Wolver's Reward (2 page)

“
You can’t stay here,
River. You don't belong.”

River wasn’t sure if he disliked the little
wolver sharing his patio table because the guy spoke the truth, or
because he voiced aloud what River already knew. He’d never felt
like he truly belonged to Charles Goodman’s Wolf’s Head Pack. He’d
made the best effort he could, but it wasn’t enough.

He had no interest in computers or high
finance, which was the main source of Wolf’s Head income. He had no
hankering for fast new cars, when everything he needed could be
reached on foot or carried in the back of a basic Ford F150. He
felt no need to build dwellings that could house twenty, but were
meant for two or four. He had no reason to leave his mark upon the
land, preferred, in fact, to leave no mark at all.

Charles Goodman, the Alpha, had offered him a
place in the pack and River had served it loyally for a little over
seven years, yet the woods and hills still called him to run and
each time he went over the moon, it became harder to come home, and
that shamed him. Kat, the pack’s Mate, had offered her love and
acceptance to the cubs he’d protected when he was still a cub
himself. He owed her his loyalty, too. He owed them his life.

Without the Wolf’s Head pack, he would likely
be dead by now or running with a rogue pack, which was pretty much
the same thing. This pack had given him a home when no one else
would.

Ryker had taken River under his wing, and, at
twenty-two, he was seen as the gruff Chief’s second in command.
This sounded good until you considered that with a force of six,
being second was no great accomplishment and Security Specialist
was just a fancy term for village cop. River spent most of his time
tracking down cubs who'd rather run the woods or go fishing than
sit in a classroom. It was the worst part of the job since he'd
rather go fishing, too.

“
What the fuck do you want
me to do?” he asked the little wolver in the tropical print
shirt.

Eugene Begley pulled out the thin, plastic
stick that decorated the fruity drink in the tall glass. He used
his teeth to slide a chunk of pineapple off the end. Wolvers didn’t
eat much fruit, unless it came in the form of pie, but Begley
seemed to enjoy it.

“
It’s not a matter of what
I want, son. It’s a matter of what’s best for the pack. Pack comes
first," he quoted. It was the first Primal Law. "You know that as
well as the next wolver. Ranger and Dakota are old enough to go
over the moon. You’re holding them back. After all this time, their
loyalty is still to you and not to the Alpha, to the pack. That’s
not your fault, but there's no denying it’s a fact. They won’t ever
transfer that loyalty to Charles as long as you’re
here.”

This was something else River already knew.
The little female, Meadow, who was now a happy and healthy eleven
year old, made the transition to pack and family easily from the
day the Alpha had given her a ride on his back and while there was
no blood relation, she saw Charles as her father.

The two boys were different. At fifteen and
sixteen, they were no longer the little devils they once were, but
they stuck together and, except for their sense of humor which
their idol had never developed, tried to emulate River in all
things. He tried to stay away from them and encouraged them to look
to others for support. There were better wolvers to emulate, but
those early years, when he was all they had, formed a bond they
couldn't seem to break. And it had to be broken if they were to
lead full lives within the pack.

“
Forest sees you as her
future mate,” the older wolver added, uncannily pinpointing another
of River's concerns.

“
That’s no business of
yours,” the younger wolver said sharply. The girl was like a sister
and just the suggestion of the possibility brought with it a shiver
of disgust.

"That's where you're wrong, son. Alpha's
Mates are my business and she was born to be one. I've got plans
for that one."

River was immediately on his feet. Jaws
clenched as tight as the fists he held to his sides, he leaned over
the smaller wolver and released a trickle of the power all wolvers
carried within them. "I don't care what you think your business is
or who you think you are. You leave Forest alone. She doesn't want
to be a Mate and I won't let anyone force her into it."

Watching River carefully, Eugene Begley
ignored the swimmers in the pool who'd suddenly become quiet and
watchful. He smiled around the straw as he took another sip of the
fruity drink before he released a little of his own power, which
was a lot more potent than River's, and toasted the look of
surprise on the young wolver's face with his half empty glass.

"Yes, sir, you have just learned a valuable
lesson," Begley said conversationally. "Never judge a wolver by his
clothes or his drink. I've never forced a Mate to do anything she
didn't choose to do, so watch your tongue and listen to what I have
to say, think hard on it, and then tell me what you decide."

River listened, but all he heard was that he
had to leave and he was surprised by the anger that welled up
inside him. Without reading them, he grabbed the papers Begley had
laid on the table, stuffed them into the front pocket of his jeans,
and stalked off.

He'd been waiting for this day for a long
time, so long in fact, he'd begun to think it wouldn't happen. But
now it had, and he sure as hell didn't need to think about it. He
was Outcast and Rogue from the moment he was born and nothing could
ever wash that stink away. Wolf's Head had finally gotten sick of
the smell.

"Fuck it. Fuck 'em all."

He went immediately to his room, took the
small metal box from the top shelf of his closet, and pulled
clothing from hangers and drawers. Within a half hour he had his
duffle packed and his motorcycle secured in the back of his truck,
along with a few other things he would need. He took only the
things he'd paid for from his own earnings. He wanted nothing from
the Wolf's Head Pack.

He felt the Mate's love flood through him as
he drove away. He rejected that, too. He was a rogue now, without
home or pack. It was what he was born to be.

He spent his first night in the city. It was
already dark when he found a rundown neighborhood and a cheap motel
that smelled of sweat, urine, vomit, and sex. The scents were
human, but familiar. As a cub, it was his job to sneak into the
rooms of places like this and empty the pockets of human men while
the females of their rogue band kept the mark busy. He was good at
it. He had to be. If he got caught, one of the males would have to
step in and River would get the same beating as the mark.

He paid the clerk for the night, stowed his
gear in the room, left the truck in the lot, and took the bike. For
two hours he rode through the streets seeing things he'd never seen
before. His band never operated in the better parts of town, but
his Alpha did. Charles had invited him several times over the
years, but River had always refused. He could think of nothing
better than the woods and fields that surrounded their village. He
had no need to see the brick and mortar that lay beyond.

Now he did. Not that he wanted to see what
enticed his former Alpha and Mate away from the pack for short
periods of time. No, that was over. What he was looking for was a
better class and therefore, more profitable mark. He was a rogue
now and that's how rogues earned their living. He hadn't forgotten
his early lessons. He was good at those, too, but this time, there
was no band to take it from him. There never would be, either.

As far as he could see, the better part of
the city wasn't better at all. Though the odors weren't as
offensive, there were too many of them and the exhaust fumes were
worse. The concrete and glass made the place feel cold. The noise
bothered his ears, and the lights blotted out the night sky.

He saw what he needed to see and thought
about testing his rusty skills on a young and well-dressed couple
making their way through an unguarded parking lot. Their gait was
unsteady and he could smell the alcohol on them as they passed.
They were easy prey, but he decided against it. Though it was
several hours away, Alpha Goodman considered this city to be his
turf and Ryker would rip River a new one if he got a whiff of what
he'd done. The only prey those two believed in was the kind you
could eat.

Shit! Why did he care about Charles' or
Ryker's fucking moral code? He was two blocks away when it hit him
that their opinions no longer mattered. He pulled a U-turn in the
middle of the block and sped back, but he was too late. He arrived
at the parking lot just as driver's door closed. The anger boiled
up inside him again until he thought he would explode with it.

He needed to run, free and wild. He needed to
run until his body burned off the madness, but the full moon was
still a few days off. He felt her call, an insistent lover willing
him to find the power within himself to follow her, but shifting
wasn't something you could do in the middle of a city street.
Instead, he followed his nose and let his innate memory system take
him back to the motel by the shortest route which included two
wrong turns onto one-way streets and one blind alley. His anger was
somewhat abated by the reckless ride, but his room felt more like a
cage.

He took to the streets again, this time
stopping two blocks away at a bar he'd passed earlier in the
evening. Then, there had been six bikes parked in the small lot.
Now, there were two dozen. Built like a wooden shed addition on the
end of a short row of older brick storefronts, the place was long
and narrow. It was decorated with peeling paint and a wide plate
glass window that held two neon signs. One advertised a popular
beer, the other said OPEN. River wondered how many times the window
was broken before the owner came up with the idea of boarding over
the window from the inside with plywood. To River, that plywood
said welcome.

River liked the taste of beer, and more than
a time or two he'd sat with packmates tossing back tequila and lime
around a fire, but like most wolvers, he didn't get drunk. Wolver
metabolism ran too high and the alcohol burned out of the system
too fast. It could be done, but it took a lot of booze in a short
amount of time. River wasn't about to waste his hard-earned money
on that when there were faster and more satisfying ways to burn off
steam.

He parked the Roadliner, and then circled the
lot on foot, taking in the scent of each bike and its rider and
committing it to memory. About half carried the scent of a female
companion. He would try to avoid those riders if he could. His goal
was to blow off steam, not embarrass some poor dumb fuck in front
of his woman. He'd also avoid the owners of the three-wheelers
parked in the handicapped spaces by the door. There was no fun in
that.

All eyes were on him when he entered through
a door of cracked glass held together with a web of wire mesh
between the layers. It was obviously a local place where few
outsiders ventured. Halfway down, River found an open stool and
ordered a beer on tap and two hamburgers, plain and rare.

"Or whatever way the shit comes," he said at
the bartender's blank stare.

The guy was beefy with a belly that overhung
his belt, but his arms looked powerful from years of tossing cases
of beer and the kegs below the taps. He nodded at River's
correction and bellowed the order to whoever was manning the small
kitchen.

"Two flat ones. No green."

River tapped the bar and sauntered to the
back of the place where no sign was needed to indicate the
restrooms. The odor made it obvious. He found his mark at the third
table back sitting with two other guys and a woman who looked as
hard and worn as the old oak floor. The mark was big and old enough
to show some wear, but young enough to take the bait.

He finished his burgers, which were
remarkably juicy for being well done, and half his beer before
making his play. He turned on his stool. His smile traveled around
the room to each of the women, noting that half of them looked
pretty good while the other half made the oak faced woman look
pretty good, too.

"Which of you lovely ladies owns the
Forty-eight in the parking lot?"

"What's it to ya?" The big guy at the table
asked.

"Oh, I was just going to compliment them on
their good taste. It's such a pretty little bike." River sounded
innocent enough until he added. "For a fucking pussy."

Actually, the bike was a pretty sweet looking
ride, but Ryker had told him once that Harley owners tended to be
touchy about anyone badmouthing the name of what they considered
the god of motorcycles. He was disappointed when only the big guy
and his two buddies stood up.

River shrugged. "Although now that I think
about it, most Harleys are. For fucking pussies, I mean."

Four others rose to their feet. Now that was
more like it.

Wolvers weren't that much larger than their
human cousins, but they were a helluva lot stronger and faster, and
Ryker had seen to it that River had more training than most. In
spite of the older wolver's prowess, River was almost ready to take
Ryker to the mat. Ryker had said so himself.

"If it weren't for that damned temper and
that skinny ass of yours, you'd be ready to challenge my position
in the pack. But until you lose the piss-assed attitude and gain
the pounds, you'll be what you are."

What he was, was a rogue pup whose mother
hadn't cared enough to give him a real name. They both knew that
physical maturity would bring him the bulk. Ryker must have finally
figured out that the piss-assed attitude was all River had.

The seven men coming at him were about to
figure that out, too.