Poppy

Wolves aren’t high on most people’s list of cuddly, fluffy animals. I mean, how many Internet memes do you see inviting you to hug a wolf cub? It’s all puppies, kittens, and the odd chick or bunny. If you’re having a bad day (or week, month, or year), petting something furry and big-eyed is the least the universe owes you. I get that. It’s just that I’ve always had a fascination with more toothsome lupines ever since I was given a stuffed wolf animal as a child. George was my favorite and constant companion—and he totally kept the bears, bunnies, and dinosaurs of my siblings in line.

So my wolf fetish started young.

I moved on to zoo exhibits and summer nature camps and then got a degree in zoology from UC Davis. My dad suggested I look into the veterinary sciences, but I prefer being outdoors, so I’ve been chasing down grants to pursue independent research out here in the bayou. Some days—like today—I have to question that preference, however. Biology isn’t glamorous, and hunting wolves is even less so. I’ve spent the night crammed into a hunter’s blind, waiting and hoping that the male of my dreams would come strolling out of the undergrowth for a little meet-and-greet. I did mention I’m a biologist, right? So the only penis I’m interested in belongs to something four-legged and furry.

Honestly, wolf penes are way more fascinating than any human dicks I’ve encountered. Nature designed them with a furry sheath that shelters the penis and keeps the sperm warm but not too warm. Mother Nature’s all about the procreation of the species. In another glad-I’m-human difference, a wolf’s penis contains a bone and he only achieves an erection after sticking it in, the wolf barb joining the happy couple together in Mother Nature’s dirty version of Velcro. Girl wolves have it rough.

There’s no mistaking my blind for a Four Seasons. Since I’m on grant dollars, I sprang for the not-so-deluxe model. My home-away-from-home is a plastic hexagon with windows on all sides and an elevation of five feet thanks to the stand of four-by-fours it sits on. Since it keeps my ass out of reach of the creepy crawlies that come out at night in the bayou, I’ll take it. Plus leaf print is all the rage this year. It’s kind of cute even if it’s smaller than your average New York City apartment.

I climb down stiffly. Sitting cross-legged all night reminds me painfully that I have a date with my tub and some restorative bubble bath where I can drown my sorrows because my date night in the bayou hasn’t yielded the results I wanted. No wolf showed. That’s okay. I already have plans to keep coming out here on a regular basis. When Mr. Wolfy comes strolling down the game trail, I’ll be ready for him.

Don’t judge. So what if sitting in a swamp overnight is the highlight of my love life? My last (and only) relationship was worse. In retrospect, Nathan had more teeth (and tendency to bite) than the gator I watched slide into the bayou somewhere shy of midnight. What started off as a fairytale romance with my suave, sophisticated professor took a righthand turn into hell, and so right now the only male I’m looking for is one hundred pounds of lupine love.

Finally staggering to the bank, I work out the worst of the kinks as best I can. My blind is not only lacking in space, but it’s seriously deficient in bathroom facilities. I pay a quick trip to the bushes (ugh) and then haul myself into my canoe. Since I’m financing this research project on a shoestring, I have the cheapest, most beat up, hardest-to-steer boat in creation. It’s overly long and made out of a cheap aluminum that I’m pretty sure I could dent just by poking my finger into the side. I haven’t tried. The previous owner must have used it to play bumper cars because the sides are pitted with dents and dings of varying sizes. It looks like one good blow would send it to the bottom of the ocean (or the bayou), but so far it hasn’t leaked and it more or less goes in the direction I point it. I named her Carol. Carol the Canoe.

She’s a little beat up, rather like me, but she’s going to get the job done. Beauty isn’t necessary, and, frankly, having a pretty face has been more of a detriment than not. I know that makes me sound like an ungrateful whiner, but it’s hard to get an all-male roomful of biologists to take you seriously when they keep checking out your tits or your face. The tits I can cover up with a nice big sweatshirt, but my face is harder. It’s not like I can walk around with a paper bag over it. My hair tries to help me out, the mass of out-of-control black curls rioting everywhere. Plus, I’m pocket-sized. Do I look like I could kick your ass? Nope. Not a chance. In all truth, I look like a dark-haired version of little Orphan Annie minus the freckles. It’s too bad I can neither sing nor dance, or I’d have a backup career option in case my grants ever dry up. I knock on the wooden paddle as insurance.

The sun’s just coming up over the horizon when I drop my gear into Carol’s capacious depths. All around me, the bayou starts waking up, the nighttime sounds of crickets and frogs fading away. An owl hoots softly, heading back to its nest to tuck in for the day. I’ve only been in Louisiana a few weeks, but I think I’m getting the hang of this field research thing. Previously, I spent most of my time either in the lab or in the library. Okay, so I’m not exactly Daniel Boone, and I’d rather have more distance than less between me and the less-than-crystal-clear bayou water. But this is a primo research opportunity. If I can prove that wolves have been reintroduced to the bayou, I’m guaranteed marquee placement in the peer-reviewed journal of my choice. In the admittedly unpopular world of biology, that’s the holy grail and career nirvana.

Have you read that book that swears if you visualize something long and hard enough, it’ll come true? That the power of attraction is like cosmic rubber cement and what you want will stick to you if you just wish hard enough? I love that book. It hasn’t worked for me yet, but—here’s the thing—I’m willing to give it a shot. I imagine finding proof of my wolves. I can see that journal article. Better yet, once I’ve got the proof, I’ll have the ammunition I need to advocate for better wildlife protections. All too often, wolves that live on the edges of human communities end up shot, mistaken for wild dogs or worse. I don’t want that to happen if there’s something that I can do to stop it.

I blame my active imagination for what happens next because as my canoe shoots out of a small offshoot and into a larger waterway, it’s suddenly not smooth sailing anymore. In fact, I ram the nose of my ride straight into the side of another, much larger boat. I have a handful of seconds to realize that not only have I totaled my boat, but I’m about to have a flying lesson free of charge. My canoe crumples, making its own concerted dive for the bayou floor, and I’m airborne.

My pack, with all my research notes and my precious video camera, goes in one direction—and it’s most definitely not the direction I head in. Damn IT. I hit the water hard and promptly sink. These sorts of things are so much funnier in movies. I go down like a rock (per the movies), but the brown water closing over my head is indescribably gross. There could be anything in here. It’s like trying to swim in a bathtub filled to the brim with rusty water, brownie sludge, and some suspiciously poop-scented stuff that stands an equal chance of being algae or some decomposing biological entity. And since screaming will only make things worse, I glue my mouth shut and kick for the surface. I’m not giving any flesh-eating bacteria a chance to swim down my digestive tract.

I burst out of the water. Okay. I try. I certainly get some clearance and my head’s out and I can breathe. Those are all good things. I take stock, doggy-paddling for all I’m worth toward what’s left of my poor Carol. Whatever we hit—I’m a chicken and not quite ready to look yet—was big. Immovable. Kind of like somebody suddenly dropped a brick wall in front of me and I drove straight into it. So I’m going to focus on Carol for just a moment—except she up and quits on me.

“Crap. Rest in peace, Carol.” My canoe slips dramatically beneath the bayou’s surface and fails to reappear. I’m now ride-less and bobbing around in the waterway too far from Baton Rouge. There could be alligators. Snakes. Mutant seaweed. I try to dial my thoughts back from Full-On Panic and flip the vacant spot where my boat should be the bird. When profanity doesn’t help my panic levels any, I whistle a bar of Taps and get a mouthful of water for my efforts.

Oh my God, I’ve got a problem.

Problems.

A big, angry problem that I spot when I paddle around in a circle and finally look behind me. I didn’t hit a wall, but I’ve absolutely encountered an obstacle. An obstacle that is glaring at me because I hit him with my boat and have undoubtedly caused untold property damage to his expensive ride.

He’s way too angry.

And way too close.

Suddenly I’ve got a little extra oomph. One minute I’m swimming for all I’m worth, and the next I’m flying upward. A hand closes on the back of my shirt and drags me up. I break the surface and come face-to-face with my rescuer. Once again, my life turns out to have nothing to do with moviedom. My heroic rescuer is most decidedly not Daniel Boone. Ax murderer or convicted felon comes to mind. He’s larger, rougher, and way more banged up than the guys I usually run into. And because he’s hauling me out of the water with single-minded determination, I’m practically nose-to-scar with the vicious scars that cover his bare forearms and disappear beneath the edge of his T-shirt. Instinctively, I clutch his arms, not sure if I’m trying to hold on—or make him let go. His skin is shockingly hot to the touch.

“You can’t drive worth shit.” He hauls me higher, my feet clearing the water.

This may not be an improvement on swimming in the bayou. The water plays hosts to snakes, crocodiles, and a million nasty, flesh-eating, blood-sucking insects, but those dangers can be neatly cataloged in my biology textbook. They’re risky, sure, but they can also be held at bay with a stick, a spear gun, or a healthy dose of antibiotics. I’m not sure anything can make this man safe. He growls again (actually growls) and gives me a tiny shake.

Angry men make me want to curl up in a tiny pathetic ball.

I told you my dating life sucks, right? Well the truth is worse. The last man in my life took douchedom to Alpine heights. He did a number on me, and as a result I’ve sworn off angry guys. I don’t do confrontation. Ever. Swimming back to Baton Rouge suddenly seems like the world’s best plan, and so I implement.

I swing for his nose.

He twists his head in an impressively casual move, and my blow glances off his jaw. Which is rock-hard. Naturally. Probably the only soft spots on the guy are his balls, and even those are likely made of steel. My hand promptly stings on impact. I wasn’t always so strong or so resistant. I took Nathan’s shit for two years, letting him wear me down with his words. It wasn’t until I worked up the courage and walked away (and okay, it was more of a run/slink but it got the job done) that I realized just how small he’d made me.

Hitting this guy feels good.

Yes, I’ll admit it.

It’s not nice of me, but I’m done with being nice. With playing by the rules. With letting some well-intentioned man little lady me. I do not drive like shit. I was distracted, I fucked up, and I’ll own my mistake.

Daniel Boone doesn’t seem impressed, however. He simply grunts and adjusts his grip on my shirt. Well fuck him. I swing again, a batter going for strike two. He shifts to counter my attack, and then he lets go.

I hit the water hard, going under briefly before I kick for the surface in a panic.

He’s watching me when I come up, and dunking me hasn’t improved his friendliness factor. “You wanna hit me again?”

God, yes.

“Can I reserve the option for later use?”

In case you haven’t noticed, my mouth gets me into trouble. It’s rarely connected to my brain in social situations, and it seems to be missing a filter.

He nods but doesn’t make any move to leave. “You’re a have-your-cake-and-eat-it-too kind of girl?”

“You have something against cake?” I look around hopefully but Carol the Canoe remains stubbornly submerged. I’ve killed her.

My new companion smirks at me. “Want a ride?”

“Does it come with strings?”

He shakes his head. “Maybe I’m a fucking Boy Scout, oui?”

Unlike the rest of him, Daniel Boone’s accent is gorgeous. It’s Louisiana Southern with more than a hint of Cajun bayou… and something else. French, maybe. Sexy? Definitely.

Nonetheless, caution is warranted. “Are you pissed off that I rammed your boat?”

He actually has to think about that for a second before he shakes his head. “That you hit the boat? Non. But you should be more careful or you’ll get hurt.”

Is that a veiled threat or actual concern for my well-being? Still, I think he might actually be telling the truth, and that’s… strangely hot. He looks a little surprised himself at what just came out of his mouth. He’s big and gruff and more than a little beat up around the edges, but he’s not mad. He’s solid, calm, and practical. He pulled me up and out of the mud as if it was no big deal. As if I were the lightest, easiest, sweetest thing he’s touched all day. God, I could kiss him for that alone, which I blame on my stupid hormones. This kind of alphahole is totally off my to do list. Forever.

If I need a reminder, he dropped me back in after he pulled me out and growled at me. Fear starts overwhelming any interest I might have in him—even if he does possess the only working boat at the moment.

“Get in,” he says as if there’s no question about my doing what he orders. As if he’s the one in charge here.

I really can’t tell if he’s mad, but he has to be, right? I’m not sure who or what to trust, but hello… I rammed my boat into the side of his, and this is not a game of bumper cars. From my bobbing-in-the-water position, the scratches are clear. I think I see a dent, too. It hasn’t quite achieved Grand Canyon proportions, but since it’s visible to the naked eye, he’s going to see it. I scraped the bumper of my ex’s BMW on a curb once, and he let me hear about it for the next month. I had to practice parking under his supervision for hours before he let me take the car again, and even then he demanded that he be my wingman.

Frowning, I tread water and stare up at the man I hit. From my current position, I look up (and then up, up, up some more) a well-muscled chest. His black T-shirt exposes an impressive amount of powerful biceps and forearms, making him more Mount Muscle Man than not. An equally impressive amount of scar tissue snakes across his left arm. Based on the quantity and size of the ropey marks, he’s lucky to still have an arm. Something bit down on him hard.

He grunts. That’s definitely an unhappy sound. “My face is up here, babe.”

Yes, I got sidetracked. Welcome to my universe. I paddle a little harder to stay in place. I don’t think the water’s that deep here, but no way will I put my feet down. God knows what’s lurking on the bottom. Mud, sticks, fanged beasts, and water snakes… I prefer my bayou from a safer, drier vantage point.

I shift my eyes to his face as ordered. The left side of his jaw matches his forearm. I revise my opinion from lucky to have an arm to lucky to be alive.

He runs a hand over his jaw. The scarred side of his jaw. “You swim too long, and you might meet my buddy. On the other hand, you could paddle on over here, and I’ll give you a lift if you ask nicely.”

He makes the choice sound so simple. Stay in the water and face down monsters. Go to him and get rescued. And it’s not like I really have any good choices here. Sure, I can swim to the bank, but getting out is going to be a bitch. I’ll end up scratched to shit, and then I’ll be mosquito bait and miles from civilization. It’s always possible another boater passes by and I can flag them down for a lift, but this particular part of the bayou isn’t precisely Grand Central Station. It’s more like the train-comes-once-a-week depot in the middle of nowhere. I could be waiting for a very, very long time.

But can I trust him?

He sighs. Loudly. “Pretend I’m a fucking Boy Scout, oui?”

His boat is as oversized as he is. I could try to scramble aboard on my own, but I’m a) not sure I’d make it and b) certain it would look ridiculous. He nods and leans over the edge.

“How are we doing this?” He’s built like a linebacker, but I don’t want him hurling me over the edge. I’m not into pain.

He holds up his hands. “I’ll pull you in. Just like fishing.”

Okay. Gotcha.

He extends a hand toward me, his fingers closing over mine, and then holy shit he just kind of eases me out of the water. It’s smooth as an elevator. Not only is he way too big and strong, but the grim expression pasted across his face reminds me way too much of the look my ex got right before he started in on the ever-growing list of my failures. This man really isn’t happy.

As soon as I can, I wrap my fingers around the edge of his boat and finish the job of hauling myself over. While I flop onto the floor ungracefully, he moves over and flips up a seat cushion, revealing a storage chest. I suppose it’s too much to hope he has a Jacuzzi, a space heater, and a clean pair of sweats in there. Yeah. It definitely is.

Still, when he turns around, he’s holding a plaid blanket. The guy really is a hero in disguise. You know. Except for the whole surly, angry thing he’s got going on.

He extends the blanket to me. “Best I can do for now.”

The for now part sort of bothers me, but I decide to come back to that later. I’m covered in mud, soaking wet, and now missing all my gear. This sucks on multiple levels. Most importantly, I need my camera and notes. Almost equally important, however, is the unfortunate fact that my keys and my wallet were in that pack. Getting back into my rented condo is going to require a B&E.

I lean over the side of the boat, trying to pinpoint where Carol went down. If I’m lucky (which is not how today has gone so far), my pack will be sticking out of the water, bone dry and easily accessible. In addition to my notes, I could really use the four grand worth of equipment tucked inside because replacing those things will be almost impossible. And my research has already hit the skids, if I’m being honest. Someone stole the wolf corpse out of my lab last week before I’d had the chance to autopsy it. Who does that? Who the hell steals a dead body? And where on earth am I going to get a replacement? Cadavers have to be one of the few things you can’t buy on Amazon. Plus, I needed that wolf. Does that sound creepy? Well, it’s still true. That wolf was part of the case I’m building for the reintroduction of wolves to the bayou. It’s like the prosecution in the OJ Simpson trial suddenly discovering that the leather driving gloves worn by the murderer have gone AWOL on the very morning that they were planning their dramatic courtroom reveal. We have the gloves! We know the murderer was here! I have a dead wolf! Clearly, there are wolves living in the bayou. Without the wolf, I’m screwed unless I find new evidence.

When I lean over the side of Alpha Guy’s boat, he asks me what I’m looking for—and I tell him. He nods slowly, his eyes running over the water that’s eaten up my shit. You’d think a pack would float for at least a few minutes, right?

“You shouldn’t be out here, babe.”

“Are you the bayou police?” I try to make a joke, but it falls flat, and I inch backward a few steps. Pissing him off is not a good idea.

He gives me a hard look. “My ride, my rules. You want to swan dive over the side and make other arrangements, go right ahead.”

I’m pretty sure he means it.

His voice is rough, as if he doesn’t give a fuck about anything but getting me out of his bayou. This is the part where I should nod my head vigorously. Agree with the man. Pay lip service to his stupid asshole claims until we’re back on shore somewhere less remote and far more civilized. I don’t even have a phone, and it will be days before anyone thinks to come looking for me. My cat will starve.

I stare out at the bayou, but it’s not as if I can see it because my eyes are full of stupid tears.

Something pokes out of the water, and for a moment I’m hopeful. Unfortunately, it turns out to be a rather slimy piece of old log. Carol remains stubbornly AWOL, may she rest in peace.

Alpha Guy gives me another impatient look, but he doesn’t move toward the motor and the steering wheel thing. “Oui?”

I’m not the most gifted of public speakers, but right now I need to convince him that my red wolf research is super worthy—and that by extension, fishing my crap out of the water therefore is, too. That he’ll be helping save an endangered species by lending a hand. That he wants to help me.

I sneak a look at his face. Yeah. That last one is a long shot.

Still, I pitch him the idea for all I’m worth. “Predators are very important,” I tell him. “They’re a first-string player when it comes to maintaining ecosystem health.”

“Babe, I’ve got no idea what you’re going on about,” he says. “But your bag’s gotta be on the bottom of the bayou.”

“Wolves.”

His gaze shifts from the water to mine. “Still unclear, although I hear you on the importance of predators.”

Nope, oral communication skills aren’t my strong point. I do much better when it’s me, my laptop, and unlimited alone time with Microsoft Office, but something tells me this guy isn’t going to wait around for me to produce a white paper or a set of presentation slides. I’m done listening to him, and most days, I can keep him out of my head. Today, however, is turning out to be unusually suck-tastic, so my brain has decided it would really like to just give up and become an echo chamber for every shitty thing Nathan ever said to me. To drown out said echo, I give explaining another shot.

“I’m a biologist. I’m researching the reintroduction of wolves to the Louisiana bayou.”

My new companion’s still staring at me.

Head up, chin out, right? I stare right back. This is one of those awkward moments when possessing an awesome super power like mental telepathy or mind control (I’m desperate enough to overlook any minor ethical issues) would be a welcome development. Unfortunately, I’m on my own, however, so I stare/glare into the sexiest pair of hazel eyes I’ve ever seen. God, his eyes are gorgeous, a melted chocolate brown with streaks of caramel. You know. If candy bars had teeth, a death wish, and a side of surly—because this guy does not look happy. I drop my gaze to the water.

My bag still hasn’t surfaced.

“No wolves in the bayou,” he says shortly.

“No, see,” I say way too eagerly, “I think there are. And I’ve got a grant to prove it.”

He mutters something both obscene and creative. Possibly anatomically impossible. I slide right, putting a little more space between us. I can only run so far before I’m back in the water, but he makes me nervous.

“And then what?” he demands.

“And then we take steps to protect the wolves. Make sure humans aren’t encroaching on their territory, that there’s no unauthorized hunting going on, that sort of thing. So your help right now is a big deal, and I really appreciate it.”

This guy doesn’t look like your average PETA member, but hope is the last strategy I’ve got at the moment. He glares at the water some more, and I count my blessings that he’s not looking at me.

“Fucking unbelievable,” he announces to the bayou.

At least I think he’s not talking to me.

I hope.

In any case, I shut up and mentally cross my fingers.

He turns until he’s looking down at me (which is ridiculously easy for him, seeing as how he’s built like a mountain and I’m more of a small curvy hill). He crosses his arms over his chest and transfers his glare from the water to me. Yikes.

“You find anything good last night?”

“Not a thing.” And that just makes it worse. I sat out here all night, swatting mosquitoes and trying to avoid a pee trip into the bushes, and I have nothing to show for it.

“You gonna try again?”

I give him the truth. “Until I run out of grant money.”

“So if I pull your shit out of the water, I could be singlehandedly saving the entire wolf population?”

Anything is possible, right? “Absolutely.”

“All right then.” He nods like we’ve just come to an agreement about something important, and then he starts stripping down.

What the hell? He removes his shirt, boots, vest, belt, and a small arsenal of weapons while I stare at him like some kind of hormone-struck idiot. The leather vest he folds up and sets on the seat has me asking questions, though. I’ve seen those before. It’s a biker vest and proof of his badassery.

“Member of the Breed MC,” he says. Guess he thinks I’m curious about the vest. I know who they are. Pretty much everyone does who lives and works in this part of Baton Rouge. It’s like knowing which neighborhoods you never, ever drive through—kind of a survival skill. I’ve seen the odd biker, but our paths have never crossed. They don’t seem to be big on hanging out at biology labs, and my personal life is sadly short on visits to biker bars. But this is the perfect opportunity to learn more, and he’s stopped glaring like he wants to kill everything in sight, so carpe diem.

“What’s it like, being a club member? Do you wear the vest and the patch all the time? Where do you keep your bike? How often do you ride? And why do you have a boat?”

Silence.

Somehow I don’t think he’s deciding which question to answer first. I’ve been in the bayou overnight, so he’s the first living, breathing person I’ve run into today. I have a lot of words stored up in me, and he’s the lucky recipient. Plus, questions are my catnip.

“Hey.” His thumb brushes over my mouth, and I jerk my head back. Why is he touching me? Why am I letting him? “I gotta get your stuff, oui?”

I’d like to say it doesn’t matter, that I could do this for myself, but the truth is? I can’t. So I just kind of stand around and watch as he vaults onto the railing and then dives in. I guess I thought he’d fish around with a boat hook or something because this hands-on approach is unexpected.

And more than a little worrisome.

Who does that? Isn’t he worried about creepy-crawlies or water snakes and alligators? Even a decent-sized snag could do him in, and there’s undoubtedly a million different kinds of bacteria swimming around down there and jonesing to move into a nice, warm human body.

He’s down a long time. Long enough that I start to worry. And then he pops up and effortlessly tosses my waterlogged pack into the bottom of his boat. I think I’d hate him if he didn’t scare me so much.