“Do you have any idea of how many people named Bubba live in Arkansas?”
“No.” The bartender blinked.
“Half the fucking state.” Damon pulled out a twenty and slid it toward the man to cover his tab.
“Then what the hell are you doing here in Missouri?” The bartender relaxed a little and rested the barrel of the shotgun against his shoulder.
“I’m looking for some Louisiana Weres.”
“I hate Louisiana more than I hate Arkansas.” The bartender spit on the floor and then looked back at Damon. “Are these civilian Weres?”
“No. They’re Assassins.” The bartender’s grip slipped and the gun hit the ground with a thud. “Assassins? Who the hell are they looking for?”
Damon shrugged. Werewolves hated Assassins more than they hated rogue wolves, especially in Missouri where there was no Pack Law. “Not sure. What I am sure of is that my Pack Master wasn’t very happy when they crossed over into Arkansas and didn’t let him know.”
The bartender crossed his arms and put his “I don’t give a shit” face back on. “So?”
“The Assassins shot a werewolf in broad daylight,” Damon growled. The bartender’s face went pale. “We don’t take too kindly to that in Arkansas.”
“Who were they looking for?” Well, now, wasn’t he all Chatty Cathy?
Damon laughed. “Funny you should ask. They were looking for a bartender.”
The bartender’s eyes widened as his face paled.
“So if you see these guys, give me a call.” Damon plucked a napkin off the bar and scribbled his cell number. “If I were you, I wouldn’t be pulling that gun on the Assassins if they show up here.”
“Yeah? Why the fuck not?”
“Because they’re not as social as I am and they’re using silver bullets, dipshit.” Damon made his way to the door, his hand resting on his .45 as he made his way out.
Once outside, he straddled his Harley. He would hit a few more bars tonight, but his instincts told him the Assassins hadn’t yet made it into town. If they had, the werewolf population would not be showing their faces like they were.
Where the fuck was Braxton? If he hadn’t crossed the Missouri line, that meant he was still in Arkansas.
And probably dead at the bottom of a mountain with a silver bullet in his hide.
***
Braxton barreled down a dark alley, his lungs struggling for breath as he ran.
They were chasing him. He couldn’t stop. He had to keep going. If he slowed down for a second, he was going to be dead.
“Braxton, how could you?” His mother’s voice called out to him from the shadows, like vapor. “You are no son of mine.”
Pain recoiled through his chest, ripping at his insides. He swiped his hand down his torso, feeling for a gunshot but didn’t find an injury. There was no blood, no wound, no gaping hole. His heart dropped when he realized it wasn’t a bullet that had ripped his chest in two—it was his mother’s devastating words.
Angry and hurt, Braxton stopped running. He lifted his head to the bleak night sky and screamed, hoping to make her believe him. “I. Didn’t. Kill. Him.”
“Braxton, wake up.”
Braxton bolted upright and looked around. The vaguely familiar cozy room of quilts and antique furniture calmed his rapid heartbeats. He sucked in a breath, struggling to get his breathing under control, when he saw Kate sitting on the edge of his bed.
“You were having a bad dream.” Kate ran her delicate hand across his forehead. She smiled. “Your fever’s broken.”
He nodded and glanced out the darkened window. “What time is it?”
“Almost ten at night. You’ve slept the day away.” She eased off the bed and stood.
Braxton reached for her hand. “Don’t go.” He closed his eyes. He didn’t know why he said it. He preferred his solitude and only sought women out when he needed to relieve the sexual tension. But Kate was different. She soothed his soul.
“I’m coming back. I was just going to get you some dinner. I made meatloaf and twice-baked potatoes.”
Braxton’s stomach grumbled. “Sounds good.” He shoved the sheet off, eased his aching body off the bed. He looked around for his jeans and grimaced. He didn’t have his jeans—or clothes for that matter. He’d lost them after he shifted. “Fuck.”
“You’re...you’re...” She sucked in a breath.
Her stare was glued to his rigid erection. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry, Kate.” He ripped the sheet off the bed and covered his lower half. Where the fuck were his manners? He’d probably scared her half to death, thinking he was some kind of pervert or something.
She dragged her dilated gaze up to meet his and suddenly food wasn’t the only thing he was hungry for. “I’ll just let you get dressed. The robe is over there on the chair.” Face flushed, Kate tried to back out of the room. She bumped into the dresser.