Blake, Her Bad Bear: A Paranormal Bad Boy Romance (2 page)

She was that kind of reporter. Do or die, and regardless of her
modus operandi
everyone—including Samson—knew she was slated for the big times. If she didn’t kill herself before then. He shook his head and squinched his brow together with two fingers.

“Listen, I like you, Lily. You’re one of my favorites here—you get shit done, I’ve got no quarrels with that at all. But we’re not the
New York Times
. We’re not national. People don’t expect Nobel Prize winning featurettes from the
Daily Mail
,” he said. “Not that this is a reflection on you. Hell, one of these days, you’ll get picked up by a bigger company, and I’ll rue the day I ever lost you. But
until
then, I need you to hold back. We’re a family newspaper. I don’t need the politics right now, can’t afford it.”

She tried to hold her temper. Sure, the
Daily Mail
had been good to her, and Samson let her get away with most things another editor wouldn’t, but that didn’t excuse the fact that she was working way below her pay grade.

“I understand,” she said, begrudgingly.

“I’m running the article, don’t worry,” he said, and then teasingly, “hell, if a bigger paper reads it, they’ll probably come hounding for you. Just wait until then. In the meantime, I need you to be a little more low profile. Don’t worry, I still got you on assignment.”

“A new story?” she asked, her curiosity suddenly piqued as he slid across another assignment in a manila folder. She opened it and saw that it was referencing one of the smaller towns, about an hour and a half south—Beaver Creek.

“Yeah, just a fluff piece. Supposedly, the owner of the pub there tends to sell alcohol to minors. I don’t suspect it’s much of a story, but it’s worth a look anyway,” he said.

“Right, when do I leave?”

“If possible, right away,” Samson said. “We’ve got a reservation for you at the hotel there. They’ll expect you sometime this evening, so if you want to go home and pack or get a change of clothes, you can take off early.”

“I might do that,” she nodded.

“Remember, this is just an interim story. Don’t get carried away,” he chided, and Lily tried to keep from recoiling. It was like he was treating her like a child, and she resented the fact, even if she sympathized with him. In his place, she’d probably have done the same thing. Part of her knew she was reckless, but only in the sense that she took calculated risks that other people didn’t, and more often than not, they paid off.

“I get it,” she said, waving him aside, “keep a lid on it, right?”

“Just don’t go looking for trouble. Or inventing stories that aren’t there just because you want a dose of excitement. Sometimes the world really is as boring as all that. Especially around here.” He then waved to someone who was trying to get his attention through the window. “Christ, can’t leave them alone for half a minute. All right, we’re done here, Lily, unless you have other questions?”

“No, I don’t think so,” she said, putting the folder under her arm. Her crisp business blazer and skirt were immaculate, like the rest of her—clinical, was the word her former editor had once used to describe her, and she liked the way the word sounded in her mouth.

“All right, and hey,” he said, touching her shoulder, “don’t worry. You’ll get out of this nowhere town soon. With your skills, you’re in, kid. Just be patient.”

It was just lip service, of course, but it did make her feel better. She retraced her steps back to her desk and grabbed her coat as she headed for the door. Yawning, she realized how tired she was as the hammer of light struck her between the eyes as she exited the building. Summer in all its glory. The leather seat of her Camry was hot against her legs and she pulled the edge of her skirt higher up her thighs as she adjusted the incline and pulled out of the parking lot.

Sunny here, but further south toward the hamlet of Beaver Creek, she could see storms already gathering along the mountain ranges. She tried to remember what she knew about the red-neck town, but all that came up was the fact it was an isolated community hedged between the walls of an old glacial ravine. Some farmers, rural folk. The tell-tale mention of gang activity, bikers of some sort, but they tended to stay off the radar.

And now I’m supposed to check on some indolent pub owner who might or might not sell to minors,
she sneered, her large red lips forming a pout. It couldn’t be helped. In any case, it would be nice to get out of the city for a little while.

“Who knows, might even catch a break and find a story that even Samson can’t turn away from,” she said out loud to herself, and caught her reflection in the rear view mirror. She winked at herself and felt her energy renewed.

It took her less than half an hour to pack and take a shower, and as she strode out naked into her bedroom, she caught a glimpse of herself in the wall to ceiling mirror against her closet. She had always been small, petite, but there was a proportionality to her body she had secretly admired—she knew that she had that right. She was beautiful and fit, and it showed. Her slender waist curved almost flawlessly into her narrow hips, exacting the parabola of a bird taking wing. Not the child bearing hips of some of her friends, perhaps, but they were trim and muscled, and flowed elegantly down her thighs and between her legs where a rough patch of black pubic hair extended over the rise of her pubis.

“Looking good,” she murmured, turning sideways. Her small breasts were pert and erect, and seemed to hold themselves at attention. Each was a perfect roundness, balanced as if floating on the air, and she timidly clutched at them with both hands, like she was weighing the ripeness of fruit.

It took her moments to get dressed and she chose something casual—cargo pants, a pair of light running shoes, and a long sleeve shirt that hugged every corner of her torso with the intimacy of a lover. Satisfied, she shook her short hair and let it bob into place before slinging her backpack over one shoulder. It carried everything she needed for an assignment: digital camera with extra batteries and SD cards, notebook paper and pen, laptop. The bare minimum, but more than enough to punch out high quality stories.
If I ever find them
, she lamented, reminded again of the fact she was being put on a fluff piece, rather than a full-fledged feature that would challenge her skills.

Back in the old Camry she headed south, thankful for having missed the rush hour traffic, but as the road winded out of town and she caught sight of it around a switchback, she realized that there were very few cars coming from the other direction. Beaver Creek wasn’t exactly a tourist destination—for years, she knew, it had been the main road connecting through the pass, but five years ago, a new highway had been put in going around the mountains, and funneled the majority of traffic that way. As a result, Beaver Creek had fallen more out of favor with people and history than it already had.

Feels like I’m heading into a ghost town
, she thought, suddenly feeling nervous. She rolled her window up, feeling the wind start to chill as the sky darkened overhead and the first rain drops splattered against her windshield. It was curious, how you could travel less than hour and suddenly be in the middle of the wilderness. She felt the forest loom around her, stark green pines and spruce bunched against the highway, almost as if daring her to keep going. The road was empty, except for the occasional logging truck or passing pickup.

The rain became heavier as she neared Beaver Creek, and she was forced to switch on the windshield wipers. A glassy smear obscured her vision, and she slowed down, but it did little to aid her. In the downpour, she could only see a few meters ahead of her.
Samson better have paid for a good room at the hotel
. The thought entered her mind like a numb blade. Goosebumps had risen on her skin, even under the shirt, and she shivered as she continued forward. Off to one side, she caught the blur of a green sign indicating she was within Beaver Creek, and slowed down even more as she passed along the main street. Then, with some consternation, realized that Beaver Creek basically consisted of the main street, with one or two side alleys that led off to campers, a deserted playground already swamped with the deluge, and a couple of stores that looked terminally closed.

Up ahead, she saw the hotel and pulled in, and with a sigh, collapsed against the steering wheel.

“What am I doing here?” she moaned out loud, suddenly regretting taking the story in the first place. As soon as she opened her door and hastened under the overhanging roof of the hotel, she was already soaked through, and her black hair clung to the sides of her face in heavy mats.

The owner of the hotel looked up with a bored leer, his scraggly face unshaven and not terribly handsome. He had on a faded blue baseball cap and chewed the empty air as he regarded the woman. Even in her casual clothes, there was something about her that didn’t fit, and he could tell that she wasn’t from around here.

“Can I help you, miss?” he queried, leaning on his elbow. Behind him, there was an old television, the sort that still sported fake wooden décor, and there was some bad soap opera driveling away in the background.

“Yes, I’m Lily Walker, I have a reservation I believe? If not, it’d be under the
Daily Mail
,” she said, taking off her backpack and shaking the water onto the carpet.

“Ah, yes, they called. Said to expect you. That’s okay, we got you on the first floor. Second room on your left, it’s a big ’un, all to yourself. Got no one else tonight, so the place is pretty empty, I apologize for that. Say, that all you got?” he said, slurring his speech, and pointing to her backpack.

“I travel light,” she asserted, taking the key from the counter as he slid it across. “Second door on the left you said?”

“That’s right. We’ve got dinner that gets served at around six or six thirty. ‘Course, you’re welcome to head to the restaurant. I think Irma’s is open, supposed to be. Jack’s is also a good choice, just down the street.”

The name Jack brought her back to reality, and Lily recalled the name of the pub she was supposed to be investigating.
Not exactly a metropolis here, of course everyone would know where the pub is
, she thought to herself.

“Jack’s, that’s the bar, right?”

“Ah, you been here before?” the owner said, his eyes lighting up.

“No, a friend told me. Said I should check it out,” she lied. “They serve good beer, I hear.”

The owner winked and sat back down, half of his attention diverting toward the television again as he held in a grin. “Aye, been there, oh… gosh, probably twenty-odd years. The owner’s name is Spicer, he was Jack’s son. Ol’ Jack passed away back in 2000, bless his soul. But like most things around here, it all continues with the offspring. Spicer’s actually got the place pretty decent. Sometimes even get music going on the weekends.”

Lily pushed out her lip, feigning some interest like she was trying to make up her mind about whether or not to check the place out. “I think you sold me,” she said after a strategic pause. “Maybe I’ll head over after I drop my stuff off.”

She headed for the stairs, and then heard the snap of two greasy fingers and swiveled her head just in time to see the owner’s eyes light up. She imagined a very low watt bulb turning on above his head, but heeded his gesture.

“Just remembered,” he drawled, “they’ve got a wake going on at Jack’s tonight. Thought you should know, probably be crowded.”

“A wake?” she raised an eyebrow.

“Funeral,” he said impassively. “Old feller, biker named Damian—kicked the bucket last week, and the whole town’s a bit messed up about it. Half figgered him a ruffian, and I include myself in those numbers, and the other half figgered him a saint, and you can well imagine that lot. Anyway, I’m surprised you didn’t see the number of bikes parked outside there. You would’ve had to drive right by Jack’s to get here.”

“It was raining,” she explained, taking a step back down the stairs. A wake? That was unexpected, to be sure—but what caused her to pause was the mention of bikers. That, and the curious sort of hesitancy the owner of the hotel had showed when he’d mentioned the dead man’s name.
Damian.
Almost like the old timer was afraid to speak too loud and wake a ghost.

“That’s a real shame.” Lily let her voice sink a decibel lower, and lowered her own eyes, trying to effect the look of someone who was pensive. “I heard there were a lot of bikers up this way. Take it you don’t approve?”

Her svelte voice milking him for information seemed to work, and he stopped and turned away from his soap operas again.

“I ain’t saying nothing,” he said, as if it were a disclaimer, “jus’ that I sure don’t offer any of my rooms to ‘em. Ruffians, for the most part. Some okay ones among ‘em, but one flower among a nest of nettles don’t make it right.”

“No kidding,” she murmured.

“Tend to stick to themselves lately, but they used to be more violent.” And now he leaned on his elbows and motioned for her to come closer, which she did. This close she could see the giant pores on his face, and his breath had the slight tang of garlic, something pickled, and she tried to hold her breath. “I’ll tell you, though, miss, word is things may not be quiet long.”

“Oh?” she said, doing her best impression of a naïve girl.