Gentry (Wolves of Winter's Edge Book 1) Page 2

  Somebody should really fix that sign, though, put it on a better post or something so tourists could read it easier. Blaire eased onto the gas and coasted down a steep, icy drive. The road wasn’t long, but it wound this way and that until it dumped her into a big open parking area surrounded by three cabins, each in different stages of disrepair.

  On the porch of the biggest stood a giant of a man. At least, a giant compared to her five-foot-three frame. Or perhaps he just looked tall standing up on the elevated porch. He wore thick-soled snow boots that were nice and worn-in and dark jeans. Clinging to his V-shaped torso was a heather Gray sweater so tight she could make out the ridges of his defined chest. His shoulders, too, and my oh my, his triceps were bulging from where he leaned against the front porch. A steaming mug was balanced on the railing between his hands. Up, up his bodacious bod, his neck was exposed to the cold air like winter in Maine was nothing. A tough guy then.

  His face froze her in place, though. It. Was. Perfect. Sculpted jaw dusted with a five o’clock shadow, dirty blond hair, short on the sides and gelled on top. Strong, straight nose, and sensual lips even when they were frowning, like right now. His eyes were the true shock. They were the most stunning shade of green.

  Oh shit, she was still moving! Blaire whipped the car into a parking spot in front of him as though she’d meant to be like some speedy bad-A, and then smiled timidly at him through the front window. She even waved, but his frown only deepened. Pity, he probably looked even cuter when he smiled. Mission possible, she accepted her own personal smile challenge.

  “Hidey ho!” she called, stepping from the car. Hidey ho? God. Blaire shook her head and wished for the millionth time in her life she didn’t blush so easily. Stupid fair skin. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I’m here for the cabin rental.”

  The sexpot jerked so hard he knocked the mug off the railing. Quick as a whip, he reached out and snatched it out of thin air. By the handle. Hot coffee splashed onto the snow near the porch.

  “Whoa,” she murmured. “That was some kind of ninja move.” Ninjas were sexy.

  The man stood ramrod straight and hid the mug behind his back. “Uh, I think you have the wrong place.” His voice was a deep baritone that vibrated from her ears to her chest to her nethers.

  “Why does everyone keep saying I’m in the wrong place?” She leaned into the rental to pull out the paperwork, then shoved it up at him. “Look, my friend rented this place for a week.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed to striking green slits. “I’m not looking for a week-long renter. The ad was supposed to be for something more permanent. Maybe for someone willing to put some work into this place, or, I don’t know…” He ran his hand up the back of his head and stared off at the frozen lake behind the other two cabins. “Just take care of it so I don’t have to.”

  “Oh.” Blaire looked around the property with new eyes. There were stacks of paint buckets on a sheet of plastic on the porch and a bunch of tools spread out over a porch swing. “Well, I traveled a long way to get here, and it’s paid for. Can I stay this week, and you worry about getting a long-term renter when I leave?”

  “Uuuh, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re…”

  “I’m what?” she asked loudly, utterly frustrated by the men in this weird town.

  The man puffed air out his cheeks and leaned his hip against the porch railing. Fine, he could give her the silent treatment all he wanted. With a growl, she yanked the giant purple suitcase from the backseat and bullied it toward the stairs.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m”—she yanked the suitcase up two stairs—“moving”—two more stairs, and she almost fell but saved herself—“in!” She stumbled onto the porch and settled her suitcase on its wheels.

  She had come in hot and nearly ran into Giant Sexypotamus her hand out for a shake. She blew a red-gold curl out of her face and said, “I’m Blaire Hayward, nice to meet you.” Whoa, he smelled good. She sniffed. It was some kind of cologne. He still wouldn’t take her hand and was looking at her as if she’d lost her mind. Ridiculous man.

  Blaire snatched his limp hand and pumped it a few times. “And your name is?”

  “Gentry. Gentry.”

  “Cool names, but my momma said never trust a man with two first names.”

  A tiny smirk took his lips as he looked down at their still clasped hands. “No, it’s Gentry Striker.”

  “Your last name is Striker? Your middle name is Badass, isn’t it? Or wait! Gentry Chaos Striker. Am I close?”

  Gentry removed his hand from hers and almost, almost smiled when he said, “You’re an odd one, Blaire Hayward.”

  There were much worse things he could’ve said, so she offered him a prim, “Thank you,” and dragged her suitcase across the uneven flooring toward the door.

  “Unless you feel like sleeping in my room, you may want to divert that big-ass suitcase of yours toward the cabin over there.” He pointed to the smallest one with the newest looking paint that sat across the parking lot, closest to the frozen lake.

  “Right. Is there a key?”

  “Nobody locks doors around here.”

  “Okay then. The paperwork said three meals a day. Shall we eat them in the big cabin?” she asked innocently. She’d just made that part up.

  “Uh, if you like macaroni for every meal, you’re welcome to beg food.” That sexy little smirk was back like he knew she was bullcrapping him.

  Blaire gave him a coy smile, which probably made her look like a gremlin because she hadn’t flirted in a very long time, and then bounced and bumped the suitcase down the stairs behind her. She made it approximately five feet across the snowy parking lot before the luggage was pulled from her hand and one sexy Gentry Striker went striding by her, holding the heavy case like it weighed nothing. Hoowee, and he was strong? His sweater sat right at his hips so she could see his firm butt moving with each step.

  “Are you checking out my ass, Ms. Hayward?” he called, as if he had eyes in the back of his head. She checked to make sure, but nope, he just had sexy, mussed hair.

  “I would never,” she said, then pursed her lips to hide her smile as she followed promptly behind him.

  Why was her stomach doing flip-flops? Probably because she hadn’t eaten dinner. “Hey, where is a good place to eat around here?”

  Gentry cast her a quick, unreadable glance over his shoulder. It was just a flash of those green eyes, and then he gave her his back again. “This town closes down pretty early during winter.”

  “Okay, but there has to be somewhere I can get some dinner. You don’t want to see me when I’m hangry,” she said in a Hulk voice.

  She giggled. He did not.

  Gentry led her up a few stairs, across a small porch with a single rocking chair, and into the cabin. “Look, if you’re going to stay here, you need to stay inside after dark.”

  “No thanks, I’m here to vacation not be locked up as soon as the sun goes down. And I’m really hungry. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

  Gentry made a deep rattling noise in his throat, but cut it off quick and looked real busy settling her suitcase by the front door. “Tell me what kind of food you like, and I’ll go get it for you.” Through gritted teeth, he said, “It’s the least I can do since I’m fresh out of macaroni.”

  Blaire’s stubbornness warred with her desire to actually see if this big hunky man would feed her. “I want a chili dog. No! I want a bacon burger with fries and a side of ranch and extra pickles on the burger. And a shake. Something pink. Strawberry or cherry.”

  “Great. I’ll be back.”

  “Money!” She scrambled into her purse as he waited by the door looking wholly uncomfortable. She gave him a twenty. “Grab something for yourself too, Chaos.”

  “That’s not my name, and I already ate.” He yanked the twenty from her fingertips and made his way out the door.

  His sexy
scent still lingered so she closed her eyes and inhaled noisily. And when she sighed happily and opened them again, she was mortified to find Gentry standing in the doorway.

  The ghost of that smirk was back. “One side of ranch or two.”

  Cheeks on fire, she tried to regain her composure as she squeaked out, “Always two.”

  “You got it Blaire Trouble Hayward.” And then Gentry stepped back into the darkening evening.

  This time, out the front window, Blaire watched him leave. Gentry jogged around to the back of the big cabin. A minute later, he pulled an old brown and white refurbished Ford truck with chains on the tires around the side and zoomed up the road and out of sight.

  Her, trouble? Heck nope, she was still a good girl.

  But there was a hundred percent chance that man was trouble with a capital T.

  Chapter Three

  What the hell was he doing? Gentry stopped at the light and shook his head for the tenth time since he’d left Hunter Cove. Blaire being in this town right now was a bad idea for about a dozen reasons.

  One: she was human. Fragile. Paper-thin skin, and the single bite of a werewolf could kill her. Hell, a splinter could kill her. Humans died too easily, and this town was a steel trap with a hundred razor-sharp teeth.

  Two: she was a fucking human! He shouldn’t even be physically attracted to humans, but here he was, adjusting his hard dick because God, she was a stunner. It made no sense. Werewolves liked other werewolves. That’s just the way it was. They were genetically predisposed to seek out a mate who could bear them werewolf pups. Blaire was a genetic dead-end for his kind. She would have fragile, little human babies only. Down dick.

  Three: he was right in the middle of funeral arrangements for Dad, pissed as hell, had been forced to put down Tooth and half his damn pack to survive, was on the verge of a Change constantly, and his dickhole brothers were slowing everything down by staying MIA. Taking care of a human on top of the pile other shit he had going on was a horrible idea. He would slip up. He would get her killed. Or fuck, he could be the one doing the killing if he didn’t rein in his wolf as soon as fuckin’ possible.

  Gentry gassed it at the green light and skidded onto Main Street. The tavern would have the food she wanted.

  Four: Rhett.

  Five: the newly named Bone-Ripper Pack was going through a huge transition, out from under Dad, who had been a good alpha, to under Rhett’s control. There would be violence.

  Six: Rangeley was the home of one of the biggest packs in the world. And the people who weren’t werewolves here were all unsuspecting humans. It needed to stay that way. Already the wolves walked such a fine line in this town, and now Blaire had stepped right into the middle of the chaos.

  Seven: the raging boner. Yep, that one got an extra number because it was really confusing, and Blaire felt like trouble. Big trouble. His wolf was showing signs of wanting to settle, and he couldn’t have that. And here came this drop-dead gorgeous human woman, red-gold hair cascading down her shoulders in wild curls like she’d come off some Scottish moor. Green eyes, but slanted like a cat. Fair skin, almost the color of the snow, and a light dusting of freckles on her cheeks. Curves for fuckin’ days. Big, soft titties pushing against a little, white sweater that said she was completely confident with her figure. Nice ass hugged by tight skinny jeans. That ass was more than a handful, and his hands were big. He’d wanted to reach out and squeeze it so hard when she’d pranced past him with her suitcase. And she smelled like jasmine and honeysuckle. She smelled like spring in the dead of dark winter.

  “Cut it out, Striker,” he growled.

  In a parking space facing the Four Horsemen’s Tavern, he let the truck idle and rested his elbow on the edge of the window as he bit the corner of his thumbnail, a habit he’d picked up as a kid and had never curbed. There was no way he was going in there hard. He didn’t even know any other wolves who had been attracted to a human. Blaire was a danger, and in danger in this town, and he’d just invited her to stay for a week? He was going to fillet the rental management company that fucked this up. The last thing he needed was to babysit a temporary renter when all he wanted to do was escape this place. It was a big mistake to give him a week-long renter instead of the year contract he’d requested, and he couldn’t handle anything extra right now. He needed to tie up loose ends, spread Dad’s ashes to the wind, and leave Rangeley forever, just like he’d planned.

  Rangeley was quicksand to a roamer like him. He couldn’t get stuck. Wouldn’t get stuck. Already he could feel the cold, dead claws of his destiny clamping onto his ankle, and he needed to buck them off as fast as he could.

  Blaire, Blaire, with the wild red hair. She was funny, too. Didn’t have a filter. Said what came to her mind. He liked that. No games. And when he’d caught her sniffing the air like she was a wolf, like she was a creature of the night like him, he’d found her so damn amusing. And so beautiful—eyes closed, shimmery make-up glistening in the soft light, dark eyelashes resting on cheeks that had turned rosy from the cold or a blush. He hoped it was a blush. If she blushed easily, he could tell when he shocked her. He could play games and see how far he could push her before she pushed back. Wolf games, but with a human. Cat and mouse. Dog and cat. Big bad wolf and little red. He forced himself to stop smiling. That was a fucked-up thought. He wouldn’t be the one trying to gobble her up. He needed to get her out of Rangeley and out of his head as soon as possible. She could stay the night, but tomorrow he had to figure out a way to make her leave.

  Boner tamed, Gentry shoved his door open and grabbed his jacket on the passenger’s seat. This was the act. He shrugged into the thick winter coat like he needed it, and like he didn’t run hot as a furnace, so the humans in this town didn’t pay him any extra attention.

  After he slammed the door closed, Gentry jogged across the parking lot, his hands shoved into his pockets. The second he yanked open the door, though, he regretted choosing the Four Horsemen for Blaire’s dinner. The stink of werewolf hit him like a wrecking ball.

  A soft snarl clawed its way up the back of his throat as he scanned the room. Clearly, Rhett had chased the humans from the bar since it was all supes. Fuck. Everyone was gathered around the bar, having a pack meeting probably, but had all stopped talking and were now twisted around, staring back at him. Most of them he recognized. Some of them he was happy to see again, some of them not. It was an odd sensation seeing his old pack, yet everything was different. Everyone was older, harder. There were no smiles like there used to be. Only snarled-up lips and threatening growls.

  He was other now.

  “Gentry Striker,” Rhett called out from behind the bar where he was leaning on locked arms. “You come here for the same fate I gave your dad?”

  Gentry wanted to kill him. He wanted to do it slowly. He wanted to watch him gasp for air and whimper in pain and bleed out on the floor in front of everyone. He wanted Rhett to die looking at his face. He wanted to avenge Dad, but that wasn’t how shit worked for werewolves. He was supposed to get over it instead, move on, find his place in a pack or as a rogue, let Rhett keep his alpha victory.

  But all Gentry could think of was Dad lying on the floor with Rhett’s ugly wolf shredding him, and he wanted revenge so bad his mouth watered and tasted like blood.

  But it was him versus the Bone-Ripper Pack, and he was a more careful hunter than that, so he exposed his neck like a good little werewolf and made his way slowly toward the to-go stand near the kitchen.

  Mila was there, pretty as ever. Timid as ever. He was kind of surprised she was still living in this town after Dad died. He’d protected her. Now she would be a piñata for a bully like Rhett. He didn’t do well with submissives. He never had.

  “It’s good to see you again,” Mila whispered, her chin dropped to her chest, hands shaking as she opened up a computer screen behind the counter. He’d almost cared for the dainty dark-haired beauty once, back when he’d believed in that destiny shit. His life could’ve been l
aid out like a straight-line road map. Stay here, choose Mila as a mate, have a half dozen pups, take the pack when Dad was ready to give it up, petrify like an old gnarled tree.

  Mila had never called to his wolf enough to keep in him this place, though.

  No one had.

  He forced a smile, the pack in his peripheral, always at the edge of his vision because survivors didn’t turn their back on danger like that. “It’s good to see you, too.” He almost meant it. He’d never planned on seeing any of these people again.

  Gentry put in his order and sat on the last barstool. None of the wolves were talking, just watching. Every hair on his body had electrified, but tucking tail and running would only send them after him faster. Posturing was everything in a pack.

  Slowly, Gentry took off his jacket, reached over the bar, pulled out a bottle of Jim Beam and a shot glass, poured one, and slammed it. He looked Rhett directly in his stupid fucking eyes and growled, “What?”

  “You lost? Pack meeting, and you weren’t invited because you’re not pack. In fact,” Rhett barked out, “you’re the bloodline of the defeated last alpha, so I have a right to snuff you out of existence right here and now.”

  Gentry arched his eyebrow. “I’d dare you to challenge me, but I don’t want the pack. I’m here to take care of my dad’s shit, and I’ll be gone as soon as I possibly can. Wasn’t really my choice coming back, Rhett.”

  “You could’ve let me know you were in town. That’s the respectful thing to do—”

  “That would imply,” Gentry said loudly, “that I have respect for you. You aren’t my alpha. I don’t have to do shit for you.” Gentry held his gaze as he replaced the bottle of Jim Beam behind the counter.

  “Frank’s rushing your order,” Mila said breathlessly from the other side of the bar.

  “Mila!” Rhett barked out, like she’d done something wrong.

  A long, high-pitched whine sounded from her. A no-no if she’d done it in public around humans. She was standing behind the to-go stand, wringing her hands, looking down at the floor.