Freakn' Cougar (4 page)

It wasn’t the most perfect of plans, but it worked. It kept her going when she wanted to give up. It kept her sane when the loneliness became too much. It sucked, but the alternative in her mind was worse.
Caring for someone means hurting if you lose them.
No thank you. Been there. Done that. And she had no desire to repeat the experience.

How dare fate intervene just when she’d constructed an impermeable wall around her heart? How dare fate mess with her perfectly good life plan? Throwing a man her way indeed. Trying to tempt her into feeling again. Not happening. She’d just have to fight the urge. Heck, for all she knew, she just suffered from some about-to-turn-forty jitters, a subconscious panic that made her think Stu was her mate in an attempt to keep her young when, in fact, all she needed was some good raunchy, no-strings, emotionless sex.

Now if only Stu were here instead of languishing in a cell so she could cure herself of her problem.

Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Ricky counted the push-ups in his head, the steady cadence of exercise soothing and calming to his churning mind.

Undercover almost a month and Ricky had yet to uncover a single clue or even a rumor about a killer targeting shifters.
Don’t tell me I got assigned to the wrong prison.
An anger he’d fought long and hard to master threatened to bubble up.

When the shifter council approached him after the death of his brother—
say it like it is, his murder—
he’d jumped on the chance to help them mete out justice. He’d known the suicide verdict couldn’t be true. His little brother Joey would never have killed himself, and certainly not by slitting his wrists.

Shapeshifter or not, Joey hated the sight of blood. Hated violence of any kind. A gentle soul always at odds with the wild cat he shared a body with, he fought his beast side and won, or at least kept his baser urges at bay. His only crime? He liked to gamble. Problem was he sucked at it. Not that Joey gave up. Nope, the stupid bastard. He wagered away everything he owned then went on to losing money he didn’t own, which was how he ended up in jail.

But as it turned out, incarceration wasn’t a bad thing. Joey finally hit his light-bulb moment in the slammer. Without the lure of gambling, or the threat of debt collectors, he turned to healthier pursuits. He read and studied, worked in the kitchen, found an inner peace his life lacked before. When Ricky visited him, he’d never seen his brother happier, which was why, when he received the notice Joey had killed himself, he didn’t believe it. Couldn’t.

“Someone murdered him,” he’d accused to deaf ears.

No one believed him. It was easier for prison officials to say he’d killed himself and sweep it under the rug than admit the truth. However, Ricky couldn’t let it go. Joey was his family. His only family. When he died, Ricky found himself alone, and that almost toppled him from the sane path he’d set himself on to the destructive one that almost took his life so many years ago.

Ricky fought the grief, just like he’d fought the anger that used to consume him as a teen. He channeled his emotions into the outreach program he managed. He also called in every favor he could to get someone in the shifter hierarchy to listen, to take notice that something nefarious was taking place and had claimed the life of one of their own. It took months, but finally someone listened and offered him a chance to help catch the culprit.

A chance for vengeance.

“We need you to go undercover. Infiltrate the prison as an inmate and see what you learn.”

Piece of cake. Ricky knew the talk. Walked the walk. And he could protect himself without resorting to his inner cat. Full of cocky confidence, he’d strutted into the prison in his bright orange jumpsuit, ready to catch the perpetrator even if the chances of him being in the right prison to do so were one in who-knew-how-many.

Such grand dreams and ideals. Such good intentions. Such a crock of idealistic shit.

It took him awhile, what with him being a stubborn bastard, but even he couldn’t deny he was getting nowhere. For weeks now, he’d lived and breathed prison life. He’d uncovered drug rings, fight clubs, crooked guards, slutty ones. He knew who was fucking who and who was scamming who. Met the two other shifters interspersed among the incarcerated humans. But, no one had an inkling that a faceless killer stalked them. No one had heard even so much as a whisper about the murders.

Frustrating didn’t even come close to describing his emotions.

In the meantime, while he’d integrated himself here, a shifter had died in another federal prison, one that didn’t have an undercover agent, which left them with only a half-dozen prisons not yet hit and a sudden increase in the odds that his temporary home might be next.

The shifter council didn’t want excuses. They wanted results. To Ricky’s annoyance, they decided to bring in more help. Not only was his fake lawyer who acted as his outside liaison being replaced by some chick who would be posing as a guard, they were pairing him with a shifter, some techno geek that he was supposed to protect.

Great. Just fucking peachy. Relegated to prison babysitter for a wet-behind-the-ears nerd. Much as he might dislike it, though, he’d do it. If that was what it took to bring his brother’s killer to justice—a demise he intended to mete out with his bare fists—then he’d do it.

In this one instance, despite the fact he’d spent the last ten years fighting his past and the violence he used to revel in, this one instance, he would allow it, for Joey.

Joking about going to prison was one thing, actually setting foot in one, a complete other. Stu couldn’t help a twinge of unease as he shuffled along the first of many gray corridors, the tether between his ankles keeping his steps short while his hands cuffed in front of him left little movement if he stumbled and fell.

Chris would have said his face could use some character, but Stu preferred his nose as it was, only slightly misshapen from his numerous mishaps, usually at the other end of someone’s fist. Ignoble tripping and a subsequent nose break wasn’t the kind of scar he wanted to live with, or explain. Not when he knew it would end up repeated at every family gathering for the next twenty years.
What happened to Stu’s nose? Oh, he tripped over his big freakn’ clown feet and did a face plant on concrete.

Shuffle, shuffle. He used mincing steps to keep from overbalancing, the chain jingling as he marched toward his new room and his first foray into a mission that could end in his demise if he wasn’t careful. In here, there was no chance for a reboot, unlike one of his video games.

I really should have asked Patricia more questions when I had the chance.
Distracted by the lovely cougar’s presence in the close confines of her car, he’d not asked half the questions he should have, such as, how they expected him to ferret out information when none of their experts could. How they planned to keep him safe other than pairing him with an ex-con. Oh, and how he’d keep from drooling over the lovely Patricia every time he saw her because, idiot that he was, he’d not broached the whole, “Hey, I think you’re my mate” topic. Probably because she didn’t give any kind of sign she felt the same chemical attraction.

He’d have plenty of time to plan his speech to her about it now. The sparse cells certainly didn’t boast much in entertainment. No television. No books. And, sob, no game consoles. He could only hope his World of Warcraft buddies didn’t ditch him during his absence—or steal all his equipment!

Shuffle. Shuffle. The ignoble march wasn’t as fun in person as it was to watch on television. And orange? Definitely not his color. He also wondered if he shouldn’t have gotten a haircut, given the number of wolf whistles aimed his way along with catcalls of “Hey good looking, I’ll be tasting your cooking”, and that was one of the nicer things he heard. The one involving grease, a fist, and his poor ass … He shuddered.

They finally reached his new home. Cell block 4F. And, look, there was his new boyfriend, leering through the bars.
Reformed my ass.
The guy could have posed as the poster child for the picture under criminal element. Close-cropped hair, tattoos up and down his arms and across his hairless chest. Latino in heritage judging by his tanned skin, dark hair, and eyes, with a nose broken so many times it would never set straight.
And I’m supposed to trust him to protect me?

As if enjoying Stu’s obvious balking at entering the cell, the other man pursed his lips and whistled. “Hey,
puta
. Come to padre.”

If it weren’t for the strong scent of feline, Stu would have really wondered if he was in the right place. As it was, the guy seemed entirely too immersed in his role as eager cellmate and suitor. The blown kisses and hip thrust were totally uncalled for. Stu dragged his feet, really, really wishing he’d given this more thought.

“Y-y-you know what, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t th-think I should be here,” he stammered.

“Tell someone who fucking cares,” retorted his accompanying guard. With impersonal hands and rough shoves, he divested Stu of his chains and thrust him into his room, right into the arms of his partner.

The cat didn’t immediately let him go but rather pulled him closer, probably so he could whisper, “Follow my lead, puppy chow, or you’ll be considered fresh meat for every asshole in this place.”

Lead? What lead?

A hand grabbed his ass and squeezed as his cellmate exclaimed aloud, “Nice cushion, bitch. Here’s to hoping you got a set of pipes to go with that fat ass, eh?”

What. The. Fuck.

First off, his ass was not fat. Secondly, playing a role or not, touching of said ass was going a tad too far. Stu shoved and loosened the grip holding him. He stumbled back sputtering, “Keep away from me you pervert.” Hmm, okay, so he was having a hard time playing along. Apparently, his reaction was the right one because his roommate never lost his salacious leer.

“The name’s Ricky,
puta
. Learn it. Love it. Because you’ll be screaming it later when I sink balls deep into you.”

All his growled, “Hell no,” earned him was a chuckle, not just from his cellmate, but the guard who’d lingered to watch their exchange.

With a rap of his baton on the bars and a laughed, “Have fun getting your ass cherry popped,” the guard wandered off, leaving him alone with his partner.

Stu clung to the back wall and eyed Ricky. If he’d not known he was on his side, or so Patricia said, he would have never guessed. The guy looked like bad news.

“You get bottom bunk,” the cat announced as he swung himself onto the top. “Lights will be going out in about fifteen minutes, so if you gotta piss or anything else, do it now. Or not. But, if you miss the toilet ’cause it’s dark, you’re cleaning it up.”

“Any more fabulous advice?” Stu couldn’t help the caustic edge as the reality of his situation bitch slapped him.

“Don’t act too tough because otherwise you will be called on it.”

“I thought we were supposed to be on the same side.”

“We are, which is why I’m giving you some friendly advice. You’re in the big house now, puppy. Different rules apply here. While you might be used to people following the laws outside of here, or to having your pack protect you, in here, you’re a newbie. Fresh meat. You can’t rely on your wolf to protect you. No one’s here to back you up if someone decides they don’t like your face.”

“I can hold my own.” Four brothers and an even more violent sister had made sure of that.

“The boys in here, they don’t play by the rules. If they come after you, they won’t take turns. They’ll do it as a gang, and they might not stop when you cry uncle.”

“Isn’t it your job to protect me?”

“If I’m around. Which is why, when I’m not, it’s important they believe you’re already claimed.”

“Claimed?”

“That you’re my bitch.” Ricky leered at him

“Can’t we just be good friends?”

“Listen, puppy. I get that you don’t understand how things work, so let me give it to you in a nutshell. In here, you’ve got one of a few choices. You either belong to someone as a bottom, you’re part of a gang who’ll keep you safe, or you’re the baddest asshole around.”

“And how do you get to be that last option?”

“You walk up to the meanest bastard in the place and make him cry for his momma.”

“And who would that be?”

“You’re talking to him, puppy.”

Figured. Shit. As Stu settled onto the stiff foam mattress with its scratchy wool blanket, he really had to wonder what the hell kind of mess he’d volunteered for. What had sounded like a grand adventure and a chance to spend time with his cougar and impress her was starting to resemble a clusterfuck of mega proportions.

It galled Stu to even consider playing the part of simpering or cowed prison girlfriend to anyone, but even he recognized that as big and tough as he was, he doubted he could take his new roommate. Older, thicker, and definitely meaner, yup that about summed up his new friend and Stu didn’t doubt for a moment the guy could wipe the floor with him.

But not before I got a few good licks in.

However, he wasn’t here to prove himself big man in prison, and he wouldn’t be giving his ass to anyone in reality. Surely he could play the part. Get the job done. Help catch the killer if they lurked in this prison and have Patricia look at him with something other than exasperation.

He clung to that hope as the lights went out—and clenched his ass cheeks tight.

After ditching the wolf at the station, Patricia didn’t see Stu again for three whole days. Three days she spent thinking about him, much to her annoyance.

Why did he attract her? It couldn’t be the mate bond. She refused to believe that. So what was it? Surely not lust? For one thing, the guy was young, much too young. And two, she didn’t like guys with wild mops of hair. She preferred a military-style cut. A groomed man. Heck, if she were to get picky, she’d admit she tended to gravitate to men in uniform.

Stu was nothing of the sort. A slob who lived with his parents and who spoke in ribald jests, whose family was borderline psychotic, who … wouldn’t leave her thoughts no matter how hard she tried.