Prickly Business (28 page)

Too late he realized he didn’t know what Snowflake looked like. Without hesitation, he pushed through the door. There was no delicate way to go about this. Bowling over the first few guys that came at them, he fisted his hand into the T-shirt of the next guy to attack, a young, scrawny, coffee-skinned kid, his long limbs flailing and battering against Dylan’s hold. The lighting wasn’t the greatest in the dingy hallway, but from what Dylan could tell, the kid’s amber eyes didn’t hold any fear, only anger and stubbornness. Good.

“Snowflake.” Christ, Dylan wanted to kick his own ass for saying the dumbass’s name aloud. “Where is he?”

The kid tilted his chin defiantly and still nothing came out of his mouth.

Dylan shook him slightly. “Look, kid, I’m not going to hurt you.” Not that he couldn’t. He glanced back at the three guys passed out on the floor, then back at the kid. Dylan’s strength far exceeded any human’s. He just didn’t
want
to hurt the kid. “I only want to talk to your boss.”

The kid still wasn’t talking, but Dylan didn’t miss the flick of his gaze at the stairway. He wasn’t sure if the young thug didn’t realize he was giving Dylan exactly what he needed or if he was purposely telling him. Whichever. It didn’t matter as long as he found the guy.

Shoving the kid away, Dylan led the way upstairs, mindful of the missing boards and wobbling banister. The disrepair of the house was as bad on the interior as it was on the exterior. He wasn’t so sure it wasn’t a crack house. It would be his first and hopefully last to ever see. On the upper floor, the mauve and flowered wallpaper peeled at the corners and seams, rolled up and barely covered sheetrock long ago molded black. The planks of the landing on the second floor creaked and threatened to drop him and the guys back to the first floor. They kept to the sides of the hallway. It seemed more stable there. Not that any of it felt safe. The landing was long, narrow, and as dimly lit as the main floor. Six doorways—three on the right and three on the left—lined the hallway. It was almost… spooky.

Sensitive to most noises in wolf and human form, Dylan picked up the sound of squeaky springs and what sounded like a bed knocking against a wall. Dylan smirked back at Sawyer, the usual scowl on the man’s face softening with a twitch of the lips.

“If the bed’s a-rockin’,” Lucas singsonged.

With a shake of his head, Dylan twisted the doorknob and walked in, no fanfare needed.

The room matched the rest of the house—peeling yellow-and-cream striped wallpaper, loose boards, and bare except for the box springs and mattress in the center of the wall opposite them. And the couple fucking away on that bed.

There’s nothing like walking in on a lily-white ass midair, and a woman striving for the fakest orgasm known to mankind… or womankind. Some things couldn’t be unseen.

“Oooh, Snowflake,” the chick moaned, breathless and with all the enthusiasm of a bored housewife. “You know how to—” Then she cough-belched.

Jesus, even calling out the name while fucking sounded ridiculous. Sawyer and Lucas both snorted. Dylan rolled his eyes and cleared his throat.

Halting his forward thrust, Snowflake changed directions and swung around, a Glock pointed at Dylan’s chest, likely retrieved from under one of the stained pillows.

This he hadn’t anticipated. Why? He couldn’t say. It’s not like he should’ve expected anything less from human thugs. He’d kick Lucas’s ass for the spur of this moment idea later. Truth be told, things like this happened to too many shifters—relying to their superior strength, speed, and senses. Not taking into account the involvement of actual weaponry. Despite myths and the many tales that romanticized werewolves and shifters in general, silver didn’t kill a werewolf unless it did irreparable damage to vital organs. Being shot could mostly be healed, but sometimes it was an iffy thing. Although there was no coming back from a head or heart shot.

“Yo, D,” Sawyer said low enough that Snowflake wouldn’t hear. “We’ve got company.”

Dylan nodded. Lucas and Sawyer wouldn’t make a move unless they were threatened or given the signal.

Three clicks echoed in the silence as several of Snowflake’s men flanked them from behind. And they all had guns.

Fuck.
Wolves could outrun a lot of things. Bullets weren’t one of them.

“Who the fuck are you?” Snowflake spat, twisting a sheet around his waist, the aim of his weapon never faltering. He ignored the woman on the bed, splayed and naked to the world—not that she looked like she held any interest in the change of events. She rolled over, and a second later Dylan heard sawing snores.

The man on the bed was pasty white, like he hadn’t seen the outside of the crack house in… well, ever. What Dylan assumed was blond hair was shaved within an inch of its life, his head tattooed with a skull. He wasn’t overly big—muscular, yes, but no bigger than Dylan, Lucas, or Sawyer. And from what Dylan could tell, he seemed to be stout, shorter than any of them.

Dylan lifted his hands, giving the impression he wasn’t dangerous. Appearances were everything in the human world.

“You Snowflake?” Dylan knew how these things worked. These kinds of guys were predictable. If he hadn’t been shot yet, he could still talk his way out of it.

Snowflake glared at him through slits. “How the fuck do you know that name?”

“Got it from Victor.”

“Hmph.” Snowflake lowered his gun, but Dylan could still feel the three aimed at them from behind. “I’ll need to have a talk with Vic.”

One of the guys surrounding them snickered. Dylan couldn’t find it in himself to feel bad about tossing out the scumbag’s name. Loyalty and secrecy wasn’t part of his agreement.

“You a cop?” Snowflake asked, sitting on the edge of the mattress.

“Jesus,” Dylan barked. “No.”

“Even cops say they’re not.”

“Look, I’m just trying to help out a friend.”

Snowflake’s eyes narrowed at him again. “And you thought it was a good idea to come see Snowflake to do that?”

“Yeah, well, it was better than the alternative.”

“Which was?”

“None of your concern.”

“You’re a smartass.” Snowflake grinned, but it had no humor. “Got a name, wise guy?”

“Not one you need to know.” Dylan was not exchanging recipes with this guy.

“You’re asking a lot of a man you ain’t willing to give anything to.”

“What do you want?”

“Depends on what you need.”

“The sex traffickers. Their parties or auctions or whatever they call them. I want to know how to get an invite.”

“And let me guess, Vic told you about that too.” He sneered. “Fucking Victor.”

“I know the feeling,” Dylan mumbled. “Look, I just need an in.”

“And I need five Gs.”

Five thousand dollars. It wasn’t like Dylan didn’t have the money, but the shit didn’t grow on trees. If he got any deeper into this, he’d have to take out a loan to cover his debts.

“I’ve got something better,” Dylan offered. God, this was going to hurt.

“What do you have that’s better than cash?”

“A bike.”

Snowflake looked at him like he’d lost his mind. Although thinking about it, Portland was the land of bicycles, so he could see why the man was confused.

“A motorcycle,” he clarified. “I build them. Custom.” So much for not telling the guy who he was. “They’re worth more than five grand. I can have it delivered here tomorrow.”

The expression on Snowflake’s face told Dylan he was thinking about it. Then he stood and walked up to Dylan. Invaded his personal space. Dylan stood his ground, not backing away. To show weakness to a guy like Snowflake was the same as rolling over and showing his belly.

Snowflake nodded, then said, “I’ll text you the place and time. I hear the next party is coming up soon.”

After exchanging contact information, Dylan turned to leave.

“Don’t come here again,” Snowflake growled his warning. “When you get what you want, you forget my name. Feel me?”

“Yeah,” Dylan answered. “Someone will drop your ride off tomorrow.” He walked out of the room.

When he was halfway down the hall, following Lucas, Sawyer, and two of Snowflake’s thugs, he heard a loud, “Pleasure doing business with you,” mixed with laughter.

Outside, Dylan gulped a lungful of air and another. Then he turned to look at the house.

What the hell had he gotten himself into?

A
LMOST
A
week had passed since their meeting with Victor, and to say Avery was antsy was like calling Mt. Everest an anthill. Until they spoke with Victor’s contact, his “investigation,” for lack of a better word, remained at a standstill.

He hated feeling as if he were sitting around twiddling his thumbs while there were answers waiting to be found. Every time Avery saw Mr. Otis with nothing new to report, guilt streaked through his chest. Mr. Otis appeared to be resigning himself to the fact he might never see his daughter again. Avery couldn’t blame him. They were now into the third month since she’d vanished, and they barely had any information to go on—not about where she might be or even if she still lived.

It was enough to discourage the most stalwart of men, and if Mr. Otis had ever fallen into that category, he didn’t anymore. He was frail and growing weaker by the day, as if his dwindling hope was slowly draining whatever strength he had left.

Avery’s sense of helplessness increased every time he saw Mr. Otis. While some of the other wolves on his route had warmed to him, and some even chatted and asked how his day was, Mr. Otis held a special place. He was the only one Avery ever had real conversations with. Avery felt invested in his life, and now in Lacey’s too. Mr. Otis had become a friend of sorts. One of the few Avery had. To a prickly hedgie who’d always been rather solitary even among his own family, that meant something.

When Dylan walked into Avery’s loft Thursday night, Avery waited long enough for him to shed his jacket before he broached a subject certain to piss off Dylan.

“I think we should call Victor.”

Dylan hung his coat in the entryway closet and turned to Avery, his face grim.

“If it’s about the money, maybe I can pawn some more of my albums.” Avery gestured in the direction of his living room. He’d sold the rarest records when he was collecting money to repay his gambling debt, but there were some he could probably sell for a few hundred dollars. “It isn’t much, but—”

Dylan shook his head and turned. Avery followed him to the dining area, where Dylan pulled out one of the chairs at his table and dropped into it with a grunt. “It’s not about the money.”

“Then, what?” Avery moved to stand between Dylan’s parted thighs. “Mr. Otis is…. Dylan, I think he’s dying of sorrow. I’ve heard even though the bond ends with death, some wolves never recover from losing their mate. What if Mr. Otis is one of them? What if he only hung on after his wife died because of Lacey? I’m worried about what’ll happen to him if he loses both a mate
and
a child.”

Worry darkened Dylan’s features. “Avery, you have to realize that getting involved with this guy Victor mentioned might be dangerous. I won’t always be around to protect you, and if something happened to you… If something happened, I’d—”

“Do you want Mr. Otis to give up hope?” Avery set his hands on Dylan’s shoulders and met his mate’s eyes. “Despite what it seems like, I can hold my own. I got in over my head with Victor before, but I’m not totally incompetent, you know?”

“I know that. I do.”

“Then let’s get this done.”

Dylan hesitated.

Avery sighed, dropping his arms. “Fine. If you won’t call Victor, I will. I’ll find a way to pay him.” He turned and grabbed his phone off the tabletop, but before he could pull up Victor’s contact information, Dylan snatched it from his hand.

“I already called him.”

Avery’s spine went rigid. He rounded on Dylan, eyes wide. “What did you say?”

“I spoke to Victor’s contact already.”

Avery’s skin prickled, and he sucked in a shaky breath. “When?”

Dylan looked at him steadily. “Two days ago.”

Anger flared in Avery’s belly, sudden and sharp. “You paid Victor, and you went without me?”

Dylan swallowed and his gaze faltered. “Yes.”

“And I’m guessing this guy asked for money too? How much?”

Dylan nodded. “Five grand. But I cut a deal. I offered him one of my bikes instead. He’s supposed to text me with the info about the next auction. He said he could get me in.”

“Get
you
in?” Avery’s head threatened to explode. “So, what, this is your thing now? You went behind my back, and now you’re taking over?”

“Avery—”

“Don’t you dare claim you were trying to protect me,” Avery said at a near shout. The familiar pins-and-needles sensation of an impending stress shift washed over his body in a wave. He tried to fight it off. “When were you planning on telling me? Or were you not going to say anything until after the auction?”

Guilt flashed across Dylan’s face, and Avery’s temper snapped.

“You weren’t going to tell me! You gave up one of your motorcycles, and you were going to keep it a secret?”

Dylan said his name and reached for him, but Avery sidestepped. He didn’t want to be touched. Especially not by a mate who would keep this kind of information from him. They were supposed to be a team. When Dylan had offered to help, Avery hadn’t expected him to take matters into his own hands. Why was Avery even surprised? Wolves tended to be bossy and overbearing. It was part of why Avery’s father hated them. Of
course
Dylan would try to take charge. That was what wolves
did
.

“I promised Mr. Otis.” Avery thumped himself on the chest. “Me. I told him I’d help him find his daughter. Who the hell do you think you are?”

Dylan shot to his feet. “I’m your mate,” he growled. “And, yes, I was trying to fucking protect you. Everything I do lately is for you. I didn’t want you within twenty miles of some scumbag drug-dealing pimp.”