In Search of the Fountain of Couth Read online

  Moving to stand in front of Continent to save his life, Balere continued.

  “Continent, if you get stabbed, it’s your own fault. Arkham, I didn’t just meet you five seconds ago. I like Continent and as such wouldn’t dump a scourge on humanity on him and his lovely person.”

  “How lovely, Balere?” Continent purred in her ear.

  “I’m telling Jagen!” Arkham interrupted.

  “Is this Jagen the reason you ignore my attempts to make you mine, Balere?” Continent asked.

  “Yeah, and he’s way better than you!” Arkham spat.

  Balere sighed. She really needed to invest in a striped shirt and whistle whenever Arkham was in the presence of…anyone.

  “Um, no. The fact that you’re you makes me ignore your attempts, Continent. Now please, both of you, pay attention.”

  “MountDenali has a lovely cabin, and that’s where Arkham is staying until the Granddaddies come to fetch her.”

  “Did you ask, MountDenali?” Continent asked, not sounding the least bit concerned.

  “Nope, but I’ll let him know later on.”

  “He’s not going to like that.” Continent practically smiled the words.

  “And this is my ‘don’t give a shit’ face. Arkham, get in the truck. I’ll drop you off.”

  “What if I hate MountDenali?” Arkham asked.

  “There is no ‘if.’ You will hate MountDenali,” both she and Continent promised.

  “Predator, you’re in charge while I’m gone. Now both of you get to stepping. I’ve got money to make.”

  **

  While Balere’s little announcement was met with grumbles from Arkham and a grin from the lizard, Continent couldn’t stop the smirk on his face. Ah yes, his cousin was about to get it. It was going to be so good. The lovely Arkham was going to tear MountDenali a new asshole in no time flat.

  Chapter Five

  MountDenali enjoyed every moment of his run, though he wasn’t sure what he enjoyed more: the absolute quiet or the absolute absence of everyone. Having had more coffee, a bowl of stew, and a nap, he decided to head on over to check out the roads himself.

  Getting comfortable in his spacious cab, he didn’t waste one moment feeling guilty about taking a day for himself. Yes, his underlings would be good and pissed, but being none of them could whip his ass, that was pretty much the end of that argument. Plugging in his MP3 player to listen to some jazz, he was reminded why he enjoyed driving. It was just him, his truck and the beautiful Arctic scenery. No people, no shifters, no noise. And then his phone rang.

  If it hadn’t been for the tune, he would’ve ignored it, but it was damn hard to ignore the voice of Darth Vader proclaiming his parental role, especially considering the individual who had put that on his phone: Balere Kennesaw. He couldn’t think of the feisty Georgian without almost smiling.

  Ms. Balere Kennesaw was some kind of woman, and when she was on the scene, everyone knew it. In addition to being one of his best drivers, Balere was his favorite person (discounting himself, of course). Few people handled attitude so effortlessly. It was like she’d been groomed to handle ornery motherfuckers from birth. Most of all, it was her silence he appreciated. Balere didn’t bellow for anyone to do anything. Often, she silently told people to shut the fuck up. The few times she did speak, it was with a calmness that belied the things she promised she’d do if her wishes were not heeded.

  Originally, he’d been hesitant to have Balere ice-roading for Mann Trucking. It wasn’t that he had anything against females trucking, as there were plenty of females on his staff (pun intended). All of the female drivers had at least a decade of experience, all but one were shifters, and as for the other one, he didn’t know what the fuck she was, nor was he trying to find out. Not only was Balere new to the ice roads, she was fully human—a damn good-looking human at that.

  Despite Balere’s lack of shifter genes, she’d sure enough sweet-talked him right out of any reservations he’d harbored. Of course, that might’ve had a lot to do with the ridiculous amounts of moonshine she’d steadily poured down his throat. Her aunt might’ve sold that hooch under the label Wake the Dead, but after rising from unconsciousness, MountDenali thought it would’ve been more truthful to name it Hold onto the floor and see if you can find your spleen…and your esophagus…and your dignity.

  Ah, that was a good night of drinking—what he’d remembered of it. He’d woken on the floor of his den to the sight of Balere making herself at home. Sitting pretty on his custom leather sofa, stocking feet all propped up on the coffee table, Balere read the paper like she didn’t have a care in the world. The complete lack of give-a-damn-about-anything just made him appreciate her that much more.

  Briefly, he’d thought about flirting with her, but before he could work out if that would be a good idea or not, Balere had asked if he’d enjoyed his unconsciousness.

  “Maybe,” he’d hedged.

  She’d responded with a raised eyebrow. He didn’t have to be a shifter to realize the superior look she shot him…or the warning. A moment later, Balere waved her signed contract in his face, blew a kiss, and sashayed her fine ass out the door.

  Despite the brushoff, he routinely flirted with Balere. In turn, Balere routinely found new ways to laugh in his face without uttering a sound. He contented himself with the knowledge that if she hadn’t been in love with that lesser male, she’d be all over him. How could she not be? He was himself. Sometimes he wished he was a female so he could have the chance to have himself as a lover.

  So wrapped up in his own awesomeness, he’d forgotten that he had a phone call until he heard his name being screamed.

  “Motherfucker!”

  Ah, he missed him some Balere. “Yes, my lovely Balere.”

  “Remember how I gave you the antidote to my Aunt Mel’s moonshine that time?”

  Any semblance of a smile that may have been on his face was quickly replaced with a look of horror. Deep in his gut, MountDenali knew that whatever Balere was about to say was not going to end well…for him. “Yes, Balere. I also remember spending the next week looking for my spleen.”

  “Whining doesn’t become you. Anyhoo, yeah, I’m cashing in on that.”

  “Oh, you finally admit that you want to warm my bed?”

  “You wish, asshole. I’m going to drop stuff off at your cabin. As much as you’ll be tempted to kill it—don’t. Just to avoid the temptation, maybe you should just spend the next week or two sleeping in your office. Okay, ’bye.”

  The “no, wait, stop, don’t” that had been on the tip of his tongue didn’t even get a chance to get out of his mouth as he was so startled by the sound of a scuffle, the roar of some kind of big cat, and the hiss of some kind of reptile. The distinct sultry Southern ring of Balere threatening someone with death was the last thing he heard before getting an earful of dial tone.

  Damn, he hated that he was too far out to make it back and stop whatever chaos Balere was about to subject him to. Gritting his teeth, he dialed Continent’s direct extension.

  “Whatever Balere is about to do—stop her.”

  “And why would I do that, especially as I do enjoy Balere’s company, her aunt’s moonshine, and oh yeah, I also hate you?”

  “Because you don’t want me to kill you,” MountDenali supplied.

  All he got for his trouble was an earful of Continent’s laughter and a warning. “I hope you’re in good with the Creator because yeah, you’re going to need it.”

  **

  Arkham couldn’t believe Balere had just dumped her in the middle of nowhere. Okay, so the cabin wasn’t exactly in the middle of nowhere. It was a short snowmobile (which Balere had given her keys to) ride to the company headquarters and the bar the locales frequented, but still. It was the principle of the thing. Ah, well, it was small, but the cabin was laid out beautifully. Strolling around the cabin, she noted three things immediately: a—the smell of food; b—the location of the television; and, c—MountDenali Mann was an ass
hole…he had the belts to prove it.

  Mounted on the wall over the fireplace, they were right there along with his official placards. No wonder he and Balere got along so well, she thought as she turned and almost knocked over what she guessed was a true-to-size cardboard standout of himself. Really? Fucking really? she thought as she found herself getting pissed. How dare that motherfucker look good enough to eat? He was the wolf. If anyone was supposed to be eaten, it was her.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the phone. Since it wasn’t her phone and she wasn’t the fucking secretary, she didn’t make a move to answer it. She continued on to the kitchen, where she checked out the food in the crockpot and his fridge. Big motherfucker that he was, his kitchen was stocked like he was going to feed a family of ten…three times a day, for the next six months.

  Grabbing a handful of cookies, she was set to bite into one when his voice came on the answering machine. If you’re interrupting my solitude by calling, somebody better be dying that I want to see dead…or I’m going to kill you myself.

  If she didn’t get hot over the message, damn if she didn’t get hot over the voice that left it. Hot butter. That voice melted everything inside of her. Arkham wondered how that voice would sound panting out her name in the heat of passion. She didn’t discover that right then, but she did discover how her name would sound when spat with annoyance over a two-way radio.

  “Arkham Kennesaw, I know you’re in my house and I’m just letting you know not to mess with my stuff. Don’t get comfortable because as soon as I get back, you’re getting out.”

  Oh, no that motherfucker didn’t, she thought as she went all Olympic sprinter and snatched up the walkie-talkie thingy and went all Boondocks episode on him.

  “First of all, fuck you. Second of all, fuck you some more. And additionally, fuck your working voice box, fuck all of the people who didn’t bitch slap you to sleep, kick you awake, and leave your ass on the side of the road like the road kill you are—especially my sister Balere, who knows what kind of punk you are. Fuck your big motherfuckerishness, fuck your little trophies for being an asshole, fuck your little log cabin, fuck the spot where your log cabin is built, fuck the snow that surrounds it, fuck the cold, fuck your itty bitty television, fuck your big-ass ego, fuck your prissy little interior decoration. If your name’s not Belva Kennesaw, which it ain’t, you don’t tell me what to do. Not only am I going to make myself right at home, I’m going to eat your food, wear your clothes, let my dog lie on your leather couch, use up all of your hot water, and sleep in your bed. If you’re not scared to drag your bitch ass here, make sure you shut the fuck up because I’ll be sleeping and if you wake me up, you’ll be getting a fist to the throat. And don’t call back here, motherfucker, interrupting my quiet time. Arkham, over and out.”

  **

  When MountDenali woke up this morning, he expected the day to be like every other day. He’d check the ice roads to see if they were ready; check the drivers to see who was arriving and when; start some shit just because he could; and finish some shit because that was simply the type of badass motherfucker he was. What he didn’t expect was to meet the woman the Creator had made just for him. Though he hadn’t laid eyes on her, he knew without a doubt that Arkham Kennesaw was his. And if he doubted it, the cuss out she’d just given him proved it.

  He had no doubt that Arkham was not a woman others should cross. Good thing he wasn’t “others,” because he definitely planned to cross her…and ride her all the way to glory. All. Night. Long. She might be crazy (as Kennesaws tended to be), but crazy was something he could handle.

  If her body was anything like her voice, his cousin wouldn’t see him all week because he’d be balls deep in that body. Arkham called to him on every level. His wolf had sat straight up the moment the first “fuck” had dropped from her lips. It was all he could do to tamp down his wolf, who wanted to emit a howl that was part thanks, part claim, and part warning. The beautiful, unorthodox, feisty woman on the other end of that radio was his. MountDenali didn’t even consider the idea that Arkham might not want him. That was just plain crazy talk. How could she not want him?

  Arkham Kennesaw was his mate…no matter what.

  “I’ll take your ‘fuck you; and raise you a fuck. You talk a big game, but when I get home, you’d better be packed and ready to go and if not, you’d better be in my bed ready to be rode hard.”

  “Well then I guess you’ll be bringing some dudes with you who can do it. Now get the fuck off this radio,” she snarled.

  **

  Like everyone else who worked with Mann Trucking, Balere was stunned stupid at what she’d just heard. If she hadn’t been behind the wheel of many tons of vehicle, she would’ve doubled over in laughter. She guessed that Arkham had been too mad to realize that she was on an open frequency and that truckers up and down the West Coast had heard her threats and MountDenali’s promises.

  Pulling over, she texted Arkham.

  You were on an open frequency.

  And that means what? I didn’t leave anyone in a pool of their own blood…yet.

  And I’m so proud of you for that. However, you did just challenge a wolf shifter in his prime.

  Oh, well. I guess I’ll have a wolf pelt to nail to the wall then.

  Don’t hurt him…too bad.

  No promises.

  Chapter Six

  Arkham was mad at MountDenali, had been since the moment she laid eyes on the image of his fine, arrogant ass. How dare he look good in every fucking photo, of which he had a lot? How dare those emerald eyes bore into her like he was trying to discern every fantasy she had so he could fulfill it? How dare he be so much motherfucking man?

  Built like a mountain, she could practically feel the strength radiating from him. Arkham knew she couldn’t best him in a fight; further, she knew she’d never have to. That turned her on like nobody’s business. At six feet even and two hundred ten pounds, she was a whole lot of woman, and she wanted and needed a man who could handle that without being a bully and without wanting her to dominate him. MountDenali more than looked capable of the job.

  Of course, Arkham wasn’t about to admit that she wanted him. No way, no how, no way some more. Making herself at home in the spacious cabin, she immediately immersed herself in busy work in an effort to keep from revving up that snowmobile, riding into town and demanding to know the whereabouts of MountDenali. Yeah, she had to put the brakes on her fantasies, because if that motherfucker looked a tenth as good as his cardboard cutout, she’d demand he put his tongue to good use…on her body.

  She’d washed and dried her animals and used all of MountDenali’s towels and a goodly amount of electricity in the process of blow-drying their pelts. All except for Fluffy, who was gently wiped down with a damp warm towel before she wrapped the animal in a pair of MountDenali’s flannel pajama bottoms. Arkham didn’t feel the least bit guilty about it considering the pj’s had still been encased in plastic, meaning he probably didn’t wear them…which got her to thinking about him all naked and wet…which led her to find some more busy work.

  All of her busy work concluded, her animals settled, Arkham raided his fridge again for vittles before seeing to herself. She began with her face, waxing her eyebrows into submission until she had the “surprise” look down. Since she already had the wax heated, it was a no-brainer to do everything and then tend the lawn. Of course, since she’d done her brows, a facial was in order. She told herself the extra care was needed due to the long hours spent traveling and tending.

  Sure, washing your face was in order, as was a good scrubbing, but was a full-on facial necessary? her body mocked.

  Yes, because the cold weather has wreaked havoc with my skin and it only takes a few minutes to exfoliate, steam and apply a clay mask.

  Okay, we’ll buy that, but was the full body wax necessary?

  It wasn’t necessary; I simply wanted to get it out of the way because I don’t know what my schedule will be like in
a few weeks.

  Hmm-mmm. So why the scented, skin-softening oil?

  Because I want to, so shut up and mind your own business, dammit.

  And sloughing your skin with the sea salt scrub in your favorite scent? her body asked all smartass.

  Ignoring it, Arkham stood under the massaging jets of MountDenali’s steam shower before taking an inordinate amount of time rubbing cocoa-scented butter into her skin. Slipping into a pair of black, lacy boy shorts, she made her way to the plush leather sofa. Since she was already sitting there doing nothing in particular, it was nothing to see to her nails. Of course, she did all of this simply because she wanted to, and not because she was trying to impress MountDenali Mann.

  Why, after all, would she want to impress him? Just because he was everything and more that she’d dreamed of didn’t mean a thing. Nothing at all. Pissed with herself for caring, she went to bed…in his bed…because she could.

  Chapter Seven

  The time couldn’t pass fast enough for MountDenali. Never had time crawled so slowly, nor had the miles seemed so long, and never had he pushed his truck so hard. Still, it’d taken most of the day and a good chunk of the night to get back home. It wasn’t his home he’d wanted to get back to so bad; it was the female occupying his home.

  Dragging in well after seven p.m., he was met by a note on his door: QUIET! Animals sleeping. Like he gave a shit. Making as much noise as humanly and wolfly possible, he let himself in and discovered several things—mainly, how hot Hell was, being the heat was set to “sweltering” and his fire was stoked up to “inferno.” He would’ve said something, but he was met by the annoyed glares of an angst-ridden cat and henchman of a dog, which were lazing about in front of his fireplace. He didn’t speak dog or puma, but he was pretty sure he’d just been told to “fuck off” in both languages. Being the more advanced species, he snarled a “fuck you” in wolf to them both, before turning down the heat and tamping back the fire, which apparently was the wrong thing to do judging by the sudden rise of the previously semi-comatose cobra, which came out of its makeshift hoodie to hiss its displeasure.