Scott sat in his patrol car outside the coffee shop and ran his hand over his face. Man, this morning had been a bitch. He’d woken up incredibly hard, and not even a quick jerk off in the shower had helped ease the tension singing in his body.
If he could just stop having these god-awful thoughts, he’d be fine. But they haunted him, shook him to his core, and made him doubt everything he thought he knew about who he was and what he wanted.
He took a sip of the scalding coffee, wishing it would burn those crazy thoughts right out of his head. Wished he could stop thinking about the guy from the restaurant. Wished he could stop thinking “mate” for one goddamn second.
Mate. His body craved his mate. Like an addict craves drugs, an alcoholic craves a drink, or a bored housewife craves chocolate. He had no control over it, and that scared him to death.
Craved. That was a word he’d never understood until his gaze met that man’s gaze, and his world shattered.
Urges. Another word that he’d just come to know, a word he usually associated with his wolf. Those urges were animalistic, wild, and feral. The urge to mate—oh fuck there it was again—the urge to hold and protect and keep safe, the urge to kiss and be kissed. To love and be loved.
But not with another man. It wasn’t supposed to be that way. He wasn’t a prude; he believed that who a person loved was their own business. He did. He just never thought of himself as…gay.
“I’m not gay,” he said to no one. Maybe he just needed to hear it again, from his own lips, to convince himself of it. Somehow, he knew even if he said it a thousand times, it wouldn’t stop the need his body felt for a complete stranger.
He downed the rest of the coffee, turned on the car, and headed back to the station. Along the way, he resolved to talk to someone in the pack, someone older, who might know more about this mating thing. And how to get out of it.
Someone had to know a way. But who could he trust to ask? Even asking the questions would expose him. Who in the pack did he trust implicitly?
Bobby Cotteau? One of the oldest members and Scott counted him as more than a friend. The man had been like a father to him. But to see disappointment in Bobby’s eyes? No, Bobby was the last person he would go to.
That left Mike Hawkins. His best friend, beta, and the most reliable man he knew. Strong and confident in his position as Scott’s beta, they’d been together since grammar school. He’d had Mike’s back, and Mike had always had his.
Scott decided if there was anyone he could ask about this, it would be Mike. Mike could keep a secret; Scott knew that from their experience as teens, getting into trouble in the small rural parish.
He’d call him tonight and see if he wanted to get a beer after work.
Scott pulled into the station’s parking lot, parked, and made his way to his office.
“These are for you. None of them are urgent.” Terri handed him six pink slips of memo paper, took his coffee mug in exchange, and waddled off to refill it for him.
He plopped his hat on the hook behind the door and fell into his seat. He picked up the phone and punched in Mike’s cell phone number.
On the third ring. Mike answered. “Now, what does the sheriff of St. Jerome Parish want with me?”
“Can’t a friend just call a friend?” Scott laughed.
“Not if he wants a favor. That requires paperwork.” Mike chuckled. “What’s up?”
“Want to get a drink after work?”
“Sure. This pack business?”
“Personal.”
Mike’s breath whistled over the phone line. “Personal? Shit, I don’t think we’ve talked personal since I told you about finding Sharie.”
Scott remembered that phone call, the one telling him his best friend had found his mate. And Sharie had been perfect for Mike. It had been an easy decision to let her into the pack.
“Look, it’s nothing major,” Scott lied. “I just need to bounce a few things off you, that’s all.”
“Sure.” There was a pause as Mike rustled papers. “How about six at the Rougaroux?”
“The Rougaroux?” Scott hadn’t thought about meeting at the pack’s hall.
“Well, if I know you, this is going to be something you don’t want anyone overhearing.”
“How the hell—” Scott exhaled. “Yeah. Six at the Rougaroux.”
“See you then. And Scott?”
“Yeah?”
“Relax. Damn, I can feel the tension over the phone line. It can’t be that bad.” Mike laughed.
“Sure. Later, gator.”
Mike hung up, and Scott stared at the receiver.
It can’t be that bad.
Ho-ly shit.
»»•««
Ted and the others finished lunch at a small café on the road to the plantation. Not bad food, great sweet tea, and they’d managed to push a few tables together for the large party.
Darcy held court. The women hung on his every word. Kirsten seemed interested, but not overly. And Peter’s gaze kept dancing from Darcy to Ted.
Peter had taken the ride with Darcy. Ted had driven behind Kirsten, keeping a professional eye on her, and a completely unprofessional one out for the parish police cars.
Hoping to spot the sheriff.
How fucked was that?
Every time the door to the café opened, Ted had to check it out, see who it was, and every time a stranger walked through it, a small piece of him sank. A larger piece of him, the hunger and need to fuck, ratcheted higher.
His body was primed to blow. His cock grew to a hard shaft in his pants. He shifted in his seat to ease the discomfort. If he didn’t lose it soon, he’d stand up and give everyone at the café an eyeful.
He’d never been like this before. Something had taken over his body, and he no longer controlled whether or not he breathed. His body was stuck on hyperdrive, and his mind was stuck on “What the fuck?”
Not a pretty combo.
They paid, and everyone stood and headed for their cars. Peter edged next to him.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” Ted glanced at the younger man.
“Can I ride with you?” Peter frowned, maybe unsure about asking.
“Sure. But what about Darcy?” Had something happened between them?
“It’s the paint thinner and linseed oil. You were right. I’ve got a killer headache building. If I ride in his car to the plantation, I won’t be worth shit.” He rubbed his temple, his eyes looking tired and hurting.
“Did you tell Darcy?” Ted wasn’t going to get between them. He had no designs on Peter or Darcy for that matter.
“Not yet. Can I ride with you?”
“Sure.” Ted shrugged. “What about the ladies?”
“They talk too much.” He wrinkled his nose, looking fucking adorable. Seriously, something was broken inside Ted’s body if he didn’t want to fuck that sweet, tight ass.
“Okay, tell him and meet me at the truck.”
Peter walked off, and Ted headed to the men’s room. No telling how long they’d be out there, or if they had bathrooms to use. He didn’t mind peeing against a tree; he was a guy, after all, but it might be frowned on by the ladies and the plantation’s people.
After he came out, he bought a soda to go and went to his SUV. Peter leaned against it with all his stuff in a pile next to him, looking alone and lost.
“I’m ready.”
“How’d Darcy take it?” Ted unlocked the doors, and Peter loaded his equipment in the backseat and then got in.
“Take it?” Peter’s eyebrows rose.
“Look, kid.” Ted exhaled. “Don’t try to play me. I’m not interested in you. Darcy is. Fuck him. Don’t worry about fucking me, ’cause it ain’t gonna happen.”
“What?” Peter’s eyes widened.
“Innocent doesn’t cut it with me, either.”
Peter sat back, his long, delicate fingers playing with the frayed section of his jeans over his knee. Golden hair peeked through.
“Darcy just thinks he can have whatever he wants.”
“He wants you. You want him. What’s the problem?”
“Nothing. Everything.” He huffed and crossed his arms.
Ted drove out of the parking lot, following the others to the plantation.
Damn, he hated being some kid’s counselor. Still.
“Okay, what’s really the problem?”
“Promise you won’t tell. Promise you won’t go haywire.”
“I promise.” What could the kid be thinking? That Ted cared enough about him to give a shit about his problems.
“Darcy wants to fuck me.” Peter stared out the window.
“Right.” Ted made it sound like an encouragement.
“Bareback,” Peter whispered.
Ted nearly stomped his foot on the brakes and pulled the SUV over to the side of the road, but he just kept himself together. “What? Are you nuts?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Peter, I don’t know you from Adam. But I do know guys like Darcy. He’s probably fucked every man in his classes, and he’s been on the road for months.” Ted put his arm around Peter’s shoulder. “Look, kid. Tell him no. If he can’t respect that, then tell him to go fuck himself. Bareback.” Ted growled.
“I did. It’s just…” he faded out. “I really like him. As an artist, I mean.”
Ted could tell the guy was torn. “You came here just to study with him, didn’t you? Just to get to meet him?”
“Yeah, I did.” Peter stared out the window again.
“I’m sorry. Really, but you’ve got to know, people aren’t always what they seem. I see it all the time in my line of work.”
“What do you do?” Peter turned to gaze at him.
Shit, he’d said way too much. “Insurance.” He shrugged.
“Oh, yeah, I can see that.”
“Let me tell you, from one gay man to another. No one who asks you to bareback, and isn’t involved with you in a long-term relationship, and can’t prove he’s negative? That’s twisted, man.”
“I know.” Peter smiled at Ted. “Thanks. I mean it.”
“Nada.” Ted nodded.
Peter sank back against the seat, looking way younger than twenty-three and more than a little relieved.
When Ted got a minute with Darcy alone, they were going to have a serious talk.
Deadly serious.