Angelina

I wake up at noon and pad to the bathroom on auto-pilot. Then I see the huge black, blood-crusted t-shirt on my floor and it all comes flooding back.

Jared and his super strength. His super healing abilities.

What the hell? Was I on drugs? I accepted his explanation so easily last night, but in the light of day, it sounds insane.

Jared, the superhero.

Except he does have all the qualities of a superhero, doesn’t he? Hero. Strong. Protective. Giving.

Oh boy did he give last night.

And I gave absolutely nothing in return.

Because I really don’t want to be another notch on his bedpost, or whatever the dumb cliche is. Jared is a player, through and through.

But then again, I already went pretty far with him. What’s the difference between having sex and what we did, really? Would it have been so horrible for him to get off, too? Considering I did, twice. I could’ve at least blown him. I’ll bet his cock is as impressive as that hard body of his...

Oh God, what am I even thinking?

I need to erase this man from my mind. He may be hot, charming and endowed with superhero powers, but—

No, really. Why am I trying to erase him? He’s better than a movie hero. I carry his bloodstained shirt to my laundry closet and toss it in the washer. The least I can do is wash his clothes for him.

That brings up all kinds of lurid images of domestic servitude. Me, in a fifties housewife outfit (nothing but an apron and panties and a pair of red heels, of course) waiting for him with dinner when he gets home.

Me, naked except for a pair of pearls and a raincoat, surprising him at work…

Except he works at a bar. And that just fizzled my fantasy completely.

No, this guy isn’t husband material. Or even boyfriend material. He’s a hot finger-bang at a nightclub. A ride home after a car crash.

The guy who fixes your car for free.

Okay, that’s beyond attractive to me.

Because, seriously, my dad would’ve shit when he found out about the crash. He would’ve lectured me on and on about insurance rates going up and about how irresponsible I am driving home at three in the morning from a nightclub.

Of course, I’ll probably still have to tell him about the crash tonight. My parents live here in Tucson and insist on Sunday dinners. Sometimes I really wish the best dance program in the country wasn’t at the university in my hometown.

I smirk, imagining bringing someone like Jared over to meet my parents. His appearance alone would shock their Foothills sensibilities to the core.

They keep dropping hints about getting me to meet some local multi-millionaire software mogul.

Not. Interested.

And it’s only because my dad wants the guy to acquire his small niche software company. Sure, Dad, pimp your daughter out for your own gain. These are definitely still medieval times. Grrr.

I start the washing machine and check my phone.

Jared’s already texted. Your car is in good hands. I’ll have it back to you tomorrow, and you’ll never know the difference.

And my resistance melts a little more.

I text back, Thank you. What about your motorcycle? Do you need me to pay for the repairs?

Not that I have any money, but I should offer. I will figure it out, if I need to. Maybe I can pick up another teaching gig at a local dance studio.

He responds immediately, I have it covered. Don’t sweat it.

I smile at my phone. It’s really hard not to feel warm and fuzzy about Jared. And also itchy and needy to see him again.

But I put the kibosh on that. I don’t want to be his booty call or hookup or whatever it is he does.

It was definitely the right decision.

So I should stop getting fluttery thinking about him bringing my car to me tomorrow. Or asking me out. Or pinning me against a wall and spanking me again.

Yeah.

* * *

Jared

If I didn’t think he’d bust my ass, I wouldn’t even tell my alpha what happened.

But a car accident in the alley outside his club constitutes a phone call. Especially when it involves a girl seeing my body spontaneously regenerate.

Dammit.

I’d rather keep Angelina completely out of this conversation, but I can’t do that either. Not only can shifters pick up on dishonesty, lying to Garrett would be a banishable offense, even if he wasn’t one of my closest friends.

But I put the call off as long as I can. It’s Sunday and he has a new mate. He doesn’t want me calling with a shit story first thing in the day.

I wait until late afternoon to dial him, telling myself it’s better to get the car and motorcycle repairs going first.

I told Trey this morning. He told me I was a fucking idiot and if I thought Garrett was going to let it slide that Angelina saw my injuries heal, I’m even dumber than I look. But that’s standard shit-talk between the two of us.

I stand outside Tank’s auto shop and lean my ass against our packmate’s truck.

Garrett answers on the second ring. “What’s up?”

Right away I start walking, like staying in motion is going to make this go down easier. “Hey, I had a little incident last night.”

“What kind of incident? At the club?”

“Yeah. I pulled into the alley without looking and Angelina, the little go-go dancer, hit me.”

Garrett curses. “Was she hurt?” Of course he wouldn’t ask if I’m hurt, because—yeah—we’re shifters.

“No. Neither were the other two dancers. I drove them home and took her car to Tank’s.”

There’s a pause, and Garrett, who knows me too well, says, “What aren’t you telling me?”

I crack the knuckles of my free hand. “She saw a cut regenerate.”

Garrett curses again.

I hear his mate, Amber, murmur something in the background.

“It’s all right. Just pack shit. Don’t worry, baby,” I hear him reply. To me, he says, “Wipe her.”

I grind my teeth. I don’t want to fucking wipe her.

“She’s doesn’t know,” I insist, but my insistence sounds flimsy, even to my own ears.

“She knows you’re a paranormal. You know the rules. She gets wiped.”

“You didn’t wipe Amber.” I’m an asshole to point it out, and also operating from an artificial sense of security, because if we were in the same room, my alpha probably would’ve flattened me.

Garrett’s warning growl crackles through the phone. “Amber’s different. She’s a paranormal, too.”

Garrett’s mate has psychic abilities that he used to find his sister when she was kidnapped by the harvesters last spring.

Yeah, well Angelina’s a beautiful dancer with a bright future. Right. Not a strong argument. Good thing I left that one unspoken.

“Jared?” There’s alpha command in his voice.

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t make me fucking tell you twice.”

“Consider it done,” I mutter and end the call before I dig myself in any deeper.

Dammit.

I rub my forehead. I can’t come up with any way around Garrett’s order. I look up at the sky. Sun’s still out. I’ll have to wait until sundown to get help from a leech, which gives Angelina a few more hours to keep her memories intact.

And I have to meet with some shifters from San Diego about setting up a fight in Tucson.

Maybe I can do it tomorrow night. When I bring her car back to her.

Yeah, that should work. And when Garrett asks, I’ll tell him it’s going to happen, as soon as possible. And tomorrow is as soon as it’s possible.

* * *

Angelina

“Driving downtown after the bars have closed is paramount to suicide,” my dad lectures as he neatly cuts his steak. I love the man, but he drives me nuts. As predicted, he’s freaking over the car accident.

We’re at their long formal dining room table for Sunday dinner and I’ve chosen to tune out the lecture while I eat the baby broccoli my mom steamed just for me. At least tonight she and dad are eating the same thing I am, though their vegetables are dressed with lemon butter, and mine are not.

While he goes on, my mind runs over the scenes with Jared. The last one, mostly. Where he showed me exactly how experienced and clever he is with his tongue and then let me off the hook the moment I got uncomfortable.

He really is a gentleman.

Funny how my gratitude to him for treating me with such honor and respect makes me want to run and jump his bones. My unwillingness to have sex with him has completely vanished.

But no. I’m the kind of girl who gets attached.

“How’s school going, honey?” My mom pipes in, to change the subject.

“Fine. Good.” My stomach knots up.

“How did auditions go for the spring concert?”

“Pretty good.”

It’s not a lie. I did my best, and I’ll probably get into several pieces. But the truth is, I feel like a misfit in the dance program. Not because I’m not a good dancer—I’m decent. Lord knows my parents spent enough on my training since the day I turned three. It’s just that I don’t want to be an automaton anymore. I don’t want to work hard to please my teachers and hope they give me a good part in their dances.

I want to choreograph my own dances. No, not just dances—shows. I want to direct my own company. Stage big daring productions. A modern version of The Firebird. A ballet choreographed to Lady GaGa.

The trouble is, the undergrad program isn’t really geared toward that. I could stay and hope to get into the MFA program, but I am honestly tired of working hard to please everyone else.

My whole life has been spent making my parents proud. Being the picture perfect princess they both wanted me to be. It was my mom who put me in dance. I have no idea why. Honestly, I think it was because some wealthy friend had her daughter at the studio, so it seemed like the thing to do.

Keeping up with the Joneses and all that.

“You’re keeping your weight down?”

I set my fork down. “Yes, mom.” I infuse my voice with total teen impatience. Because she reduces me to a surly teenager in the blink of an eye. I’m an independent, almost college grad, but five minutes in their house and I’m chafing against my childhood constraints again.

“Well, I know how you worry about those things.”

“No, I’m not worried. I never should’ve told you about the fat letter. I’m sure it’s a myth, anyway.”

The rumor is, the faculty will send you a fat letter if they think you’re getting too porky. Personally, I dare them to do. It seems like a civil liberties case to me. But what do I know? I’m not a lawyer. I’m definitely not as rail-thin as some of the bun-heads in the program, but I’m not doughy either. And I definitely don’t want to obsess over my weight like almost every dancer does. I’ve worked hard since my high school days of eating disorder tendencies to love my body and appreciate all the hard work it does for me.

I’m their only child, and my mom was a stay-at-home mom, so I became the object of a mountain of attention. Angelina ballerina, with straight A’s, straight teeth, and sweet manners. A good girl.

God, I’m sick of it.

“I don’t know why you keep that job at the nightclub anyway,” my dad says, back on his soap box. “You’re not making fine art and the pay isn’t that great.”

“The pay is perfect.” My jaw gets tight. I’m even more defensive about my time at Eclipse than I am about my weight.

It may be sad, but I feel the biggest thing I’ve accomplished since I started school was setting up the go-go dancing gig for me and my friends at Eclipse.

I guess it’s because it was like one tiny baby step toward directing my own company.

But my parents don’t support that angle, at all.

My dad made me double major in business because he thinks I should run a dance studio when I get out.

Which is fine. I like to teach. It’s just… it would be nice to follow my own dreams for a change.

Instead of the neatly laid out plan my parents have set for me.

“I still don’t understand why this Jared character took your car to be fixed. There’s something fishy about it. How well do you know this guy?”

Oh God, please don’t let me blush.

Sometimes I hate being a redhead.

“I know him pretty well, Dad. He’s a bouncer at the club. Really nice guy. I told you, he said it was his fault he pulled out in front of me, and he has a friend with a repair shop, so he was going to take care of it.”

“How do we know the repair shop is reputable? What if he does a shoddy job on it? How do you know he didn’t just steal your car? You should have called the cops. Were you drinking?”

I roll my eyes. “No, Dad. I wasn’t drinking. I’m sure the job will be professional, and you should be grateful I didn’t call the cops and get the insurance involved, because my rates would’ve gone through the roof.”

“Well, that’s true.”

You can always reason with my dad through his wallet.

“How’s business, Dad?” I ask pointedly.

My father takes a sip of wine. “Good. I’m still working on the acquisition proposal for SeCure.”

“Did you get a meeting with their CEO yet?”

Frustration flits across my father’s face and for a minute, I pity him. For all his drive and dominant tendencies, he can’t bend the entire world to his bidding. He has a vision for his retirement—going out with a bang, of course—but he hasn’t been able to execute it yet.

“We’re hosting a fundraiser for his favorite charity—Save the Catalina Mountains—and our event planner asked him to make an appearance to entice participation from other big donors. His secretary made it sound like he was considering.”

“That’s great!” I’m honestly happy for him. Except I know what’s coming next.

“We’d like you to be here, dear,” my mom chirps. “It’s a really important event for your dad.”

“Of course,” I say automatically. After a lifetime of being trotted out to society as the perfect daughter to complete the perfect family, I’m well-trained. I check my parents’ plates, and seeing the neatly stacked silverware, stand up. “Well, I’d better get going. I have a lot of homework to do.” I pick up all three of our plates and carry them to the kitchen, where I quickly rinse them and stack them in the dishwasher.

“What about coffee?” My mom trails me into the kitchen. “Your father and I are going to have dessert.”

Of course, she’s not going to offer me cake. And if I asked for it, I’ll get a lecture about my weight. Sigh. Just another typical dinner with my parents.

“No thanks, Mom. Love you.” I kiss her cheek and breeze out of the kitchen. “Bye. See you, love you!” I call out as I beeline for the door.

The Uber pulls in right when I walk out, so I get in and check my phone for texts.

Yeah, I’m hoping to hear from Jared again. Even though that doesn’t make sense.

Even though I shouldn’t want that.

I shouldn’t be excited about seeing him when he drops my car off. I shouldn’t want to know more about his mysterious healing abilities.

But he’s like an addiction. Now that I’ve had my first taste, I can’t stop thinking about him.

* * *

Jared

“So when you gonna do it?” Trey asks.

I lower the hood of Angelina’s Toyota and use the rag to give it a polish. Tank is handling the large repairs but I couldn’t help coming to check out his work. Or maybe I’m just a glutton for punishment—wanting another whiff of Angelina’s sweet scent. “Do what?”

Trey rolls his eyes. “Mind wipe the dancer.” He leans on the driver’s side and I throw the rag at him.

“Quit smudging the window.”

“Well, excuse me.” He catches the rag in a blur of movement. “Didn’t mean to mess up your girlfriend’s car.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.” My gut tightens even as I say the words. Not my girl, won’t ever be my girl. I might have more muscle than brains, but I’m smart enough to know this.

Too bad my wolf thinks differently.

I grab my tools and start cleaning up, tossing and banging a bit more than necessary.

“Damn, you’ve got it bad,” Trey observes. “Maybe I should take her to the leech.”

“Over my dead body.” I straighten and point a finger at the tall shifter. He’s my closest friend, but right now, my wolf sees only an opponent. The enemy. Competition.

Trey spreads his hands. “Easy. I’m not going to go near her. But you’re only delaying the inevitable.”

He’s right. If I don’t do this, Garrett will kick my ass. And then he’ll order Tank or Trey to do it anyway.

“It sucks. She’s in college,” Trey lowers his voice. “A mindwipe could seriously fuck her up if it’s not done right.”

I slam down my tools, wanting to kick the cabinet for good measure. “I know. I know.”

“Have you—” Trey starts, when a white Camaro rolls into the lot. My friend swears. “Don’t tell me we’ve got customers.”

Trey heads to the door and stops in his tracks when three guys unfold from the car. One black haired, one grey, and the third wears an old fashioned hat—a fedora type that gangster would wear—only he’s so tall and skinny he looks like a scarecrow. “You called them?”

“I reached out. They wanted to meet.” I head to the sink to clean up. “We’re going to check out a space to hold the fights.”

“Does Garrett know?”

“He knows.” My alpha isn’t happy, but as more of our pack gets mated off, he sees the benefit of having an outlet for his bachelors to release their aggression. More than just breaking up brawls at Eclipse. My wolf, especially, needs to fight, to bleed on a regular basis.

The way this situation with Angelina has me riled up, I could go twenty rounds with a bruin right now.

Trey prowls alongside me to the parking lot where the three visitors wait. Two of them smoke while the third, the tall one in a fedora, hangs back.

“Parker,” I greet the grey-haired one. Despite his hair color, he doesn’t look much older than I am. He gives me a nod, expertly averts his gaze—not submissive but not challenging.

The dark-haired one tosses his butt to the ground and regards us without speaking. Declan, the Irishman. I don’t remember the third guy’s name, but the way he stares over our heads, twitching nervously, he’s not going to say much.

My wolf is uneasy as he catches their scent. It’s a bit… off. No wonder they’re not part of any pack. Healthy shifters don’t tolerate messed up ones for long. The way these guys smell, not to mention the tall one’s twitching, all but the most controlled, compassionate Alpha would put them down. I don’t know exactly what Data-X did to these guys, but from the rumors I’ve heard, death might be a mercy.

“Glad you could make it. I didn’t expect you to have time to meet.”

“Chance to expand, we’ll make time.” Parker’s voice is a little raspy. His eyes glow a little—his animal is close. I have no idea what his animal actually is. This doesn’t make my wolf happy. But these guys helped out Sam, our pack member and a bartender at Eclipse. And Sam trusts them.

“It’s getting too hot for shifter fights in Cali,” Declan announces in his subtle brogue.

Trey frowns. “It gets pretty hot here…”

I nudge him in the ribs. “They’re not talking about the weather.”

“The Pit isn’t as secure as we’d like,” Parker says. “Men have been sniffing around.

“Men?” I look from Declan’s grim face to Parker’s blank one.

“Human cops.” Parker wrinkles his nose. “Coming around asking about illegal fights and gambling. We think someone put them on to us, trying to flush out shifters.”

“I thought that trouble was gone.” I avoid naming Data-X directly.

Parker grimaces. “Not entirely.”

The third guy twitches so hard, his fedora flies off his head. Declan lets out a dog-like whine that cuts off at a sharp shake of Parker’s head.

“You’d be welcome to set up fights here,” I say, trying to stay nonchalant. These three might be misfits, but when it comes to booking fights and handling bets, they’re the best.

“Good,” Parker says and excitement surges through me. “I got a lot of animals who want to fight, and nowhere to put them.”

“Not to mention the bets,” Declan adds.

I nod. “Let’s go check out the space.” My wolf howls in triumph as we head to our respective rides.

“Damn,” Trey says, settling onto his bike next to me. “This is really happening.”

“Shifter Fight Club. Just like we always wanted.” We exchange grins, but as we roll out mine fades. Tonight we make a decision on the space to host the fights. Tomorrow I have to take Angelina to a leech. He’ll wipe her mind, her memory of the accident, along with who knows what else of her brain.

It doesn’t seem right that on the eve of realizing my dream, I’m going to ruin her life.

* * *

Agent Dune

He unlocks the padlock on the fence and ducks under the plastic police tape he put up around the burned out lab months ago. There’s nothing to be found here. He’s a damn good agent, he wouldn’t have missed anything. But sometimes being on a site gets the wheels turning in a new direction.

At least it gives him something physical to do. And a guy like him fucking needs to be physical. If only high-level agent work was all Jason Bourne style chases and fights. It’s not. It’s a helluva lot of detective work.

And it’s a million times harder when your superiors won’t give you all the information to work with. Find the arsonists. Cover up with the locals. Information about the purpose of the lab and the government’s interest in it?

Redacted.

Fine. They didn’t want to tell him? He’d figure it the fuck out. Just like he did when they left him with no resources but his own wits and a bullseye on his forehead in Afghanistan. And North Korea. And Iraq.

He has a few seconds of footage from the night of the explosions. The rest was obviously redacted. But there’s a partially obscured image of a white van. A shot of a couple men. And one face he recognizes from Special Forces. Nash.

The guy he’s been trying to find for years.

He figured Nash would pop up at some point on the job. Anyone who disappears that deep is still buried in government secrets. Like him.

So solving this puzzle became more interesting. More personal.

Because Nash is something different. Not human.

And Charlie needs to know what he is.