STAR-CROSSED
Romance on the Go ®
Megan Morgan
Copyright © 2017
Chapter One
He smelled her long before he saw her. A block away, maybe two. That was how it worked, when one found his mate. No amount of distance could suppress it, no other scent could obscure it. That particular fragrance awoke a primal urge deep inside of him and made his back teeth ache.
“But I’m only twenty-three!” Gentry slapped his hands on the steering wheel and proclaimed this to the interior of his car. The light was still red. He suddenly wanted to run it.
“Late bloomer,” his father chortled later on the phone. “I met your mother when I was nineteen.”
Gentry thought he had at least a few more years, though. A few more years to screw around, play the field, sample a bigger cross-section of all the beautiful women southern California had to offer. Once he found his mate, that was it. He wouldn’t want another. He couldn’t want another.
This all seemed terribly unfair, some huge biological joke. He’d heard about some not finding their mate until their forties, anomalies every one. But secretly, he’d hoped to be one of those anomalies. His whole pack would worry and fret, but goddamn, that was all they did anyway.
So much for hanging out with his new friends tonight, or attempting to be a normal person for a while. He’d come here to get away from the realities of his life, but here they were, hooks ready to sink right back into his flesh. Or claws, as they were.
He followed the scent, his original destination forgotten, half-grudging, all instinct. The trail led to a flashy nightclub on Sunset with a long line of people waiting outside. He scanned the crowd and parked across the street like some kind of creeper. He was, sort of.
When his gaze fell upon her, he knew in an instant. His breath caught. That ache in his teeth turned to a throbbing that made him salivate. So here she was. His destiny, his gift. He squinted, trying to get a better look at her.
Wow.
****
Starr glared at her phone screen through the ribbon of smoke that curled from the end of her cigarette. “I hate people who don’t answer their damn phone. Or their damn texts, or anything.”
The red-headed chick with her—Mary? Marnie?—shook her head. Starr regretted bringing her, since all the girl did was whine, but she hated to go to these places alone even more. Too many weirdos. Too many guys trying to scope her out and pick her up. Starr was new at the restaurant, and this girl was the only person she’d met so far who wasn’t too coked out to act as a bodyguard. Sisters in solidarity, and all that crap.
“We’re not getting in there.” Mary-Marnie stood on her tiptoes and peered over the heads of the people in front of them. “The place is packed. No one is coming out. Fire code, you know. And besides, I don’t think my fake ID is good enough to get me in. Why don’t we go somewhere else? I know this cool bar. They don’t even check IDs. It’s a few blocks from here.”
Starr rolled her eyes and plucked the cigarette from the corner of her mouth. “I gotta get in there. This producer I want to meet is supposed to be here tonight. I know if I just talk to him, he’ll let me audition.” She scowled at her phone. “James said he could get us in, dammit. Why isn’t he answering?”
Mary-Marnie snorted. “James the dishwasher guy?”
“He said he’s got connections in the industry.” Starr turned and scanned the building. Maybe there was a back door they could sneak in. A fire escape? She’d never done anything that crazy or badass, but they did it all the time in the movies, right?
“James tells all the girls that. He’s trying to get laid.”
“Wait, so the producer isn’t going to be here?” Starr would strangle him with her bare hands.
“Why don’t we go hang out at my parents’ place? They’re away all weekend. I can get us some blow and we can call some of the guys from work.”
So much for a sober guardian.
Starr shook her head. “I need to get in there for a few minutes and see if—”
Mary-Marnie stared over Starr’s right shoulder, her brow furrowed, frowning. Starr suddenly got the feeling someone was close by, right behind her, looming over her. She whirled around.
Some tall, blond—strikingly handsome—motherfucker stood right up behind her, breathing on her like a dog. Her first instinct was self-preservation and she enacted it by socking him in the gut.
“What the fuck are you doing!” she shrieked and backed away. “Creeping up on me like you know me or something? Good way to get stabbed, moron.”
The guy barely doubled over. He gave a sort of tight smile and a wince. Then she caught the glint in his eye, the strangeness of his face. That whisper of otherworldliness. She’d only met a few in her life, but she instantly knew.
Starr gasped and gripped Mary-Marnie’s arm. “Werewolf.”
Then, Mr. Wolfy grabbed Starr by the wrist and yanked her out of line. His touch was warm. Despite the total insanity of the situation, a shiver passed through her, followed by a pleasant flush. He dragged her down the street.
“The fuck are you doing?” She looked over her shoulder, popping her eyes wide.
Mary-Marnie watched them go, mouth dropped open like a stupid fish.
“Do something!” Starr admonished her. “You’re gonna let him drag me away and rape me?”
The dumb broad didn’t move. Why couldn’t she count on anyone in her life? None of the idiots in line jumped out to help her, either. Chivalry was dead.
“I’m not going hurt you.” The dude had a voice rich and smooth like honey, and it only added to her strange wooziness. “I have to tell you something.”
He let go of her. She should have hit him again, this time in the jaw, and ran. But she didn’t. She simply stood there staring up at him, her heart pounding.
Goddamn, he was kind of a hot ass. Not kind of. Totally.
He put his hands on his hips and heaved a deep sigh. “I got some bad news for you. For both of us.”
Starr blinked at him.
“You’re my mate.” He said this in the same way one might announce to their close family members they’d been diagnosed with cancer.
She kept blinking. Her damn false eyelashes were getting itchy.
“Gentry.” He held a hand out to her. “Gentry King. Nice to meet you.”
She stared at his hand. Big and broad, long fingers. Manicured nails. Her head was spinning wretchedly, but it slowed and then ground to a halt.
No damn way. No damn way. But he looked as serious as a heart attack.
“Aw, fuck.” She put the cigarette back in her mouth.