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  In Search of the Fountain of Couth

  Jeanie Johnson and Jayha Leigh

  Copyright © 2011 by Jeanie Johnson and Jayha Leigh

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including but not limited to: printing, photocopying, faxing, recording, electronic transmission, or by any information storage or retrieval system without prior written permission from the authors or holders of the copyright.

  This book is a work of fiction. References may be made to locations and historical events; however, names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the authors’ imaginations and/or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), businesses, events or locales is either used fictitiously or coincidental. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only.

  Published by

  Beautiful Trouble Publishing, LLC

  PO Box 61

  Colfax, NC 27235

  www.beautifultroublepublishing.com

  Cover Art: Shara Azod

  Editor: Stephanie Parent

  Proofreader: Novellette Whyte

  http://authorgurunovellette.blogspot.com/

  Formatting: Jim & Zetta http://www.jimandzetta.com/

  E-book conversions: Jim & Zetta http://www.jimandzetta.com/

  ISBN: (ebook) 978-1-61788-160-2; (print) 978-1-61788-161-9

  To little brothers, big sisters (and big brothers and little sisters)...and the forces in the universe that stop you from jooging them in the throat. Grin.

  And to Dréa, who insists that she owns all of this. That’s highly debatable (as the JandJ kept DIBS on Fletcher, Grandma, the Granddaddies etc), however what’s not debatable is that we do indeed love you. —Jeanie and Jayha

  Note about eBooks

  eBooks are NOT transferable. Re-selling, sharing or giving away eBooks is a copyright infringement. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author or Beautiful Trouble Publishing.

  CAVEAT

  This work of erotica contains adult language and sexually explicit scenes, which are smoking hot. This book is intended only for adults, as it is defined by the laws of the country in which the purchase is made. Keep this book out of the hands of under-aged readers.

  Prologue

  “If I have to deal with it, it’s going to be a breaking-news-story type day and you’re going to find yourself swimming in the blood of the nonbelievers,” he promised before he hung up the phone.

  “Ah, it’s so good to see you’re getting along with people,” Continent said.

  “Do you have a problem with the way I run Human Resources?” MountDenali asked his cousin.

  “I have a problem with the fact that you think you’re ‘running’ Human Resources.”

  “Really?” MountDenali asked.

  “Really,” his cousin replied.

  And that was all it took for MountDenali to haul off and punch his cousin in the face. Looking at the clock, he smiled. He’d set a new personal best for the longest he’d been in the office without having to maim someone: ten minutes, forty-three seconds. Still, that was nine minutes too long.

  Bemoaning the existence of others, MountDenali headed outside knowing it was well past time to get out of Dodge if there was going to be anyone unmaimed to drive the ice roads. A solid dose of solitude would do wonders for his temper. Of course, he’d only made that decision once Continent had told him to get the fuck out and punctuated it with an elbow to the back of the head.

  MountDenali didn’t even bother to tell anyone he was leaving, and due to the wave of asshole rolling off of him, no one even fixed their mouths to ask. Securing a cup of coffee, he climbed in his truck and headed to his winter cabin that was tucked deep into the Alaskan wilderness. He stripped, shifted and headed off for a run the moment the truck stopped. Sure it was cold, but the cold didn’t bother him, just like the heat didn’t. No kind of weather bothered him…only people with working voice boxes did.

  **

  No one would ever accuse MountDenali Mann of having tact, good taste or good sense. Of course, he didn’t give two shits about what people said or thought about him as long as they did it out of earshot. He knew who he was (a Mann), what he was (one of the baddest motherfuckers in all of anywhere), and what he wanted (anything his heart desired…and he wasn’t shy about demanding it).

  What he wanted first and foremost was to be left the fuck alone. It wasn’t much to ask, especially considering that he saw to his duties during the day. Mann Trucking was the premier trucking company west of the Rockies. That was why he felt no guilt about the tenacity with which he pursued his pleasures by night. MountDenali lived by the three F’s: fighting, food, and fucking—and not necessarily in that order. Rarely did he have to be coerced to join into a fight or partake in vittles, but females…now that was a whole ’nother story. A male who wasn’t particularly picky about shit else, he was damn selective about partners. While he could appreciate all females, he had a thing for members of the fairer sex who were big and mean. The bigger and meaner they were, the more they called to him. Topping seven feet and three hundred ten pounds, his eye always wandered to females size eighteen and up.

  Try as he might (and appreciating the opposite sex like he did, he had given it more than the old college try), he just couldn’t let go with petite lovers for fear he’d break something. It wasn’t just the size that turned him on—feistiness had the same effect. Many of his road dogs harbored fantasies of nabbing the proverbial lady-in-waiting type, but knowing that asshole ran deep in his family, he couldn’t in good conscience wish for that sort of partner. Nah, he needed a female who could give as good as she got—both in bed and out of it.

  While he’d found females who were good in bed and a few who could match his asshole and raise it, he’d yet to find all of that in one lover. Unlike many of the males in his family, he hadn’t scoured the world looking for her, but when he came across her, he’d tear up hell and half of Georgia to keep her. Of course, being a shifter in his prime, and a Mann shifter at that, he wasn’t in any rush to settle down just yet…especially when the females flocked to him. As they should.

  He had plenty to keep him busy. Dealing with the family’s ice road trucking company was fairly routine, if one didn’t count the unpredictable weather, the unpredictable drivers, or the unpredictable customers. In all actuality, he didn’t. There wasn’t a damn thing he could do about the weather, so he didn’t worry about it. If worse came to worst, drivers and vendors could always go missing, not that Continent approved of killing as a way to end disputes.

  Still, he put up with people and shifters because the industry allowed him copious time to himself, as the bulk of the work took place over just a few months of the year. While there was work to do the rest of the year, it still left more than ample time to work on his other love: doing what he could to maintain his coveted Alaska Territory Asshole of the Year title. Unlike beauty queens, he had no crown or sash, but he had something better: bona fide championship belts proclaiming him the best there was.

  True, he’d only had a shot at the title once his older brother Yukon and his platonic life mate, Sendoa Ryan, had taken themselves out of the running by moving the hell out of Alaska, but he’d done what even those two hadn’t been able to accomplish: he’d unified the titles. Before Sendoa had moved to Alaska, Yukon had held the title for fifteen straight years. Once Sendoa made it clear he wasn’t leaving anytime s
oon, he and Yukon had been voted co-assholes of the year—every year—and been promptly dubbed “Asshole One” and “Asshole Two.”

  He couldn’t overlook their feat, but they’d only held the title for Alaska Territory. MountDenali, on the hand, not only held that title, but had also wrested away the title for Asshole of all of the Rocky Mountains, and Asshole for everything above 45°N latitude and between 100° through 160° W Longitude, affectionately referred to as “them cold as hell places.” He carried his titles with pride…and wore one of the belts each day to work…just to remind motherfuckers who he was and what he was capable of…at any given moment.

  Considering the fact that the area was inundated with rough motherfuckers, one would think he’d have more competition. If Asshole One and Asshole Two ever decided to move back home, he might’ve, although he suspected uncle-hood had made them a bit soft. It was hard maintaining that sweet mix of asshole and motherfucker when one spent three-quarters of every day cuddling babies and making goo-goo eyes at them. The forecast was bleak. It looked like he wasn’t going to have much competition this year, although it did appear he’d have to kick off a slew M-D-Ks before the ice roads even officially opened.

  Chapter One

  Balere Kennesaw was one of the few people who could honestly say they loved their jobs. Of course, it was hard not to love your job when you drove one of the most badass things in existence. Sure, driving the custom-detailed rig that turned heads wasn’t as fun as driving six foot five inches, two hundred twenty-five pounds of grade-A hotness, but that was another complaint for another time. Hopefully, a time when she had her vibrator in hand and some free time.

  Right now, she had bigger fish to fry, namely which motherfucker was about to intrude on her solitude and her sanity. A woman who liked adventure, she also appreciated badassedness. That is, in everything except that badass motley band of women others insisted were her sisters. While they all loved the shit out of each other, copious time apart was necessary to prevent bloodshed, massacres and the like, she thought while waiting for her sister to arrive.

  Balere wasn’t even given the courtesy of knowing which sister was arriving; she was simply given instructions to go fetch her. Regardless of wanting to argue with Grandma Belva, she knew better than to fix her lips to utter anything that remotely resembled a protest. Grandma Belva might be of incalculable age, but an elbow to the windpipe still hurt regardless of who was delivering it.

  It didn’t matter where she was; one of her sisters would always track her down and make a nuisance of themselves. One would be hard-pressed to believe that Arkham, Raider, Matrix and Shazam! (exclamation point included) not only had jobs, but were damn accomplished at them, with the way they habitually dropped in and made themselves at home in her rig. Sure, she’d told all of them at one time or another to “fuck off,” but that insult went in one ear and right out the other. One day, she’d admit that she loved those crazy bitches, but it wouldn’t be today, she thought as she watched Arkham stroll her way.

  Of all of her relatives, Arkham gave her the most pause. Chick was a “What the Fuck” moment just waiting to happen. Actually, her entire life was a montage of “What the Fuck” moments. And when she said “What the Fuck” moments, she meant it.

  Arkham was one of the few Kennesaws whom even the rest of the Kennesaw clan tiptoed around…with good reason. There was a whole lot of crazy tucked into her six foot, two hundred ten pound frame. No one could blame genetics for all that crazy because there wasn’t a damn thing wrong with her mind, as evidenced by her Ph.D.

  Balere blamed it on those semesters of northern exposure Arkham experienced while in grad school. Okay, technically South Dakota was more the Midwest then the North, but anywhere that didn’t have sweet tea as a default was a place that Southerners didn’t need to be. Sweet tea deprivation might’ve had a little something to do with it, but the truth was that Arkham wasn’t crazy; Arkham was just an asshole. And when her asshole was challenged, somebody was going to have a bad day.

  To be fair, Arkham didn’t just fuck up someone’s shit all unannounced; Arkham gave fair warning first, which usually began with “Motherfucker, you got one more time.” When Arkham popped off that “back off” speech, it was best to not just back off, but to get the hell out. Those who didn’t heed that warning simply had not fared well (or anymore). Arkham’s history was littered with unfortunate souls whose primary crime was being unable to pick up on a cue.

  Arkham had been kicked out of school, banned from church, had her rights to bear plastic eating utensils revoked, and even asked to leave a blood drive once when a competition between her and her sister Shazam! had gotten out of hand. It was no wonder they called her Arkham—not that there was an asylum that could hold her if someone had been crazy enough to try and have her committed. Still, she was her sister, and as such, she couldn’t choke-slam her into the snow and peel off like she wanted to. And hearing the ruckus in Arkham’s “luggage,” oh how she wanted to.

  Chapter Two

  “What’s in those crates, Arkham?” Balere asked her lunatic sister for the six millionth time. For the six millionth time, Arkham didn’t tell her. It wasn’t the not telling her that concerned Balere; it was the look on her sister’s face. Arkham’s dark eyes literally glittered with excitement. Balere didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to know there was something up with her sister’s “luggage.”

  First, all kinds of sounds were coming from those wooden crates—none of which Balere had been able to identify. Second, Arkham’s faithful two-year-old Rottweiler, Predator, hadn’t taken his eyes off those crates. Third, it was Arkham who had once left her boyfriend unexpectedly spilling his DNA after a game of Scrabble had gotten out of hand. ’Nuf said.

  Drawing upon her deep well of patience, Balere simply let her sister be, knowing that was the best way to avoid bloodshed. Sooner or later she’d find out what her sister was smuggling in the crates. She just hoped it wouldn’t land them on some kind of list. Correction—she hoped it didn’t land her on some kind of list. Arkham was already on a whole bunch of lists, as she had the tendency to leave unsuspecting souls in a pool of their own blood. That, however, was a story for another day, she thought as she spied their turnoff.

  “We’re here. Just stay in the truck. I’ll check in with whichever Mann brother has the helm and see where we’re at with the hauls.”

  Arkham didn’t respond. She simply snuggled closer to Predator and went into plot mode. The average person would take one look at Arkham and think she was asleep, but Balere knew better. It was the smile-smirk that gave it away. Of course all of Arkham’s looks were variations of a smirk, but since she’d been quiet for the whole hour and forty minute trip up to the base, Balere let it slide.

  **

  As soon as Balere was far enough away from the truck, Arkham sprang into action. Carefully tucking the blanket around her baby Predator, she set about unpacking the crates and getting her surprise ready for Balere.

  **

  Balere took one look at Continent’s face and smiled. “Good to see you and MountDenali getting along so well.”

  “I know, right?” the seven-foot specimen of bronze hotness agreed. “It was a full ten minutes before I had to kick his ass out of the office.”

  “I hope you got some back,” Balere said, recalling how difficult MountDenali had been about letting her drive for Mann Trucking.

  “Of course, I am, after all, the best thing going pretty much anywhere.”

  Balere couldn’t help but laugh at Continent’s attempt at flirting with her, just like she did every time he tried it. A handsome wolf shifter, he was part of the legendary Mann family. If she hadn’t been part of the legendary Kennesaw clan, she might’ve been impressed. She’d heard some stories about those Mann wolves, but she’d lived those stories with her family. Nobody did “what the fuck” like they did.

  Thoughts of family were interrupted by Continent’s last bit of flirting. Ah, she had to admit Continent�
�like all Mann shifters—flirted often and with expertise. If she hadn’t met Jagen Archon, Balere might’ve been stepping out of her panties right now and settling herself over Continent’s devastatingly handsome face, but she had met Jagen, so all she could do was smile. Balere liked Continent, but she wasn’t in like with the shifter.

  She had a man, and Continent had met said man, but that didn’t stop the wolf shifter from flirting. And liking him didn’t stop her from busting his chops.

  “Dude, you so couldn’t handle me as your woman.”

  “Oh, but I’d like to try. Come on, Balere. You’re already my work wife, so you might as well make an honest wolf out of me.”

  “If I did that, you’d never get any work done, being barefoot and pregnant and all,” she quipped as they strolled to her ride.

  “You wound me,” he said.

  “Not yet, but I can pencil that in.”

  “If you won’t marry me, at least talk Cannon into pimping my ride,” Continent said as he eyed her rig.

  Before she could answer, she heard Predator yip twice before the rig door opened and Arkham jumped down from the cab. It wasn’t the fact that Arkham jumped from her cab that had her on edge, it was that look in her eye. Balere knew that look, and she knew to be highly suspicious of that look. Absently, Balere wondered if her grandma and granddaddies would be able to find Arkham’s body under the Ice Roads if she accidently-on-purpose killed her.

  “By the way, that’s my sister Arkham, and yes, she was born this way.”

  “What way?” Continent asked.

  “FUBAR—Fucked Up Beyond All Repair,” she responded, seeing the smile on her sister’s lips signaling that crazy wasn’t far away.