Edward (BBW Western Bear Shifter Romance) (Rodeo Bears Book 1) (105 page)

He dropped down on one knee, and Veronica’s eyes went wide. They hadn’t discussed marriage at all. They’d both said they’d been so hurt in the past and had such trust issues that they were going to take things slow. This didn’t feel slow.
 

But she’d fallen so hard in love with him in the last year. So hard, she thought it would scare him if she told him. If she said how she’d dreamed of being his wife and having shifter babies. When Robin joked at the start of the meeting that she was pregnant, she wanted it to be true. But she didn’t want to move things too fast for him. It seemed now, that they’d both decided slow wasn’t necessary. Everything about this felt so right.

Slade opened a ring box and held it up to her. “Will you marry me?”

She took a moment to gaze into his eyes, to let the scene blur with her tears as her heart swelled with joy. But apparently, she’d taken too long.

“Of course she will!” Robin said.
 

“Yes!” Dax said.
 

Veronica laughed and nodded as a chorus of “Say yes!” broke out from the table.
 

Slade slipped the ring on her finger and kissed her, then stood with his arms tight around her at the head of the table. “Meeting adjourned.”
 

The room cleared, but Slade held her close to keep her there. She didn’t mind. She wanted a few minutes alone, too.

When they were alone, he kissed her again and asked, “They didn’t pressure you into it, did they?”

“No, of course not.”

“You’re sure? I know it’s fast and we said we wanted to take things slow, but—”

“It feels like exactly the right time,” she said.

“Yes. It does to me, too.”

“Then that’s all that matters.”
 

Matthew

Bearly Saints I

by

Becca Fanning

Melinda Darling let out a squeak as she hit bottom turning into the pothole-infested gravel parking lot of the Irish Town Pub.
 

“Please, please, please don’t need any repairs,” she muttered to her car. “I just had you in, and I can’t spend another dime until payday, so please, please, please.”

Slowing to a crawl, she made her way toward the front door of the old warehouse-turned-pub. The only thing the least bit Irish she could see was the color and the name—Kelly green covered the entire metal box, and there was a shamrock over the “i” in Irish—but the metal stairs leading up to the enclosed porch screamed “warehouse entrance” not “friendly neighborhood pub.” Not that Mel had ever been to Ireland to see what a real Irish pub looked like in person, but she had seen
The Quiet Man
and
Darby O’Gill and the Little People
, so she knew what a pub was supposed to look like, and this place simply did not mesh at all with what she had imagined for an Irish pub. Nor did the rows of beefy motorcycles lining the front of the building. Mel groaned once more as she brought her compact car to a stop next to a rusty blue van.

“What am I doing here?” she cried.

But of course she knew very well what she was doing here: Trying to save her job is what she was doing here. Fresh out of college with a master’s degree in music business, she had charged onto the country western scene in the Music City ready to discover and manage the newest and greatest bands Nashville had ever seen. Then reality had set in, as she learned that, like guitar players, Nashville was simply crawling with agent wannabes, and she had been forced to settle for an entry-level job with an established firm. Her “boss from hell,” Kitty Konstantine, kept all her minions out late at night, seven nights a week, trolling the small-time venues for the best and brightest new musicians and bands
she
would then “discover.” Fat bonuses and promotions had been promised to those minions who delivered, but in reality, following the “Konstantine Rules” barely allowed Mel to pay the rent and keep the lights on.

“But why did they have to come here?” she moaned. “Couldn’t they have been seen hanging out at a pizza joint or a Mickey D’s?”

The “they” in question were the members of a country western band she had heard the night before in a little dive down on Belmont Boulevard near her old haunts from her university days. They called themselves The 4 Saints, which had seemed a little weird until she’d learned the four members were brothers with the last name of Saint. Their music had absolutely enthralled her. Traditional in style, as they all played acoustical instruments only—guitar, double bass, mandolin, fiddle, and drums—they had a new, different sound when they sang, because there wasn’t a tenor among them. All four sang bass or baritone, and their voices had blended in a way that only siblings who had sung together all their lives could. They performed all their own songs, which had been a happy mix of up-beat tunes and ballads; hilarious and solemn; family-friendly and sexy.

When she’d first walked in, they’d been singing a song about animals on a farm that had had the audience rolling with laughter, but by the time she’d taken her seat at the bar, they’d switched to a love song, a ballad that had nearly broken her heart. There had been something about all of the brothers that had left her feeling as though they’d been singing directly to her, and at one point, the lead singer—the guitarist—had met her eyes across the room, and she’d almost melted on the spot. She’d told herself later that of course he hadn’t been singing that song to her, personally, but when she closed her eyes, she could still see him.

Those eyes were not something she was likely to forget any time soon, for even from a distance that deep golden color had seemed to look right into her deepest places. All four young men were big—tall and straight, with broad shoulders, slender waists, and muscular arms and legs. Their costumes were nothing more than worn jeans and flannel shirts over white t-shirts, as though there was nothing special about what they were doing. Every brother had dark, rich, wavy hair that varied in color from mink to beaver, and all but the youngest had a distinctive five-o’clock shadow. After watching them for a time, she realized they all shared the leader’s golden eyes, too, a fact that had tickled something at the back of her mind, but after a time, she’d dismissed it as unimportant. She’d had to remind herself to breathe more than once throughout the evening, and if she hadn’t been called away by a text message from Kitty, she would have stayed right where she was until they’d turned out the lights.

The really frustrating part was that Kitty had had another, totally inane errand for her to run, and by the time she’d gotten back to the bar, The 4 Saints had been gone. It was the bartender who had told her that they liked to play pool at a place called the Irish Town Pub south of the airport, so here she was, desperately hoping they were here this evening. She hadn’t told Kitty about the band; there was no way she was going to give anyone the chance to steal this discovery until after she’d had a long talk with them. They were good enough that getting them on her side might make the difference between getting real credit for her discovery and taking a back seat to The Boss once more.

“Courage is being scared to death...and saddling up anyway,” she quoted softly.

That was all well and good for John Wayne, she supposed, but as Mel stepped out of the car, she was more than a little aware of the fine line between courage and pure foolishness. It was one of those scary still nights, when even the summer “peepers” seemed to be alert and waiting for something to happen. She crossed the rough parking lot warily, careful to miss the muddy puddles and wishing she were wearing flat shoes instead of the three-inch heels Kitty insisted her minions wear in public. The night was hot and humid, not at all unusual for early June in Nashville, and she hoped the air conditioning in the pub wasn’t so high that she’d end up freezing once she was inside. Somehow she didn’t think the cardigan sweater she always carried in her car would make much of an impression if she pulled it on over her skinny black dress.

Mel climbed the concrete steps and paused only long enough to check her reflection in the polished steel door. She saw clearly what everyone else saw: Miss Average—average height, average figure, clear complexion dotted with freckles, and shoulder-length, curly auburn hair, which had been the bane of her existence since the first grade. Running her hands through her hair one last time in an attempt to flatten it down in spite of the humidity, she told herself to relax, opened the door, and stepped inside.

Mel hesitated as the door closed automatically at her back, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim light which was little improved over the dusk enshrouded parking lot. As her surroundings became clearer, she saw a long wooden bar on the left and pockets of light fanning out on the right, where steel pendent work lights hung over a collection of bare round tables with beat-up metal chairs. There were blackout blinds on the wide front windows, and decorations were limited to car and motorcycle parts and posters. It took her only a moment to realize everyone in the bar was staring at her. Her second thought was that they were mostly men, rough-looking men, who were running their eyes along her slim form from head to toe as though undressing her. Suppressing a shudder, she took a deep breath and smelled cigarette smoke, beer, fried food, and sweat. The men all seemed to be dressed in leather, their heads wrapped in colorful bandanas. When she looked closer, she saw there were a few women present, but most of them wore leather, too, though theirs had fringe and sometimes sparkling beads. Swallowing hard, Mel turned toward the bar, where she noticed two other women dressed in matching shorts and tight blouses that highlighted their ample breasts. They carried trays with glasses and beer bottles.

One of the waitresses took a step toward her.

“You lost?” she asked, her voice raspy, probably from cigarette smoke, since this bar obviously ignored the city’s recommendations on indoor smoking bans.

Mel had to clear her throat before she could speak.

“No,” she managed. “I’m actually looking for someone.”

“You a cop?” a huge man wearing a dirty Titans cap asked belligerently from a table near the front.

His question was met with guffaws from around the room.

“If she’s a cop, then I’m a hooker,” another huge, burly man said.

“If you’re not a cop, ya got no business in here,” another man said, as he turned back to the card game he had been playing with four other men, including Titans Cap.

“I’m actually looking for someone,” Mel said, hoping there was at least one person here who would help her.

“I guess you found someone, sugar,” a tall, greasy looking man sneered, straightening from the bar. He was dressed in a stained western shirt of indiscernible original color. His flashy belt buckle might have once been a hubcap.
 

“No! I mean I’m looking for someone specific. The Saint brothers.”

“Ain’t no saints in here, lady,” one of the women said, eliciting more laughter.

“No, I don’t mean men who
are
saints. I mean a group of men whose
name
is Saint.”

There were more crude comments and laughter, and she almost gave up, until the bartender caught her eye and gestured toward a door at the far end of the bar.

“Back room,” he said, wiping down the bar with what looked like a very dirty rag.

Mel swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

She headed that way only be stopped by the oily man.

“Whatcha need them for?” he asked, reaching out to take her arm.

“Please, sir,” she said, fighting to keep fear from her voice. “I’m here on business.”

The man grinned. “Well, I can give you plenty of business, girly.”

Mel tried to shake off his hand, but he reached for her other arm and pulled her to him, turning in such a way as to pin her against the bar.

“What? I’m not good enough for ya, girly?”

He shoved her back hard enough that she knew she would have a bruise across her back. She fought him, calling for help, but the others just laughed and egged him on. When he released her with one hand to grab painfully onto her breast, she managed to twist and drop as she had once been taught in a self-defense class, and brought her elbow up into his groin, but he twisted at the last second, and she only got his thigh.

“Try to castrate me, will ya?” he shouted, grabbing the bodice of her dress with one hand and backhanding her with the other.

Her bodice tore, and she went flying; the back of her head hit the hardwood bar front with a sickening “thunk.” Blackness danced at the edges of her vision as she slid down to the floor. Then the man was on her, tearing the rest of her dress away.

Mel thought she screamed but couldn’t be certain. Then there was a ferocious-sounding roar and the man on top of her disappeared. More screams followed, and Mel struggled futilely to see what was going on, but all she saw was a chaotic mass of dark shadows throwing people around. Shouts and screams were so loud they hurt her head, and she finally closed her eyes, resigned to whatever fate brought.

Then suddenly, a single male voice reached her.

“Easy now,” he said, and the voice was low-pitched with a hint of a rumble.

When hands lay on her shoulders, she tensed in anticipation of another blow, but these hands, though big, were gentle as they steadied her. Light fingers reached around to feel the back of her head, and Mel cried out in pain.