Page 1

Chapter

One

S ometimes having a finely tuned sense of justice was inconvenient.

Quin could have been having a great day. It wasn’t too busy, but it wasn’t slow. The beer was flowing. The bar was happy. The vibe was good. There’s a slight chance he might get laid. And if he didn’t, there was a good chance that he was going home with money in his pocket, an intact bar, and a relatively good mood.

Unfortunately, now that was all going to hell in a handbasket.

Well, maybe not the money part.

He grabbed the baseball bat from under the bar, keeping it low as he dialed one of the favorites on his phone.

“911. What’s your emergency?”

“Hey, Janet, there’s fixing to be someone that needs an ambulance down here.”

“Oh, Quin, are you being a bad boy?”

“Unfortunately, no. I’m being good.” He sighed, letting it be dramatic. “You know, life would be easier if people would just be decent.”

“Tell me about it; I’ll send out a bus and a cruiser for you. Love you!”

“Love you more.”

It was a sad state of affairs when a wolf knew everybody at the switchboard.

Intimately.

Quin moved this way down the bar, one hand wiping down the scarred-up wooden bar top. He’d owned this bar for a long time, and he knew every single scar in the veneer.

He’d personally made ninety percent of them.

He made his way toward the—was that a hyena? Really? Were they gonna be a hyena bar now?

The twink who was being kind of muscled toward the corner where the shadows deepened was totally prey. Rabbit maybe? Possibly… Hrm, not a groundhog or a mouse. No, those whiskers were twitching and he was frozen with worry.

Totally rabbit.

“Hey, how you doing, everybody? Need anything else to drink?” Quin gave them all his very, very best smile.

Mr. I Smell Like the Inside of a Crocodile’s Mouth turned to him, bared his teeth. “We’re fine.”

“Are you? Are you sure you don’t want something on the house? How about you, Bunny?”

“Back off.”

“Oh, now. You’re making this easy. That’s not fair. If we’re going to have to have drama, it might as well be challenging, right, guys?”

The barflies around them lifted their glasses with a cheer.

“What did you say to me, puppy?”

Quin rolled his head on his shoulders, his lips quirking. “I said , if you’re going to have drama, it might as well be challenging—” Quin let his eyes drag up and down the guy’s body. He could have been hot if he wasn’t an asshole and didn’t smell like the underside of a New Orlean’s cop shoe on Mardi Gras. “—you predatory piece of trash.”

The bat was up and out and across the hyena’s head before he could so much as make a move. Rule number eight—don’t monologue.

His regulars looked over, grinned, and went back to their beer.

“Are you hooligans honestly gonna make me walk around the bar and drag him out? Someone just put him out the front door? The cops are here.”

A couple of the bigger guys chuckled softly and stood. “Not a problem. We got it for you, boss. We get a free beer?”

“I will totally pour.” He used his rag to wipe the blood off the bat. “So, Bunny, do you have a ride home? Do you have somewhere to go?”

The little one just sort of blinked at him.

“This is not the kind of bar for bunnies. You’re going to get yourself eaten and not that fun spanky way.”

“Okay. I don’t know. I don’t…” The little one teared up. He hated that.

“No problem. Let me call my brother. His mate has a thing; it’ll be fine. At least you can have a place to sleep tonight and figure out what to do. It’ll be better in the morning.” God, he hated this shit. He would be happy if he never had to be gentle and positive ever again.

It would be a glorious fucking thing.

But no. These lowlifes, instead of finding an omega or a lover or a whatever the normal way, which was just—Hell, he didn’t know. Flowers and blow jobs? They had to come in his bar and try to be assholes.

He clicked his number one favorite on his phone.

His lawyer.

“What do you want, brother?”

“Ten million dollars and a really cool Harley. Why?”

“Quin, you called me. What do you want? It’s late.”

“What do I ever want when I call you at this time of night? It’s not to chat.”

Rian sighed dramatically. “Put them in a cab and send them to the house at First and Vine. I’ll make sure the den mother there knows to welcome him. Are you going to end up being booked or was it a clean deal?”

“So far so good. It was a one-hit wonder.” Usually those tended not to get him thrown in jail, but he never knew. He thought he was sort of on the one in every eleven fights plan.

It was a revolving door sort of thing, but it did make the county some money, which was always nice. However, he did clean up his own messes, which the Sheriff’s Department did appreciate in the best way.

“Okay. Well, call me again if that changes. Seriously, why couldn’t you get a job that keeps regular hours?”

“Not all of us can be tech geniuses or lawyers,” Quin said, referring to his older brothers Symon and Rian. He adored them, but gods, Symon was stuffy, and Rian was wicked but very…wolf in a suit.

Quin was more the jeans and T-shirt kind, unless he was out riding. Then he was all leather.

Rian only wore leather armor when he had his Dom self on…

Ew. No, no thinking about Rian and Eyre playing spanky BDSM games. Nope. None.

Eyre was his brother’s mate, and a sweet omega who saved other sweet omegas from being eaten by the city and its less-than-honest denizens.

And there were quite a few out here in Denver. It was both the wild west and a major urban area…

“You’re sensitive tonight,” Rian snarked. “Just get the kid in a cab and watch your back, okay?”

“I will, though the predator didn’t seem to have a friend here tonight. It’s mostly regulars.”

“Still, get Colt to walk you to your bike.”

Colt was his best buddy at the bar, a bouncer who had muscle and brain at the same time. He would stay until Quin left, for sure. He did any night they had trouble.

“Thanks, bro,” he told Rian, and he meant it. For worrying about him, for making it safer for omega kids just entering the dating/bar scene. For bailing him out all the damn time.

“Come on, kiddo. Let’s get you a cab. Don’t get out of it at the address I give the cabbie until a guy named c meets you outside, okay?”

“Okay.” The barely old-enough-to-drink kid sniffled. So green.

He hung up with Rian, then walked the kid to the door. “Good luck, huh?”

“Thank you.”

He put the kid in the cab, then watched two police officers walk up to him. “Good restraint there, Quin. Just one blow.”

“I know. He wouldn’t let the kid go.”

“Well, he’s in no shape to ask to press charges, so we’ll leave it as a job well done.”

“Thanks, Officer Bone.” He grinned.

The cops both rolled their eyes, but they soon packed up their shit, as did the EMTs, and they were all off. It was bad for business to have blue lights out front.

“You could have let me handle that,” Colt told him as he ducked back behind the bar.

“I could have, but I enjoy it so.” He winked, then moved to wash his hands. No grossness in someone’s drink or food.

Or food or drink.

He chuckled at himself.

“Hey, what can I get you?” Quin asked, laying a napkin down in front of a guy who had just settled at the bar.

He looked up, his heart skipping a beat when he gazed into a pair of golden-green eyes that caught his gaze and held it, keeping him standing there like a fool. The guy was solid, sleek with muscle that was hardly bulky. More like that body was designed to do exactly what it needed to do. The hair was golden and brown, like a leopard or jaguar…

Yeah. He breathed deep. Totally big cat shifter.

“Caipirinha?” the guy asked.

“Ooooh Brazil.”

“My mom.” The man looked him over slowly. “And what do you have for the munchies?”

“Mmm.” His cock stirred. “Onion rings. Chicken wings. Fried cheese.”

“Oh, fried cheese. And…mushrooms?”

“We can do that.” He pulled up a water while the guy waited for his drink, then turned away to pour, not wanting to stand there and stare anymore.

He put in the guy’s order, reminding himself that he was not a giant ball of hormones. Not notty not.

No thinking about knots.

He made the caipirinha, thankful that he’d had a group of capuchin bull riders in from Sao Paolo a while ago and he still had enough booze for one cocktail.

Hell, this was really a beer and Jack and Coke kind of place.

Still, the omegas could get fancy.

Not to mention his brothers. He wasn’t sure Rian or Symon knew how to drink beer. They tended toward the sazerac or a pisco sour, maybe a golden Cadillac if they were in a mood.

Not him. He was a straight tequila kind of man.

Quin garnished the glass with a twist of lime and handed the guy his drink. “I’m going to have to order another bottle of cachaca. You got the last shot.”

“I’m a lucky man.”

“Yeah.” He had to drag his gaze over the guy again. Really, he was sizzling hot. Like climb on and hump hot. Then Quin cleared his throat and went to check on the food order.

It was quiet enough of a night to hear the guy hum after his first sip. “Nice. Thank you.”

“Anytime.” Or honestly, anytime not tonight or tomorrow night because that was the soonest he could get any cachaca from his distributor.

So any time after Thursday was fine.

Then Mr. Pretty could have up to twelve drinks before he ordered more liquor. It was cheaper than ordering retail, and he liked how that helped inventory.

Maybe he should order two bottles.

That might be a good idea, really.

You never knew when a bunch of rainforest rodeo monkey shifters would come to a biker bar and desperately need a taste of home.

It could happen.

Maybe this could be a Brazilian capuchin bar.

Though this guy had to be a jaguar.

And no monkey shifter had ever revved his engine like this guy.

The food came up, and he served the guy fried mushrooms and fried cheese, pleased they had both, along with red sauce and ranch.

The ranch was house-made, and his cook was pretty proud of it.

“Thanks. Hey, can I ask you something?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You can ask.”

“Have you seen this kid?” The guy keyed up a pic on his phone and showed him a young man, maybe just old enough to drink, with a shock of white-blond hair hanging around his face and a pair of almost black eyes. Shit, was that a capuchin shifter? Speak of the damn devil.

“I see a lot of people.” And he wasn’t going to do a damn thing to out this kid. “Is he okay?”

“I hope so. His folks are looking for him, but I’m not here to drag him home. I just want to make sure he’s good. He stopped texting, and he was messaging his mom every morning like clockwork.”

“Huh.” It had been months—as in three or four, not five weeks—since they’d been in. “He’s a cute kid. What’s he do?”

“He’s been riding the rodeo. But he’s kind of a party guy, so his mom worries.” The guy pulled out a business card to hand him, then dug into another cheese stick. “If you see him again, will you call me?”

“If I see him, I’ll let you know.” Now he had a name. Excellent. “We did have bull riders in here, but it’s been months.”

And who the hell knew where they were? He guessed he could ask around. “Hey, can I take a picture of your photograph? I see a lot of people, and I can see if anyone has seen him at all.”

“I can text it to you…” One dark eyebrow, far darker than that shaggy hair, winged up, the smile going wicked.

“Totally.” Oh, that was clever. He did like that about a man. Clever. Pretty. Sleek. Air of danger. He pulled out his phone, waggled it. “Want to put in your digits?”

“Hell, yes.” The guy, whose name was Thiago according to the card, grabbed his phone after he opened it, and typed his stuff into the contacts. Then he handed it back before giving over his own phone.

He put in his number. “Now you know me.”

“Quin…bartender? Now I know you’re more than a bartender, aren’t you? You’ve got the air of an owner.”

He didn’t answer, but he winked. “I’m always here.”

In fact, his place was just upstairs.

“Mmm. That’s good to know. I like to have a go-to bar…tender. I’d order more liquor if I were you. You’ll see me again.”

“I’ll be right here. Tending away.” He winked, then let Victor drag him away for another beer.

Damn, that was…a temptation.

When he looked back at the spot where Thiago had sat, he was gone, a couple of twenties tucked under his glass.

Well. At least the guy had his number.