You go tell that little shit from Arkansas he’s never gonna get his daddy’s bar back.” Chairs scraped across the wood floor as patrons pushed away from their table and made for the front door.
“I don’t care how much money he offers, I’m keeping this place. Clear?” The bartender swung a sawed-off shotgun out from under the counter and leveled it at Damon’s face.
Damon slowly eased to his feet as anger pulsed through his veins. The desire to shift into wolf was overwhelming. “I didn’t come here because of Bubba.”
The burly bartender’s nostrils flared and he sniffed the air. “Really? Then why do you smell like those damn Arkansas werewolves?”
Damon curled his fingers into fists “Because I’m an Arkansas Guardian, you dumb fuck.”
The bartender gave him an arrogant smile. “So Bubba did send you.”
“Just because I’m from Arkansas doesn’t mean I know Bubba.”
“Right.” The bartender kept his gun aimed at Damon’s head.