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Bear Fate: A Billionaire Oil Bearons Romance (Bear Fursuits Book 8) by Isadora Montrose (3)

CHAPTER EIGHT

Amber~

She put another smear of lipstick on. She seemed to have chewed off the layers she had applied at home. Her cheeks were flushed from dancing. That was the worst part of having pale skin. As soon as she exercised she got two big clown circles on her cheeks, as though she didn’t know how to apply rouge.

Her hair was all right. She dragged a comb through her bangs and tossed the long, curling ends of the rest over her shoulders. The red sweater looked good against her dark hair. And the gray and white scarf made a pleasant counterpoint.

Lance made her feel like a bit of a bumpkin. Not that he was mean. He hadn’t exactly laughed at her. But she could tell he was mentally rolling his eyes at her naivety. She couldn’t help that. She was just a small-town girl, from up on Yakima Ridge. Success, Colorado, was not exactly the big city. But it felt really weird to go out and not know a soul but the guy who brought you.

Back home in French Town, she always knew everyone in the room. Even if they knew where to get them, no one would put date rape drugs in your glass. Every now and again some kids would try to add liquor to the punch. And get caught and stopped and sent home in shame by the sharp-eyed elders chatting against the walls. They didn’t have a bar in French Town. You had to drive into Hanover if you wanted one. Not that she ever had. She and Willie had been underage when they were courting.

Aside from the Bascoms, she hadn’t thought that there were any shifters in Success. But although his companion was merely human, Blondie smelled like a snake. She wasn’t too sure what kind, but she thought rattlesnake. Back on the Ridge, shifters ran mostly to bears. From time to time she had met wolves, coyotes and cougars. But never a snake. Probably she was just being small town and insular, and prejudiced, but Blondie made her skin crawl.

She pushed the restroom door open. The ill-lit hallway was even dingier than she remembered. Blondie was standing right in front of the ladies’ room. He smiled at her, and she suppressed her shudder. She hadn’t been too happy to have Blondie and Dog sitting at their table – even with stalwart Lance between her and them. But, here in the shadows, she felt afraid.

“How about a dance, darlin’?” Blondie asked. He reached for her hand.

“No, thank you,” Amber said clearly and distinctly. She deliberately folded her arms across her chest and broadened her stance.

“Don’t be so standoffish,” Blondie said. This time his hand closed on her elbow.

“Let me go,” Amber said. With an effort, she kept her voice level and uninflected.

Blondie yanked her towards him. Amber didn’t bother stopping to think. She raked the edge of Heather’s boot sole down his shin and stomped hard on his instep with the heel. Blondie promptly let go of her. He shrieked. He pulled his right arm back. And before his slap landed, she kicked him in the gut with her left foot – just like her cousin Joey Benoit* had shown her to do.

She followed up with a smack across the nose with the hard edge of her purse. Hard hands pulled her away from Blondie. She was standing behind Lance before she could catch her breath. And he was doing something swift and severe to Blondie that had him falling to the floor clutching his wrist and whimpering like a baby.

“I was managing just fine,” she snapped.

“So you were,” Lance said agreeably. “And I’d back you against this son of a bitch in a fair fight. But I draw the line at letting an unarmed woman tackle a thug with a knife.” He opened his hand and she saw he was holding a knife with a six-inch blade.

A short, stout man spoke from the doorway. “Everything okay?” His voice was the voice of authority.

“He broke my arm,” Blondie complained from the ground. His nose dripped blood. She had done that, she thought proudly.

“Just your wrist.” Lance showed the stout man the knife. “He pulled this on Miss Dupré, Roy,” Lance said. “I had to take it away from him.”

Roy put a meaty hand down and yanked Blondie to his feet by the collar of his shirt. “That would be assault with a deadly weapon,” he said cheerfully. “That’s a felony here in Colorado. You’re under arrest.”

“He broke my fucking wrist,” groused Blondie thickly. “Who the fuck are you?”

Roy twisted his hand so that the collar tightened enough to shut Blondie up. “I’m the sheriff,” he said calmly. “We’ll take you by the clinic on our way to the jail – and if it’s closed, and likely it is on a Saturday night – once you’re booked, the deputies will take you to Acton.”

Roy was joined by a pleasant featured woman, wearing the uniform of a sheriff’s deputy. “Now ain’t this a shame?” she said sadly, shaking her head so that her brown ponytail swayed. “And on your day off, Sheriff. We’ll just put him in the squad car and take him to the jail. And you can go and finish your beer with Mrs. Ramirez.”

“What about my fucking wrist?” whined Blondie. “And my nose is broke too.”

Roy Ramirez ignored Blondie. “I don’t mind if you don’t, Olga. Is Jaime with you?”

“Yes, sir. We’ll take this fella to the station.” She led Blondie away with his wrists cuffed together in front of him. “You keep still, and that wrist won’t hurt as bad,” Olga Flores advised.

“We’ll need a statement from you, Lance,” Roy Ramirez said. “And you too, Miss Dupré. Tomorrow morning will be soon enough. You finish up your evening, and don’t let that low down, sorry son of a gun destroy your fun.”

*Bearly Enough

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