Target: BillionBear: BBW Bear Shifter Paranormal Romance (14 page)

“Well, now, who’s this?” the leader sauntered back from the lobby, dots of sweat gleaming in his platinum blond buzz cut.

Kesley realized she was standing there nude. With a dart gun containing one shot.

She was too distraught to care. She looked past the bikers toward the front, dreading the sight of Jameson’s lifeless body—then a stair creaked and a big guy with a tire iron started up toward her, an ugly expression in his face, followed by two more side by side, both carrying machetes.

She raised the dart gun and shot the front one square in the chest.

His eyes rolled up and he fell back, crashing in an immensely satisfying manner on top of one of the machete pair. Kesley fought the instinct to shift to her raccoon, and leaped past the Machete Twins, one tangled with the dead weight of his unconscious buddy, the other yelling curses.

And she stopped dead when she saw Jameson standing just inside the front door of the lobby, streaming with blood.

Then a bunch of gun-toting uglies advanced on her from the adjacent office and a hall. She whirled and fled, ducking inside of what turned out to be a kitchen. Her desperate plan was to shift there and fight her way back to Jameson’s side. But she found three more bikers lounging around the big stove. They swiveled and three pairs of eyes raked down her body, stopping at points north and south in a disgusting way that made her feel naked, instead of merely nude.

Then both fell, one clutching at his neck and the other his gut. Those were Kate’s last shots, and now neither of them had any. Kesley dashed past an old, scarred prep table, grabbed an oven mitt, and yanked a huge soup tureen off the stove. A white tide of steaming clam chowder splashed behind her, causing a couple of chasing thugs to slip most satisfactorily—but then a hand clamped down on her shoulder from behind.

“Got her, Fletch.”

The big blond giant loomed in the doorway, grinning. “Now we’ll have some f—”

His tone changed from threat to the squeak of disbelief when Jameson, one hand clutching his bleeding side, charged straight at him.

Then halted when two hulking guys, one swinging a chain, stepped out to flank Fletch, who flashed a murderous grin at Jameson, who slowed, swaying.

But before he could speak, a long shadow fell in the doorway. Framed alone there stood a tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired man wearing an elegant white shirt and dark slacks, carrying a shotgun in one hand.

Those strong bones—that long face—familiar?

Jameson swayed again. “Charlie,” he said quietly.

Fletch growled at the newcomer, “Back off. This fucker is mine.”

“Think again, asshole,” Charlie said, raised the shotgun, and blasted both bodyguards in the legs and lower body with birdshot.

The men howled and danced back frantically, one crashing into a serving cart full of beer cans and greasy dishes of dried food. He fell in a spectacular smash.

“You want to play that way?” Fletch whirled and came straight at Kesley, fingers out.

Jameson’s teeth bared, he lunged after Fletch—and midair blurred into the massive, magnificent form of a ten-foot-tall dark brown Kodiak bear, tatters of clothing falling away at every tromping step.

A
seriously pissed
Kodiak bear.

The world and time seemed to slow as Kesley stared in a delirious mix of astonishment and joy at her mate. He had found his animal, because she was in danger. Across the distance of that filthy, cigarette-butt and beer-can-strewn lobby, his honey-brown gaze met hers, the impact ringing through her.

His mouth opened and he let out a roar that rattled the windows. His mate was threatened, and he came on the attack.

Kesley couldn’t move—couldn’t even breathe. She could not stand to let her mate out of her sight for a heartbeat.

Swat! A huge paw knocked Fletch into a wall. A bunch of the bikers swung their weapons toward Jameson, but his bear was much faster.

With the speed of pure rage, he thwacked and slapped gun-toting thugs in every direction—backed up by Charlie, who reversed his shotgun and used the butt of it to knock bikers flying.

The shocking stutter of automatic weapons stitched holes of destruction up a wall into the ceiling, and another blew out the front windows before Jameson knocked those two guys off their feet—one tumbling through the window he’d just blown out to crash into a row of fly-buzzing garbage cans. The other guy smashed into one of his buddies, both tumbling to the ground in a tangle of struggling arms and legs.

The rest of the bikers froze. Jameson stood up, the top of his head brushing the ceiling, one paw moving down his side, where the fur gleamed redly, matted with blood. At that horrible sight, Kesley hurled herself toward him, her first thought to protect him—all she was aware of was the thrill of terror, and yet she had never felt more alive.

Then she paused as the Kodiak bear stilled, exchanging a long look with Charlie, who lounged back against the wall, shotgun dangling from his fingers. Then the bear swung about, looking for Kesley, and once again their gazes met with that ringing impact: she knew without words that Jameson recognized her, and her safety was more important to him than anything.

As his was to her. Then she was subliminally aware of the subtle sounds of little paws scratching on the warped wooden floors, the flutter of wings overhead, and the soft hissing slither of a rattler and a garden snake nearby.

A bunch of bikers appeared from a side hall—to be attacked by two snakes, a coyote, a porcupine (the three guys who got sprayed with spines would be picking them painfully from their skin for hours), two cats, a hound dog, a hedgehog, a flock of various birds, and a sloth.

Kesley, midway between tears and laughter, could not help but noticed that Elliot’s sloth didn’t really attack, as it could not move very fast. But Elliot thoughtfully closed his paws around fallen weapons while the harassed bikers tried to fight off the unexpected shifter animal ambush. As one guy dropped his automatic weapon to scrabble at the cat stuck to his face (Kesley recognized her sister, all four sets of claws dug in deep), Elliot nipped up the guy’s weapon and carried it to Charlie, who tossed it into the ornamental fish pond, obviously uncleaned for years. One by one, weapons splorped into the thick coat of algae scum, and vanished.

Kesley shoved and dodged the groaning, snoring bikers and ran to Jameson in bear form. He was even bigger up close, and she paused for a moment, anxiously searching his fierce gaze. He had found his bear, but how about his memory?

Would he be able to shift back?

Jameson gazed down at her from his massive height, eyes locked on hers, honey-warm with light . . . and he blurred and fell to his knees, one hand pressed to his side, which bled sluggishly.

A hawk flew in through the bullet-smashed window and blurred, elongating into man form as Abe Rosen, the sheriff’s deputy. He landed heavily, a huge purple welt on his head, and bruises half-healed all down his body. “Teddy is calling for backup,” he said hoarsely, wincing. “Get everyone out.” He whirled his hand in the air, then looked around. “Hear that? The state police are on the way!”

Several bikers moaned, trying to crawl toward the door. The ones still on their feet fought to get free of attacking animals, and the sound of biker boots clomping in rapid retreat sounded from various directions.

At once the town shifters began fluttering, hopping, and slithering through doors and windows, vanishing into the shrubs where they had stashed their clothes.

Charlie looked across the room at Jameson. “Later, bro?”

“Later.”

Charlie touched his fingertips to his forehead in a wry salute, and slipped out the door.

Kesley ignored them all as she bent to help Jameson rise.

“Kesley,” he murmured, burying his face in her hair. “You’re here. You’re all right.”

“Yes, but you’re not,” she said, sliding her arms around his shaking body.

“A bear,” he whispered. “I’m a bear. Can you . . .”

“It’s all right,” she said as she searched his bewildered gaze. “I know. I mean, I suspected you were a shifter, I didn’t know what kind. What I do know is that you are my mate. My big, burly, bearly mate.”

All the anxiety smoothed from his face. “You’re not afraid?”

“Not for a
second
. I love you. I trust you. That’s what matters right now.”

“Yes.” He stood, wincing as his arm bled. “Love. Trust.” His whisper was almost too soft to hear. “Charlie . . .”

“Not an assassin,” she stated.

“No,” Jameson whispered. “I had it all backwards.
Lied
to.” His skin had paled, slick with cold sweat, and she felt viscerally how hurt and dizzy and confused he had to be, as if those sensations were inside her.

“We’ll talk, but first let’s get you out of here,” she said as she looked around at the unconscious bikers sprawled everywhere in the midst of the trashed lobby.

She chose one approximately Jameson’s size. She grunted, using all her strength to flip the guy over, who promptly began snoring loudly. She unzipped his jeans, yanked his boots off, then grabbed the hems of the pants, and yanked.

One of the wounded bikers lifted his head and blinked owlishly from the other size of the room. A waft of stale beer breath floating her way as he said slurrily, “Hey, naked lady. You can’t pants Vic!”

“Watch me,” Kesley said over her shoulder as she flourished the jeans.

“Aw, fuck it,” the guy muttered and slumped down again.

Kesley threw the pants over the back of a chair and swept up the remains of Jameson’s clothes, ripped to ribbons when his bear burst out. Even his shoes were ruined, and she scooped those up, too—there had to be no evidence left behind of shifting.

She wrapped them in a ball, grabbed the jeans, and together she and Jameson walked back past the kitchen, and out the back door to where she’d stashed her clothes.

“Kesley,” he said softly. “My head is about to explode—lies. Memory. The bear. I did see your friends shift, right? The two snakes, the porcupine, and the rest? What about you?”

She shifted to her raccoon. Then stared up at him, sniffing hopefully. She smelled his wounds—not infected, so far—and the sweat of hard work and residual anger, and beneath those his own dear scent.

“You
are
a shifter.” He smiled tenderly. “Bandit. Of course. Do you like being called Bandit?”

She shifted back to herself.  “It’s okay. Whatever you call me I’ll love because I love hearing my name on your lips.”

He reached down with the hand not covered in blood, and gently touched the top of her head. “A raccoon. Every minute I’m around you, I discover more delightful things about you.”

“It was the secret I couldn’t tell you. We all grow up promising not to. But I wanted to tell you, so much.” She slid her arms around him, and for a long moment they stood there breathing, holding one another tight.

Under her ear his heartbeat began slowing from a desperate thunder to a more normal quick beat, and he loosened his grip. “Marlo. We’ve got to get her and the kid.”

He reached for the biker’s jeans she’d brought, and winced his way into them as she wrestled into her clothes.

He kept his hand pressed to his side as they reentered the motel, which had been completely abandoned by the bikers still on their feet. From the far side of the motel, where the garage was, came the sound of revving engines.

Kesley had her shoes on, but Jameson was barefoot, so they picked their way carefully over all the broken glass and dishes. When they reached the back stairs, they met Abe Rosen—in his clothes—just starting up. “They’re locked into a closet at the top,” he said in a low voice. “Tonio found them. I’m taking them to the station as soon as the state police are done here. Unless you need to wait for Ms. Evans, maybe you want to be somewhere else.”

“I need to talk to her,” Jameson said. “I’ve got a lot of questions.”

Abe scratched his head. “Okay, I get that, beginning with why these clowns came after you, but right now I need to make certain the state police only find a botched kidnapping, and no evidence of shifters.”

“Roger that. Thanks,” Jameson said, and to Kesley, “Let’s get out of here.”

He led the way to where he’d parked the VW, and felt on the floorboard for the keys. “I’ll drive,” she said. “Shall I take you to Doc Weinstein? He’s, um, one of us.”

“I’ll be all right. It’s all superficial stuff. A metric shit-ton of little stuff,” he added in a low tone as he eased himself into the passenger seat, one hand pressed to his ribs.

Kesley didn’t think a bullet wound was little stuff, even if it was only a scrape, but she bit her lip hard against protest as she backed the car up and turned it. “Your memory is back?”

“Hit me like an avalanche. I saw you in danger—and so did my bear, next thing I knew, there I was.”

“That must have been horrible—the shift, and then your memory, while everything else was going on.”

“It could have been worse,” he said, smiling across at her. “To my bear, there was only one thing that mattered: you. That much my human self agreed with, so I guess it loosened something inside me enough for me to make the shift. But damn, ripping out of my clothes hurt almost as much as that .38 nicking my rib.”