CHASING THE NIGHT

A bridesmaid and a groomsman have one crazy night together, and spend one crazy day following each other’s tracks in Book Three of the series Her Big Easy Wedding, a shifter romance set in New Orleans!

* * *

Chastity

The bride’s wildcat cousin from Baton Rouge was having a rough morning.

Chastity DuChamps opened one sleep-crusty eye. She shouldn’t have done that. The sunlight streaming through the blinds instantly seared right through her eyeballs and into the back of her skull.

Whenever she visited her cousin Rosemary in New Orleans and slept overnight in one of the many guest rooms overlooking the lake, she always woke with a slight bit of confusion over where she was, at first. But that feeling always dissipated in a few seconds as wakefulness took hold. There was the lovely four-poster bed, and a huge window seat with lush pillows and blankets. She would often be awoken with the aroma of coffee and fresh beignets prepared by the cook and all-around wonder-woman Lety, who served guests as if they’d ordered room service.

This morning was not anything like that.

This little room was not becoming more familiar to her the more she woke up. She peeked around for clues. The only thing 100 percent certain was that she was definitely not in her uncle’s house on the lake. This room had a fucking popcorn ceiling, for starters. And these sheets were not Egyptian cotton.

How she got here was another mystery. The only clear memory was she had started the evening at Rosemary’s bachelorette party last night, which had begun with a five-course dinner, with lots of champagne, at the mansion. Everything after that was a blur. Judging from her current state, she’d say the party was a roaring success.

Chas gingerly rolled to one side, stood up and realized she had been asleep in her party dress. She had a pattern of its sequins embedded into the skin of her arms. Those arms were now searing with the pins-and-needles sensation of having been slept on. Shaking them awake, she thanked god her legs were working, if a bit wobbly, because she had the urge to pee more than she had ever had in her life. She looked around. There was a door to a small room in the corner. That had better be the bathroom, she thought, because either way she was going to pee in it.

It was indeed a bathroom, and after she had relieved herself, she checked her reflection in the shabby little wall mirror.

This was the one day she was thankful for bad lighting. Never mind that she had obviously skipped her nightly makeup-removal-and-moisturizing routine, because the real story here was the giant love bite on her neck.

She watched her eyes grow huge and fearful in the mirror.

Had she been making out with a giant leech? Because that was the only level of suckage that might possibly have produced such a bruise. No way that was going away before the wedding in two days. Shit. Forget about her own mother killing her; that old lady would have to get in line behind Rosemary and Aunt Betsy.

Focus, Chas. Focus. Where are you? And who were you kissing last night? Chas closed her eyes, and then she sniffed. A man’s scent. All over her. Like, really all over her.

She did not hate this scent, whoever it was. Too bad he wasn’t here so she could interrogate him about this giant hickey.

She stumbled back to the bed to look for her phone. Surely the GPS could tell her where she was and how to get back to the mansion. She could probably enlist some of the other bridesmaids to help her sort her evening out. She really didn’t want to bother Rosemary with any of this.

As she dug through the mess of sheets and blankets, Chas got her biggest clue about the night’s events. There, in the middle of the bed, was a small spot of blood. Her mind raced. Did that really happen? The ache between her legs and her sore thighs gave her the answer. Yes, some serious shit happened, and happened rather enthusiastically, she surmised.

Whoa.

So…not a virgin anymore. On the one hand, mission accomplished. On the other hand…dammit, I missed the whole thing.

Now she was desperate to find her partner in last night’s crimes. She looked around the room for clues, but all she found were her pashmina and her shoes. There was something else, too: a soreness on her butt.

What in the world?

She lifted up her dress and twisted her torso enough to see what it was. A bandage. She lifted the tape around the bandage to reveal a tattoo of a Valentine heart that looked like it had been clawed by a wild animal. On the heart was a letter “G” written in elaborate calligraphy.

G? Who the fuck is G?

She had to find her phone.

Oh man, she also needed water. And coffee. And a large JB Chicken crispy breakfast biscuit slathered in butter and ghost pepper jelly. And ibuprofen, stat. But first, her phone.

Ignoring the little blood stain on the bed that represented the end of her innocence, she kept rifling through the sheets, pillows and blankets. Finally, she found her clutch purse, under the bed.

She opened her clutch and breathed a sigh of relief as she plopped onto the floor. A few undamaged brain cells must have started working again, because she suddenly had the brilliant idea of looking at her photos. Yes! Of course! Surely there would be photo evidence of what happened last night.

She ignored the little red dot that indicated she had several unopened text messages and tapped the photo icon on her phone screen. Up popped an album marked “G.”

Because, of course. Drunk Chas could not be bothered to do any favors for future Sober Chas by fully naming the dude who presumably had “taken her flower.” That would be her mother’s phrase for it.

She held her breath and clicked on the album marked “G.”

What opened before her was a series of images that would make any brothel madam blush. Good lord! Who was this acrobatic and… whoa! Tanned, muscular specimen with a six-pack that you could bounce a quarter off of? She swiped through and felt the heat rising her to face. She got a glimpse of long, wavy brown hair. Nice. A shoulder with a Jolly Roger tattoo.

Really, dude?

There was a hip tattoo that matched hers, only with the letter “C.” “Oh god,” she groaned. What tattoo artist in his or her right mind would allow this to be done on a pair of drunks?

She saw in the thumbnails there was a face. Her heart skipped a beat and she was about to click it when another one distracted her. A pretty shocking one.

Oh my. Was that his…it was. Oh god. Yeah, she clicked. Who could resist?

Wow.

Well.

She checked herself. Was she actually grinning at a dick pic right now? That was a first.

That explains why she was finding it hard to walk this morning. And why she had somehow agreed to matching tattoos, because damn. That thing could probably convince just about anyone, man or woman, to sell both kidneys in exchange for a thorough night of hot sex.

Enough, Chas. Get to the face. We need to identify this bad boy.

She clicked on the thumbnail of his face. It wasn’t a full face. Most of the screen was taken up by her own smiling, drunk-ass face, with the presumed G’s face taking up about one eighth of the screen at the top right-hand side. She saw a brown eye, sun-kissed skin, long, wavy hair. Did he have a beard? She could not tell. She kind of hoped so. He was most definitely a hot piece of ass, beard or no beard.

Nothing to indicate a name, though.

Crap.

And who was she, exactly? Five years ago, at the age of 17, she was Miss Junior Baton Rouge 2012, cutting the ribbon on the new YMCA splash park, smiling wide for the newspaper photographer. Now she was on the floor of a weird apartment, in the dress she’d worn the night before, desperately searching for clues about the man who took her virginity.

She pressed the “home” button to go back to her text messages for more clues. But as soon as she did that, everything went black.

Wait, what?

Yep. Her phone was dead.

And she was pretty sure she did not have a phone charger. Sure, hell-bent on losing her virginity last night, she’d remembered to tuck a condom, a passport (she didn’t drive, so no license) and her daddy’s platinum card into her clutch. But a firewire? Why on earth would that be necessary?

There was also a bigger problem here. Not only did she not know who G was, not know where she was, and not know where her fellow bridesmaids might be, she also did not know if she’d messed up the whole encounter by shifting into a wildcat last night.

That last detail was pretty important, too, because it could have meant the difference between her supposed partner being alive and walking around with the glow of a freshly laid man, or being in hiding and scared to death.

Or worse—actually, very literally dead.

* * *

G

Oh shit. Am I dead?

Because that would really, really suck. Nobody wants to wake up dead after the first time they ever have sex.

Because, as it turns out? All the fuss, all the songs, all the heartache, all the drama? It happens for a very good reason.

Because, G decided upon waking up, sex was good.

Better than good. Pretty fucking great.

Now, if only he could remember who she was and how it all started.

He opened his eyes in hopes that it wouldn’t all disappear like a really amazing dream. The sun was coming up but still mercifully obscured by the trees.

The fuzzy events of the night did not disappear like an amazing dream that he wanted to close his eyes and get back to. Things had actually happened. Some really fucking sublime things.

It was all real. At the nearly freakishly old age of 25, G had finally lost his virginity. All of his buddies at Ashton Boudreaux’s bachelor party would be very happy for him.

Except they were not there right now. And neither was she. Whoever she was.

Curious.

Even more curious was the fact that he was lying on the grass in the woods. Naked. Alone.

And his belly was full.

He had the taste of fresh blood in his mouth.

So he had shifted to the wolf last night. How in the hell did that happen? It wasn’t a full moon. Besides, no pack of wolves like Ash, Bobby and Vann would ever plan a bachelor party on the night of a full moon. Not unless they all wanted to end up dead or in prison or both. Alcohol and full moons do not mix. Especially not when it comes to shapeshifters.

Sure, he wasn’t always the best at keeping track of his moon cycles, but that’s pack mentality. You depend on each other.

But where was his pack now?

He went through the list. Ash was probably at Rosemary’s flat, sleeping it off. Vann West, their boy who was now a celebrity chef, had just last night come home from a shoot in Seoul, South Korea, for the week of wedding festivities. He was probably off boning his new girl GiGi, whom he hadn’t seen since March. G wondered if that would last, knowing what he knew about them both. He also wondered if those two ever did stuff with icing.

Focus, man. Focus.

Where was Bobby? Bobby was known to get melancholy toward the end of the night, whenever the pack partied together. G wasn’t sure, but it probably had something to do with his past. It was so long ago, but Bobby would carry that cross to his grave. Poor guy. G hoped sincerely that his friend would one day be able to get his mind off of it. Of course, G and Ash and Vann knew exactly the only person who could help Bobby with all of that. The only one who could not see that was Bobby.

Look at yourself, G. Lying naked on the ground in the pre-dawn hours and all you can think about is your friend’s happiness? No wonder you were a virgin until last night.

Get it together. Find your clothes. And then find the girl.

G carefully sat upright. He looked to his left. There was the lake. He and the boys had probably gone for a dip to sober up at some point. Had he brought the girl with him for that? Was she still here?

The next second, the only thought he had was about the annoying pain in his hip. What the…

And then he turned and looked down and saw the bandage. Oh no.

It was exactly the kind of bandage he used at his tattoo parlor to help his customers protect fresh tattoos. But G didn’t have a fresh tattoo on his hip, because that would be ridiculous. Right?

So ridiculous, only a drunk asshole would agree to this. For fuck’s sake. He carefully peeled back the tape and took a look. It was a heart with the letter “C” in it. The heart looked like it had gashes in it and blood flowing out. The way the “C” was inked, calligraphy-style, was the most telling part of all. That was his own ink. As in, G had literally given himself a tattoo.

“That explains how a tattoo artist would agree to do ink on a drunk asshole,” he said aloud.

The upside was, at least he knew his shop and his equipment were clean.

Full marks for that, dipshit. Now go find your clothes.

He stood up and leaned against an oak tree to shake the cobwebs out of his brain.

He looked around, but his clothes did not show themselves.

It wasn’t the first time he’d ended up naked in the woods with no sign of his clothes. Whenever he wolfed out, there was no telling where his clothes ended up. Some shifter wolves, like his friend Penny, always stripped down in an orderly fashion and neatly placed their folded clothes near their favorite tree. That was the difference between men and women, he supposed. He and his boys mostly just got naked, howled at the moon and ran like hell to the rabbit warren, the gopher holes, or to the clearing, or to the water. They just loved to run.

And that’s probably how G ended up drunk, naked and clueless. Best-case scenario, he had felt himself turning, for whatever reason, and decided to run away to keep his girl out of danger.

He followed the trail back out in the direction of the parking lot, hoping maybe he could call someone to pick him up. If not, well, he’d figure it out.

About a tenth of a mile down the trail he saw his undies and jeans, but there was no sign of his shirt or shoes. The good news was, his smartphone was in his jeans pocket. Score! Surely, there would be some clues about his girl in his phone.

He unlocked the screen but did not see any text notifications. He felt himself become a little bit disappointed but not at all surprised. Drunk people were not the most reliable in letting their friends know where they were.

At the top of the list of text conversations, there was a contact just called “C.” Perhaps the “C” who was inked on his hip? Strong possibility, Einstein.

Tapping on the convo, he saw it was all 100 percent from him to her, no replies.

Huh.

He looked at the messages he had sent to this C. The first one was sent at 2:34 a.m.

Hey, this is Gavin. Friend of Ash. I heard you were a bridesmaid. I think you’re cute.

Fuck, what kind of a dork had he become? “I think you’re cute”? He may as well be passing notes in the fourth grade asking girls to “check this box if you like me-like me.”

Then came this charming one about five minutes later:

Saw you dancing on the table. Do you need a ride home?

OK, points for being a gentleman. And at what point did the sex happen?

He figured it would have been at some point between 2:37 a.m. and 4:30 am. because the third and last text he had sent to her said,

Had to take off. Better for your safety. Be back as soon as I can. DO NOT MOVE. Please reply that you’re OK.

He looked at the time. It was now 6 a.m. The sun was about to come up.

Gavin trudged up the trail and eventually came to the parking lot. No car. No keys. No shirt. Not even any shoes anywhere. How had he gotten here?

He sent her a text just before calling for an Uber.

I feel like a jackass. I’m not totally sure what happened, but I need to see you so we can sort this out. Please stay wherever you are. Are you at my place? Let me know.

And then before he could pull the trigger on Uber, he heard a low rumbling sound and the squealing of tires. Ash’s GTO was roaring across the lot and screeching to a halt right in front of him.

“Get in.”

“Listen, man, I need to find this girl.”

Ash cut him off. “Get in the car.”

Gavin obeyed. What choice did he have? He must have reeked of blood and alcohol. And also: no shirt or shoes.

Ash, however, looked freshly showered and was as chipper and charming as ever. How did he always manage to do that?

“Do you know who I’m talking about?”

“I do not and it does not matter. We gotta go find Bobby.”

“Bobby’s not at his place? Dude, the party ended at his bar. He lives above the bar. Why would he not be there?”

“I already checked, he’s not there. He took off kind of surly last night… this morning…whenever it was. I’m just worried about him, you know how he gets.”

Gavin was getting frustrated. Bobby was a grown-ass man who could take care of himself. “OK, look, let’s just get to my apartment and see if she’s there. Then we’ll go find Bobby.”

Ash shook his head. “No, man. If she’s out there, she’s hungover as shit. Give her time to pull herself together. No girl wants to see you first thing in the morning after a bachelor party.”

“Where are we going, then?”

Ash smiled. “What else does Bobby like besides making girly drinks? Same thing we do. Coffee.”