Seven
Nina spent most of Monday hauling rocks, courtesy of the alpha’s orders. The alpha who still hadn’t laid eyes on her since Friday night, when he’d taken a sip of her beer with that look in his eyes.
Whether or not he’d been flirting with her was debatable, but there was no denying what that look in his eyes had meant. That was a pants look. An “I wanna get in your pants” look. She’d seen them often, usually thrown across the room by various members of her pride. Hell, she’d seen a few directed at her, usually by skeevy Ben or Doug Channing. Once…once by Rafe.
Shut it down, she thought. That ship has sailed and not only has it sailed, but it has sunk. It has sunk deep down into the “mates for life with another woman” abyss.
Nina’s arms were sore from the physical labor. If she’d been human, she’d probably be crying right now and booking massages or at the very least gulping fistfuls of ibuprofen. As a shifter, she was gifted with speedy healing, a resistance to disease, and extrasensory powers.
And a sense of humor. Or wait, that wasn’t a shifter thing.
But she’d made a shitload of people laugh through her blog today, with her . The post had been inspired by Jameson, of course.
The only thing bigger than the alphahole’s muscles is his ego, she’d written. And they loved her “nope monster” graphic. Her audience was eating this up. They wanted more updates, more details. More on the alphahole and all of his issues.
Backstory wound? someone had written in the comments. Surely he’s so gruff and unkind for a reason, and beneath all that is a heart of gold.
Heart of gold, Nina thought, sniffing. More like a heart of turds. He was mean.
Mean and sexy.
Shut up, brain.
She read through the comments and responded to the ones that asked questions or she thought she had a good response for. She was just thinking of starting a new post when her phone buzzed with a message from Fraze.
Miss you, babe.
Her stomach felt heavy all of a sudden. She shouldn’t have slept with him. She typed back, Hey, how are you?
Fraze: Good. Seems quieter here. Even V’s been too busy to hang out.
Nina: You hang out with Viviana? I didn’t think she spent time with anyone.
Fraze: We should have given her more of a chance.
Noises outside caught her attention. Quiet laughter, some of it, and crunching footsteps in the gravel. She peered through the window but couldn’t see anything. Quickly she typed, Gotta go. Miss you, Fraze, and set down her phone. Padding over to her door, she eased it open.
“Hello?”
“Shhh,” she heard someone say, but not to her. Then more snickering.
“What the hell?” she called. “Stop being dicks.”
She stomped out of the cabin. The best thing about being a mountain lion shifter was that when things went bump in the night, she didn’t have to cower like the lead heroines in slasher movies. Instead, she could confidently stroll out and kick ass.
Scrambling sounds came from the gravel next to her truck, and Nina rushed toward Phil. She caught a glimpse of light-colored hair that disappeared into the trees. It was tempting to shift and chase after them—she loved a good chase—but first she wanted to find out what they’d been doing.
She came around to the driver’s side of her truck.
Oh, Phil. Dismay spread through her. Spray-painted in a cruel, ugly orange were the words CAT IN HEAT.
So unfair. If people had a problem with Nina, they should talk to her. Or fight with her. Something. But taking it out on Phil? That was just plain wrong.
She tried to discern the scents, but the vandals had sprayed perfume, obviously trying to disguise themselves. Well, hell. Now she didn’t know who to beat up.
No, she wasn’t here to beat people up. She wasn’t here to “stir up trouble,” like the alpha thought. She just wanted a quiet place away from the Corona mountains so she could work on her blog, grow her audience (and maybe her paycheck if she was lucky), and then get the hell out of here so she could find the next cool place to stay.
She touched the paint. Still wet. Hurrying back to her cabin, she gathered rags and filled a plastic washtub with water. Then she rushed back out to her truck, wincing at the words again. Poor Phil.
CAT IN HEAT. What did it even mean? She wasn’t sending out sexy pheromones, she wasn’t doing freaking anything.
As she crouched near the driver’s side door where the words had been sprayed, she dipped a rag into the water and rubbed it over the paint. It smeared, but the word was still clear. Fucking assholes. She wiped the paint again. More smearing. She wanted to scream.
She leaned her forehead against a clean portion of the door, hoping the cold metal would shock her out of her temper. It wasn’t her place to seek retribution, but oh yes did she want it.