Runaway (Fox Ridge Shifters Book 1) Read online

  He sipped his whiskey slowly over the next hour. Crissy kept an eye on him, but he wasn’t inclined to talk, although several times she caught him watching her. At five, she put on the news for one of the other patrons, and he turned his attention to the television.

  “Do you live in town?” she asked when she came over to see if he wanted another whiskey. He still had about two more sips’ worth in his glass.

  “No. I live over Boundary Line Creek. I come down this way now and then to check on things.” He put his hand over his glass when she lifted the bottle to pour another. “No, thank you. I’ve probably outstayed my welcome.”

  “You’re fine.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “No, definitely not.”

  Luke stood in the doorway, head lowered, shoulders hunched. He stormed across the room and grabbed Bernie’s shirt collar. The glass tumbled from his hand, spilling the remaining whiskey over his fingers and onto the bar.

  “Let me guess. Bobby called you. I’m surprised. I really was expecting Neal.” In spite of the collar of his shirt digging into his neck, he spoke calmly. Then he passed a long glance from Luke to Crissy and smiled.

  “You don’t belong here, and you know it,” Luke said through clenched teeth.

  “Bobby’s is neutral.”

  “Hey, guys.” Crissy put her hands on her hips. “Take it outside.”

  Luke, still holding the shirt collar, gave Bernie a shake. “Yes. Get out.”

  “I meant both of you.”

  She had Luke’s attention for the first time. A burst of shock and then hurt traveled along the cord like acid, burning in her chest. She jerked back a fraction but held firm. “Yes, you, Luke. You don’t assault our customers and expect to get away with it.”

  “He’s not a customer. He’s...”

  Bernie picked up his jacket from the stool beside him and tried to get into it with his collar in Luke’s fist. “Let go, doofus. I’m leaving.”

  “Don’t call me doofus,” Luke snarled.

  “You hate it,” Bernie said with a sly smile. “Why do you think I do it?”

  Luke let go with a little shove, propelling Bernie toward the bar. He caught it with both hands and used it to push himself to his feet. Turning to face Luke, he shrugged into his jacket to settle it on his shoulders. “Always a pleasure, Baumann.”

  “That’s what your brother always says. I don’t believe it from him, either.”

  “You definitely shouldn’t.” Bernie smiled a little at Crissy and strode out of the barroom.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Luke called out and chased him to the outer doorway, remaining there until the motorcycle roared into the twilight. After a few moments of watching the empty street through the glass doors, Luke returned.

  Crissy wiped up the spilled liquor with a fresh white towel. Luke loomed behind the ranks of barstools. He stood there, his breathing harsh, and Crissy noticed his eyes. They were black.

  “Your eyes...” she whispered.

  Crissy lurched backward, her hip colliding with the bar back. Liquor bottles clinked. Luke closed his eyes for ten seconds. When he opened them, they were blue, though his shoulders still rose and fell with each breath. Crissy took a cautious step forward. It had to be a shifter thing, she thought. Some reaction to anger or stress. She wondered if she should mention it, but decided not to open that can of worms.

  “Explain yourself, Luke.”

  “Are you alright?” His voice was rough, as if he struggled to control it, to keep it level.

  “Of course I’m alright.” She slapped down the towel. “Explain yourself.”

  “He’s a troublemaker. We told him to stay out of town.”

  “Who’s we?”

  He glanced away. “The local council.”

  “Council? I thought this town wasn’t incorporated.”

  “It’s sort of unofficial.” He sank onto a stool and clasped his hands on the bar in front of him. “You sure you’re okay? He didn’t say anything or do anything to you?”

  “Of course not. We were having a nice conversation when this big oaf showed up and got all pissy with him.”

  A bell dinged on the counter where food orders were placed from the kitchen. Crissy was about to go for the plate of nachos sitting there, but Luke said, “Crissy. Look at me.”

  She didn’t like to be ordered around, although Luke’s words sounded more like a plea than an order. “I have to get this food.”

  “Leave it for a minute. It’ll keep.” About to ignore him and retrieve the food anyway, she hesitated when he said, “Please. It’s important.”

  She turned slowly and stepped back to where he sat at the bar. “What?”

  “Bernie Schmitt may not look like much, but I promise you, he’s a dangerous man. He’s a killer. I know this for fact.”

  She remembered the guilt flooding from Bernie, and though she didn’t want to, she believed Luke’s statement. “Alright. Who did he kill?”

  He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Believe me when I say that you in particular are in danger from him.”

  “Why? Because he called me a refined woman?” She gave a little snort. “Not that I believe him.”

  “Because you’re...” He hunched over, not meeting her eyes.

  Exasperated, she said, “You think about it.” She turned to go for the food, bristling with irritation, only to find the other two patrons and Bobby staring at them. “What?”

  Bobby held up the plate in his hand. “Who ordered the nachos?”

  With a little huff, she stomped down the bar, took it from him, and placed it in front of the woman she thought of as her four o’clock martini.

  She blew at the strand of hair that had escaped her braid and said, “Did you call him?”

  “Now, Crissy—”

  “Don’t ‘now, Crissy’ me. Did you call him?”

  “Yes.” He glanced around. Martini and the guy with the Bud Light still watched them as avidly as if they were their favorite soap. Bobby clamped his big hand around her shoulder and steered her toward the swinging door to the kitchen. The cooks and the dishwasher eyed them, wisely keeping to the business of stirring soup and chopping onions. Bobby kept going until they reached the privacy of his office. He didn’t sit, but he did shut the door.

  “Whatever is going on, Bobby, you’re going too far. It was just a guy sitting there watching the news, as far as I could tell. Is there something about him.”

  His arms folded, Bobby stared down at her, his expression solemn. “He’s not just a guy watching the news. You’re still new here, so you wouldn’t know. And Luke Baumann has more than a little crush on you, Crissy. Can you see that?”

  “He hasn’t tried anything.”

  “He’s not the type to push himself on a woman, but he also won’t give up. I can’t say why, but you’re important to him.”

  She leaned her back against the door. “I don’t want to be.”

  “Are you sure about that? You don’t feel anything?”

  Scared. She felt scared, like standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon, wanting to see the view yet terrified of falling. She’d been doing everything in her power to convince herself it wasn’t true, but the way he looked at her, like she was his last hope, pulled at her heartstrings in some unfathomable way. Sometimes she would walk his way down the bar, just to see a pleased smile spread across his face and feel the warm head-to-toe tingle it gave her.

  I can’t become involved. I don’t want to become involved. The thoughts reflected things she told herself since she was a girl—no one would ever love her. Those who did never loved her enough to hang around and care for her the way she needed. People died. The pain of loneliness was easier to bear than the pain of loss and betrayal. For ten years, thoughts like these wrapped themselves around her heart until it existed in an isolation room.

  And yet, this was not the way she was meant to be. Crissy enjoyed people, cared about them, and made friends easily. She was lonely, and t
he irritating man back in the bar tempted her in ways no man had since Sean. Would he still want me if he knew?

  And the thought that he might not scared her even more.

  Rather than answer his question, she took the easy route. “So why is Bernie more than a guy at the bar? What did he do that made Luke come all the way down here to remove him? And why didn’t you?”

  He unfolded his arms and sat on the edge of his desk, pushing aside a stack of time cards. “Bernie was right. He’s allowed to be here, so I couldn’t go kicking him out if he wasn’t causing trouble. But Luke needed to know he was here, talking to you.”

  “We hardly spoke at all.”

  Bobby shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. What matters to Luke is that he probably came here just to see you.”

  She drew her brows together in confusion. “Why?”

  “They have a history, Luke and Bernie.” He held up a palm. “I won’t tell you. It’s Luke’s story to tell, but believe me when I say that you’re not safe alone with Bernie.”

  “Luke said he was a killer.”

  “Yes. He’s killed.” When she opened her mouth to ask for more details, he shook his head. “I can’t say more, just that he killed someone important to Luke. He doesn’t want to see it happen again.”

  The room suddenly felt cold, and she shivered, rubbing her palms along her upper arms to warm them. “What I don’t understand is why this is so important to you. Guys don’t usually give a damn about other guys’ romances.”

  Bobby chuckled. “You’re special, Crissy girl. You don’t know how much. Now come here and get a hug. Hugs fix everything.”

  While Bobby enfolded her in his warm embrace, she wished it were so simple.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Luke ambled down the sidewalks of downtown, killing time until Crissy’s shift started at four. He moved at a steady pace aimed to have him arrive as the bar opened.

  He sensed her presence as he passed the mouth of the alley running beside the bar, and heard her voice, soft and gentle. Coaxing. Without conscious thought, he backtracked and peeked around the corner like a damn stalker. Crissy crouched near the back door of the bar, one hand outstretched. A huge black and white tuxedo cat faced her, a few feet away. Crissy squatted near a large, greasy puddle, wearing only one of her Henley tees and jeans.

  She must be freezing. He wanted to walk over and drop his jacket over her shoulders but didn’t want to break the magic of the moment unfolding before him.

  “Come on, I know you want it.” She made a tsk noise. The cat advanced a step. “Tuna. It’s gooood.”

  Not wanting to interrupt the scene, Luke barely moved. The cat leaned forward and sniffed her hand, then delicately licked off the tuna. From the can balanced on her thigh, she took another pinch of tuna. All the while, she talked softly.

  “You poor thing. Look at your fur. It’s all matted and dirty. If you would come home with me, I’d brush it and make it shiny and clean again.”

  As she leaned forward, long locks of hair slid over her shoulder. They fell, golden-red highlights against a deep auburn, shimmering in the security light. He clenched his hand. It tingled with the urge to smooth them back. When she entered the bar for her shift, she would confine those magnificent waves of hair in a tight braid.

  She still talked to the cat. “You’re a Maine Coon, aren’t you? I bet you were somebody’s pet once. You came pretty easily. Do you want to come home with me? Hmmm?”

  Mesmerized, Luke watched her hand-feed the cat, pinch by pinch, the entire can. “What should I call you?” The cat rose up, placing his front paws on her thigh while he rubbed his face against her arm. “What a furball you are. I’ll call you Hairy until I think of something better.”

  Crissy stood, and the cat, now called Hairy, rubbed against her legs before sauntering away.

  “You can show yourself. I know you’re there.”

  His cheeks flared hot, but he grinned at her when she turned to face him.

  “Good afternoon, Crissy.”

  “Were you following me or spying on me, or both?” Her voice held no heat, more wry humor.

  “I wasn’t spying. I was...” He groped for words. “I was... I noticed you as I passed by, heading for the bar. I had business in town at the hardware store and the auto parts store and...” He was babbling. “I thought I’d stop for a drink?”

  She raised her head and lowered it, a slow nod. Thoughtful. She should be able to sense him the way he did her, and would know he hadn’t been following her around.

  “Well, come on in. You can come through the kitchen.”

  His trip through the kitchen earned him a glare from Bobby until he realized who he was. “Hey, Luke. Come to visit your girl?”

  “I’m not his—”

  “No, just having a beer before I head back.”

  Bobby’s smile encompassed them both and seemed to say, Sure, whatever you say.

  Crissy pointed to the swinging door to the main room of the bar. “Have a seat. I have to clock in.”

  He pushed through the door into the dark, silent bar and took what he was beginning to think of as “his” seat, the last one on the end of the bar near the stool she sat on whenever there was a lull in business.

  Lights sprang on overhead. The kitchen door swung open, and Bobby strolled down the bar. “Hey, Baumann. Sam Adams?”

  He’d drunk more beer in the last few weeks than in the last year. “Coffee. I don’t think my liver will survive this courtship.” It was a joke. He was immune to alcohol but usually liked the taste of beer.

  “Is that what this is?” Crissy walked up behind Bobby. She placed her hands on her hips, but she actually smiled. “Courtship? Bobby, haven’t you talked to this Romeo yet?”

  “I did. He’s a stubborn old bear. Start the coffee.”

  Bobby unlocked the sliding door between the bar and the rest of the restaurant while Crissy started the coffee maker. Like many small-town businesses, Bobby’s Place survived by diversifying. Aside from the main restaurant, there was also a party room and a small arcade. The bar itself opened most days at four and shut the business down at midnight.

  Luke watched Crissy’s ass in her well-fitted jeans while she bent over the small bar fridge to get out a carton of half-and-half. “We have a little heavy cream if you’d prefer,” she said over her shoulder as she rummaged in the fridge. She caught him staring and pursed her lips, but returned to the fridge. Out came limes, maraschino cherries, cocktail onions, celery, and a jar of green olives. She stood up, cherries in one hand, onions in the other.

  “Heavy cream,” he said. “Real men like it nice and creamy.”

  She groaned. “How old does a man have to be before he learns women don’t think double entendres are funny?”

  Five hundred eighty-three.

  “I just learned.”

  “And fart jokes?”

  He blew a loud, juicy raspberry. “Pffft. Not me.”

  She tried to frown, he could tell, her lips pressing together, but the corners lifted up, and she laughed. “Men never grow up.”

  “The ones who do are boring.”

  She brought out a knife, cutting board, tongs, and a long tray with deep compartments from beneath the counter. He loved watching her hands. Long, slender, and graceful, yet strong enough to open the cherry jar with a quick snap. She turned to the bar sink and drained the liquid from the cherries, every motion economical, efficient. And fast. She moved as if her mind were already ten tasks ahead of her hands.

  “Where did you learn to tend bar?”

  “On the job.”

  “Yes, but where?”

  The cherries tumbled into one of the compartments on the tray. She set the jar down with a click and reached for the celery. She didn’t look up. “You want my life story, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m a drifter. I’ve been everywhere.” She eyed him, hands busy now with the celery, knife, and cutting board. “Ran away from home as soon as I gra
duated high school and never stopped since.”

  “Where was home?” Jesus, I’ve coaxed frightened horses with more ease. “Where did you grow up.”

  The knife chopped through a stalk of celery with a loud snap. “Chicago. I’m from Chicago.”

  “City girl.”

  “No. Even when I was a city girl, I wasn’t a city girl. I like the country, the small towns better.”

  “Why?”

  “How old are you? I’ve asked twice now, and you evade that question.”

  Snap! went the celery.

  “Do you get much call for Bloody Marys to need that much celery?”

  She laid down the knife but kept her hand over the handle. “How old are you, Mr. Bear?”

  Anxiety spiked inside him, and he grew still. She knew. She had to know. Of course, she’s a witch.

  “Five hundred eighty-three.” He waited, the hollows of his gut filled with fluttery things. Don’t run away. Please.

  “See? Was that so hard?” She lifted the knife and aimed the point down the center of a stalk to split it in two.

  He exhaled. “How long have you known?”

  “Since the moment I laid eyes on you. You’re a bear, Neal is a horse, and Man-Mountain is a gorilla.”

  “His name is Hugh.”

  “I know, but his eyes light up with laughter when I call him that.”

  He stayed quiet for a few moments, processing what she’d said. “Even if you can sense that we’re shifters, you shouldn’t be able to see our beasts. Crissy,” he said to make her look at him, “only the most powerful witches can do that.”

  “Not a witch.” Her hand shook a little as she resumed cutting celery, and she dropped the knife onto the bar. “I can’t do even basic spells.”

  “Have you tried?”

  “I’m untrained.”

  “Witchcraft is in the blood, or it isn’t. It’s in yours. All you need is a mentor.”

  “Yeah, well where am I gonna find that?”

  “You want one?”

  She spread her hands. “I don’t know.”

  “Our clan can find you one. Pretty easily, actually. There’s a woman we know in San Francisco—”