The Wolf Fount

  The Wolf Fount

  WatchWeres Inc, Volume 1

  Gayla Drummond

  Published by Katarr Kanticles Press, 2016.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  THE WOLF FOUNT

  First edition. February 18, 2016.

  Copyright © 2016 Gayla Drummond.

  ISBN: 978-1519910387

  Written by Gayla Drummond.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Also by Gayla Drummond

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  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Morgan stared at the money piled on the small dinette. “I am in so much trouble.”

  Two hundred hadn’t been enough for pretending her pudgy, small-dicked date was a stud above all others. Hell, she’d put on an act that should’ve won her an Oscar, considering the way he’d been flopping about and wheezing his ass off. She’d even pretended the sweat that had poured off him barely two minutes in was sexy.

  A little something extra had only seemed fair. The black leather satchel had looked expensive and was convenient to grab on her way out his hotel room door.

  She’d peeked inside on the way home, quickly closing it upon seeing the money that now lay on the table.

  Fifty thousand dollars. No one carried that much cash around–unless they were involved in drugs or other illegal activities.

  “I am so screwed.” Planting her elbows on the table, Morgan dropped her forehead into both her hands, unable to take her eyes off the money. Her mind whirled with questions: How long since she’d left the hotel? He’d been in the shower. Did he take long ones? Had he called the escort service yet?

  Was someone on the way to take the money and kill her right this minute?

  “I’ve gotta get outta here.” Yes, running was definitely the best idea she’d had all evening. Quickly scraping all the money back into the satchel, she stood and moved onto packing her belongings. One advantage to living a rootless life: she’d never developed a clutter habit.

  While packing, she kept an ear open for any sounds beyond the flimsy door of her weekly rental. There weren’t any, not until she’d piled her duffle and jacket on the table next to the satchel. She was still in her working clothes, a barely there little black number with three-inch heels, and had left jeans, tee, socks, and running shoes out to change into.

  Just as Morgan slipped off the heels, the doorknob rattled and turned so hard that the lock snapped. A tall, muscle-bound man dressed in a dark suit stepped inside, pushing the door closed behind him. “Going somewhere, girly?”

  “My mother’s sick,” she lied as dread turned her stomach cold. I’m dead.

  His pale blue eyes noted the satchel. “Right. Guess it’s just some kind of mix-up, you grabbing something that belongs to my employer, huh?”

  “Yes?”

  He nodded. “Thought so, but those kind of mistakes are just so disrespectful.”

  Fuck. Morgan backed away as he began advancing. Her switchblade was in the pocket of her denim jacket, which lay on top of her duffle, and was now out of reach. Think, think, THINK! “Can we work a deal?”

  Bully Boy halted. “A deal?”

  “Yeah. I’m a good lay, and give head like you’ve never had before.” Not that she wanted to do either, but if he went for Option B, there was a chance of getting close enough to grab her knife. He didn’t seem to be packing a gun. One wasn’t really necessary for a guy his size, sent to beat a hooker senseless.

  At least, that’s what she hoped he’d been sent to do.

  He seemed to be considering the idea. Pursing his lips, he took a long look and then shook his head. “Boss says I gotta mess up your face. Tell you what, how about I let you pick which side and with what?”

  Fuck. She took a deep breath. “What are my choices?”

  Bully Boy pointed his chin at the stovetop. “Electric burners leave interesting scars.” He paused, looking around the shabby room. “Tell you what. Let’s say you give me head and I only use my fists. It’ll be our little secret.”

  She could work with that. “All right. Standing or sitting?”

  There was the slim possibility he’d turn out to be one of those guys who couldn’t hit a woman who got his rocks off for him. Or at least not punch her too hard or too many times.

  “Sitting.” He pulled the chair away from the dinette, dislodging her jacket. It fell to the cracked linoleum, landing right beside the chair as he turned it to face her. The silver end of her switchblade peeked from the pocket.

  Gotta let him think he’s in total control, that I’m scared shitless. The problem: she was scared shitless. “May I grab the pillow? The floor’s hard.”

  He grinned, unbuckling his belt. “Sure, but don’t get cute.”

  Morgan nodded. You have no idea how cute I can get. She sidestepped to grab the pillow, her gaze glued to him as he dropped his pants. “Nice dick.”

  “Bet you say that to all your johns.” Bully Boy sat down, pants around his ankles. He spread his knees wide while resting his hands on his thighs.

  Anger, bitter and acidic, began burning away her fear. “Only the ones that actually have nice dicks.”

  She’d been so careful the past two years. Where the hell had this mountain of muscle been while Pudgy was wining and dining her? If she’d seen him, no way she’d have taken anything.

  Dropping the pillow on the floor, Morgan pushed it in place with her foot. “You want my hair up or down?”

  “Down.” The fingers of his right hand flexed ever so slightly. He was right-handed and the rider type, ready to grab a handful of hair and check her gag reflex. Wonderful.

  Sex, if you could call it that, with Pudgy hadn’t harmed her hairstyle in the slightest. She pulled out the pins holding the coils in place and shook her head, hair falling obediently to her hips. Then she knelt between his knees and reached for his semi-flaccid penis with both hands.

  Bowing her head over it, she spat to begin wetting it down, eyes on her jacket. She could reach the knife.

  “We agreed on head, not a hand job,” Bully Boy remarked, tangling his right hand in her hair before giving it a little tug.

  “Just warming things up.” She dropped her right hand to the pillow, scooting closer to him. It was a relief when her fingers closed on the knife. Blowing a long, slow breath over his dick while working her left hand up and down the shaft, Morgan prepared to do what she had to.

  He yanked her head back and slapped her. “Start sucking, girly.”

  Her eyes watering, she gasped, “Sure.”

  It covered the soft snick of the blade popping out.

  Wounding him was a sure ticket to hell. It was going to
have to be all or nothing. As he eased up on her neck, she drove the six-inch blade into his stomach. He grunted, letting go of her hair. She stabbed him again before scrambling out of reach, and used the stovetop to pull herself upright. Bully Boy looked down, touched the blood spilling from him, and bellowed like a wounded bull.

  He lunged to his feet, his hands reaching for her, only to trip while taking his first step. He’d forgotten his pants. Morgan jumped sideways, hearing the dull crack as his head struck the edge of the counter beside the stovetop.

  Turning around, she found him sinking to his side on the floor, his mouth opening and closing like a fish’s, and blood beginning to seep from a gash across his forehead.

  What a beautiful sight. “You stupid son of a bitch. Picked the wrong girly to tangle with.”

  “Cunt,” he wheezed, pressing one hand to his stomach wounds.

  Her anger boiled over, resulting in a growl that scraped her throat raw. The look of shock on his face was fading, something else taking its place. “You’re one of them.”

  She didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, but his whispered accusation tipped her off that he was scared of whatever “them” was. “That’s right.”

  “Don’t kill me.” It was a whimper. “Please.”

  Nose filling with the smell of warm copper, Morgan looked at the floor. There was a shimmer of carnelian spreading from him. So red, so pretty, so tas... Bully Boy whimpered again, and the sound broke through her fascination. “You got a phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you can call for help. After I walk out the door.” Avoiding him and the spreading blood, she collected her waiting clothing, jacket, satchel, and duffle. Her knife was still in her right hand, ready for the slightest move from him.

  Morgan paused at the door to look over her shoulder at him. “Come after me, and I won’t give you the option to live a second time.”

  Bully Boy nodded, thumping the back of his head against the cabinet.

  She stepped outside and headed for the end of the building where a line of dumpsters sat. After setting her burdens down between two, she lifted the knife and stared at the sheen of red it bore. Without thinking, she licked the blade clean, shivering at the tingle of warmth that spread as it coated her tongue.

  Finished, she tucked it back into her jacket pocket and began changing clothes. That only took a few minutes, so she was soon tugging on her jacket and picking up the two bags.

  Fifty thousand fucking dollars.

  It was enough to start a new life somewhere else. California wasn’t safe any longer.

  Chapter Two

  Calhoun glanced past Jake, his head tilting as he caught a glimpse of a woman. “I put Sean in charge there. It’ll be good experience for him.”

  Jake nodded, wondering what, or whom, his boss was watching. “Right. Where’s Thane?”

  “Left him at headquarters, watching movies.” Cal’s dark brown eyes narrowed, still focused on the woman. “He needs the break.”

  Jake turned for a look at what had his boss’s attention and zeroed in on a woman dressed in a purple, fringed halter-top and painted on jeans. She was dancing with a younger Were he couldn’t instantly put a name to. Or rather, some people would call it dancing. He would call it dry humping standing up, which did trigger recognition of her. “I told Dietrich not to let her back in.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s trouble. Comes in slinking around, hunts down one of the newly Awakened to work all up. The second he goes for the offer she’s dangling, she gets mouthy and shoves him around. She’s done it three times. I threw her out myself last Saturday. She punched me and called me an asshole.”

  Cal chuckled. “The fact that she came back anyway could mean she’s a Sleeper.”

  Some Sleepers, or Weres in Waiting as they were also known, could sense and would gravitate toward gatherings of Weres, unconsciously aware that they belonged with them.

  “Maybe, but can’t have her getting the noobs riled up like that. Not here,” Jake said.

  Watching her grind against her dance partner, Cal nodded in understanding. Newly Awakened needed some time to adjust to their change, and were prone to act on emotions without pausing to think through the consequences. Lust being a physical and emotional combination, if thwarted, it might transfer among Weres, sparking a wildfire conflagration of fighting and fucking that would be difficult to keep quiet.

  Staying under the radar as much as possible was a priority. His network of government contacts wouldn’t be happy to have to step in if a loss of control made the existence of Weres obvious.

  Fortunately, he was here. As the Wolf Fount, he could calm his own kind and stop things as far as they were concerned. However, wolves weren’t the only Weres present and his control of the others wasn’t, and might never be, total.

  It was better to head off the problem before it became a real issue. “I’ll handle it.”

  “Thanks, Boss.” Jake grinned. Half a foot shorter, he’d been a soldier and was enjoying his vacation as manager of Chanteloup. He was also involved in the planning for a chain of the clubs, which were necessary as gathering places for Weres. Here, they could mostly let it all hang out, bonding with others and releasing pent-up energy.

  Cal smiled, affectionately slapping the shorter man’s shoulder as he passed him. The Fount, or First as the newer Weres called him, was six feet five of powerful, natural muscle, topped with dark brown hair and eyes. His pace was deceptively slow, though his long legs made short work of crossing from the bar to the dance floor. “Mind if I cut in?”

  The younger Were turned a startled face toward him, his muddy blue eyes widening. Cal fought a frown. None of his kind should be unaware of his presence, not even a recently Awakened one. “No, sir.”

  “I mind.” The woman glared, a slight sneer twisting her lips. She didn’t move back, staying pressed close to the younger man. Her eyes were gray-green and narrowed. “So fuck off.”

  “No can do, darlin’. He’s not up to your weight class.” He patted the younger man’s shoulder in silent apology for the remark.

  That made her let go, and she turned to face Cal, bringing her fists up to rest on her hips. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Her dance partner took the opportunity to melt into the crowd. Cal chose to assess her before answering, his eyes sweeping slowly from her booted feet up.

  She was of course shorter than he, though the boots with four inch heels added to her height, long-legged and lean. Fit, but not enough muscle definition to mark her as a fitness fanatic. A modest amount of cleavage showed at the V of her top, and she had a pretty face in spite of the stubbornly clenched jaw and lowered eyebrows making it clear that she was in a grouchy mood. Blonde-streaked, light brown hair cut in chunky layers accentuated her high cheekbones and left her neck mostly bare.

  Necks happened to be one of Cal’s buttons. She had a long, graceful one. “It means that you’d eat him alive.”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I own this place, and like to save my regulars heartache when possible. Do you want to dance, or would you prefer a drink?” He watched her eyes, searching for the spark that would mark her as a Sleeper. All he discovered was a belligerent attitude as she continued glaring. His size didn’t seem to impress or intimidate her. “Come on, darlin’. Dance or drink?”

  “Is there a third choice?”

  “Third, maybe a fourth.”

  “What are they?”

  “Well, you could let me in on why you’re so angry, or behind Door Number Four is me escorting you out.” He shrugged. “Pick one.”

  Lips pursed, she relaxed slightly, her glare losing intensity. “Drink.”

  “Good choice.” He reached out to take her right arm, intending to guide her to the bar, but she stepped back. He raised an eyebrow in question.

  “You’re grabby. I don’t like grabby.” She stalked past him.

  Lips twitching as he fought a smile, Cal fol
lowed, his eyes dropping to watch the sway of her hips and the flex of her ass under the tight denim. When they reached the bar, he asked, “What’s your pleasure?”

  She named one of his personal favorites among whiskeys. “Got any Turf Mór?”

  “We do.” He signaled a bartender and placed the order for a bottle and two glasses. Meanwhile, she watched the crowd with keen interest. “My name’s Royce Calhoun. Most call me Cal.”

  “Morgan. You really own this place?”

  The bottle and glasses arrived. He nodded while pouring them each a shot.

  “What does Chanteloup mean?” She mangled the pronunciation: chant-a-loop.

  “It’s shawn-tay-lou. It means ‘song of the wolf.’”

  Her eyes flicked to his before she took the glass he offered and downed the shot. “Weird name.”

  “I like wolves.” He took a sip, enjoying the strong, peaty first taste. Setting the glass down, he leaned an elbow on the bar top and studied her face. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  “What makes you think that?” A shimmer of gold crossed her eyes, possibly caused by the light show.

  “You’re jumpy and keep looking around.”

  “Maybe I’m waiting for someone. You’re being stingy with the whiskey.”

  Smiling, he poured her a double. “Waiting, or looking?”

  “Both. Neither.” Morgan slammed the double down and stood up, the fingers of her left hand drumming on her thigh. “I have to go. Thanks for the drinks.”

  This time, he was successful at catching hold of her arm by rising at the same time, but almost let go as a hot surge of electricity shot up his arm. She flinched, her head tilting back to meet his eyes, and he saw the sunburst of gold surrounding her pupils.

  She was a Sleeper. That shock, though... Cal hadn’t ever experienced anything like it before. “Don’t rush off. You’re safe here.”

  Morgan slowly sank back down on her bar stool. “Let go of me.”

  He didn’t, relatively certain she’d run. Awakening was a confusing, sometimes terrifying, experience because of the strong urges that flooded Sleepers. Only about one in four Weres were female, so she’d be a welcome addition to their ranks, with her pick of men once settled into her new life. “Let’s dance.”