Betting on Wolves (Shifter Country Wolves Book 2) Read online

  Then she spun over to Houston, who stuck the microphone in his pocket, grabbed Kirsten, and dipped her until her hair nearly touched the stage. As she stood she grabbed Houston’s shoulder for support, and the middle-aged ladies went wild.

  Kirsten shouted something that Houston couldn’t hear, so he bent down, putting his ear right by her mouth.

  Instead of saying it again, she kissed him on the cheek, her lips warm, soft, and heart-stopping.

  In the crowd, someone whistled, and then the screen had even more words that Houston didn’t know. Not that he could hear the backing track over the pandemonium, either way — now the ladies were shouting for Kirsten to stop playing favorites and kiss Jack, who grinned and made a “what about me?” face at Kirsten.

  Between lines, she threw her arm around his shoulders and kissed him on the cheek, too, leaving bright red lip prints, like she’d marked him. Their antics left Houston to stumble through the words alone, even as the piano and horns in the song built to a crescendo.

  As a substitute for singing well, he did it loudly and raised his glass into the air. Everyone in the bar raised a glass and cheered in response, and luckily, most of them knew the words better than he did.

  Suddenly, the song went quiet, practically the only noise in the bar Houston’s shouting voice, and everyone cracked up. Houston just shrugged. Then Kirsten was at his side, slipping an arm around his waist. Jack joined in on the other side, and Houston put his now-empty glass on the stage and swayed with the two of them, moving back and forth in time with the song’s final few bars.

  A picture of a treble clef flashed on the screen, and it was over. Houston grinned and held his microphone in mock-victory.

  “I made it!” he shouted, and somewhere below him, he heard Kirsten laughing. Then he looked over at the two of them, Kirsten nestled below his arm, Jack’s face hovering above his head.

  “You’ve got lipstick on your face,” Jack shouted, his green eyes sparkling.

  “So do you,” Houston shouted back.

  Then he leaned right over Kirsten’s head and kissed his mate. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so ecstatic, and about what? A kiss on the cheek and singing so badly that he’d probably broken a row of glasses in the back?

  The ladies in the front whistled, and then the DJ announced the next person. Jack grabbed Kirsten’s hand, she grabbed Houston’s, and they walked offstage and back to their booth. As they did, Houston heard the opening strains of something much quieter and slower than what they’d just sung.

  I think we did way better, he thought smugly. We were way louder, at least.

  “More drinks?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Jack.

  “Water?” asked Kirsten, still breathing hard from singing. Houston had a hard time ignoring the way her chest moved up and down in her dress, but he went to the bar, where the bartender smiled at him and served him first, and at least two women in leather jackets congratulated him on his performance.

  He thanked them politely, took his champagne and water, and went back to the table. Jack had his arm around Kirsten now, and she leaned against him, looking drunk and happy. Houston had to concentrate on not spilling the glasses everywhere, but managed to land them properly on the table, sliding two of them toward Jack and Kirsten.

  “Okay,” he said, trying to gather his thoughts.

  It wasn’t really working. Something in his brain kept misfiring at the sight of his mate and Kirsten together like that, and whatever he was about to say just turned into a warm, gushy feeling deep inside.

  “Okay!” Kirsten said in response, waiting.

  Houston slid into the booth, pressing himself against Kirsten, their faces only inches apart.

  “Okay, no, here goes the toast,” he said, looking from her to the bubbly glass of champagne.

  “We did great!” Jack said. “How’s that?”

  “Yes,” said Houston. “Here’s to us and how great we did. We totally killed whatever that song was.”

  Kirsten threw her head back and laughed, and over her head, Jack and Houston exchanged a glance, then smiled.

  Usually we’re balls-deep by now, Houston thought. But I’d way, way rather be here, slurring over dumb toasts.

  Weird.

  “Okay,” said Kirsten. “Here’s to divorce parties with happy endings.”

  “I thought we were just getting started,” said Houston.

  He drank anyway.

  “It’s barely midnight,” Kirsten said. “What else have you two got in store?”

  “Room service champagne?” suggested Jack, a familiar glint in his eye. “We splurged on a pretty good suite this year.”

  Beside him, Houston could feel Kirsten stiffen, her glass freezing halfway between her mouth and the table, her big eyes looking up at Jack.

  “Uh,” she said, blinking.

  “Just to hang out,” Jack said, a little lamely.

  Houston could tell his mate had just said the first thing that had come to mind, the sort of thing he’d usually say.

  “I’d rather stay out,” Kirsten said, her spine still perfectly straight. She looked down at her glass, and suddenly seemed shy. “I’m not really...”

  She didn’t have to say that kind of girl.

  “There’s a country western bar at Harrah’s that a bunch of the rodeo guys went to,” he said. “If you want to watch some very drunk men fall off of a mechanical bull.”

  The moment he said that, Kirsten relaxed, going back to herself.

  “Can I watch you fall off a mechanical bull?” she asked, a sly look coming into her eyes.

  “Me, yes,” Houston said. “Jack, maybe not. He can hang onto them things pretty good.”

  Jack just nodded.

  “Don’t forget I was a champion,” he said. “What about you?”

  “I’m wearing a skirt,” Kirsten said, as primly as she could. “It would be unladylike.”

  Then she laughed.

  Houston closed his tab, and a few minutes later, the three of them were standing on the edge of the casino floor, trying to figure out which way to the exit.

  They were drunk, and it was basically impossible.

  “Fuck it,” said Jack. Then he spun around, shut his eyes, and pointed. “Walk that way.”

  “Wait,” said Kirsten. She looked nervous again, tugging on a strand of honey-brown hair, her lipstick slightly faded but her eyeliner still perfect as ever around her wide brown eyes.

  “What?” asked Houston.

  “Listen, this is really really fun and everything, but, uh, I’m probably not going to sleep with you guys tonight,” she said, flushing a bright pink that went all the way down her neck. “That’s kind of not what I do? Nothing against people who do! It’s just, I never really could, for whatever reason, and I didn’t want you guys to get the wrong idea...”

  She trailed off, still bright pink, looking from one to the other.

  “I’m still in,” said Houston, looking at his mate. “You still in?”

  “I’m still in,” Jack said. “Are you kidding?”

  Kirsten smiled weakly.

  “Thanks for being cool, guys,” she said.

  “What makes you think it would be a one night thing?” Houston said. Jack started walking, and Houston took Kirsten’s hand, lacing their fingers together as they weaved through other drunk people rushing every which way.

  “We did ask for your number,” Jack reminded her. “You were the one who wouldn’t give it to us.”

  “I didn’t think you’d seriously come find me,” she said, looking up at Houston. It made her weave a little, and she bumped into him.

  A couple feet ahead, Jack stood frowning, a row of emergency exits in front of him.

  “The casinos do this on purpose,” he said, looking from side to side. “They just want you to gamble all your money and leave.”

  Then he spotted a hallway off to one side, lined with shops.

  “This way,” he said. “I think t
his connects to... I don’t know what.”

  Houston and Kirsten looked at each other, shrugged, and followed Jack.

  The hallway had a handful of drunk people stumbling along it, some laughing. Only one storefront was open, a neon blue sign that Houston was far too drunk to read gracing the outside.

  Out in front of the open store stood a man in a sparkly jumpsuit, complete with a shiny cape, and a wig with a black pompadour.

  As they walked past, on the opposite side of the hallway, the fake Elvis suddenly crouched down on one knee, and pointed at another couple.

  “Hubba hubba!” he said in a thick and terrible Southern accent. “What do you two lovebirds say to tyin’ the knot right now?”

  The couple just laughed and walked on.

  Elvis was not deterred.

  “What about y’all three?” he asked, still on one knee, pointing at Jack, Houston, and Kirsten, all walking hand-in-hand. “How about you make that hunka burning love legal?”

  Kirsten giggled, and Houston grinned over at Jack.

  “Want me to finally make you an honest man?” he asked his mate.

  “Nah,” said Jack. “We’ve been living in sin for years, why stop now?”

  Houston grinned.

  There was a real reason that the two of them hadn’t just gotten married. They could have, and then gotten re-married when they found the right girl, of course. They’d talked about doing that, but something had always felt wrong, felt off — they wanted to save getting married for when they were finally complete.

  There’s three of us now, Houston thought quickly.

  That’s ludicrous, he reminded himself. You’re drunk, and she only met you two tonight.

  “Come on!” shouted Elvis. “It’s legal now, all three of you can get hitched and say ‘Love Me Do’ tonight!”

  He rolled his hips suggestively, and Kirsten laughed.

  “That’s the Beatles!” she shouted.

  “Crap,” Elvis muttered.

  “He seemed all shook up,” said Jack.

  Kirsten groaned.

  “Not you, too,” she said. “How much further is that mechanical bull?”

  “Almost there,” said Houston, who had no idea where they were or where they were going, but felt good about it.

  Over Kirsten’s head, Jack shot him a look, then darted his eyes back to the Elvis, still accosting people behind them.

  Houston shrugged.

  There have been worse ideas, he thought. I’d get married tonight.

  Chapter Six

  Kirsten

  The moment that Kirsten had gotten that whole sex thing off her chest, she’d felt better immediately — especially since Jack and Houston still seemed to want to hang out with her. After all, she’d watched a couple of women basically throw themselves at them already, and she was pretty certain that if they decided they needed to get laid, it wouldn’t be a problem.

  When she’d met them, they’d been chatting up a whole group of giggling, interested girls, after all.

  And then they just ignored them to talk to me, she thought. Which was weird.

  Nice, but weird.

  The country western bar was relatively quiet, especially in contrast to the place they’d just left, though there were still plenty of people inside. Jack and Kirsten slid into a booth near the mechanical bull, and Houston went to get them drinks.

  “I should stop letting you buy me drinks soon,” Kirsten said, leaning into Jack a little. “This can’t end well.”

  “Let me know if you gotta puke,” he said, rubbing her back. “I’ll come into the ladies’ room and hold your hair.”

  “Romantic,” Kirsten said, sticking out her tongue. “Don’t worry, I can hold my liquor better than that.”

  “Oh, come on,” said Jack, letting his dimples ease into his face. “That shows devotion.”

  He’s kind of right, Kirsten thought, then closed her eyes and shook her head slightly.

  You have known him for five hours. He cannot be devoted to you.

  “Just do me a favor and don’t imagine me throwing up,” she said. “It’s not exactly sexy.”

  His green eyes glinted as he leaned forward, elbows on the table.

  “Who cares?” he asked. “I thought we weren’t getting any tonight.”

  Kirsten laughed and felt herself go red at the same time.

  The truth was, she was less certain about that with every passing hour. She wasn’t normally the type who could just get it on with someone she’d met that day, but she’d also never met anyone like Houston and Jack before: warm, funny, hot, and excellent sports about karaoke.

  Houston came back with pale pink drinks and sat one in front of each of them, then slid onto a stool himself.

  “You sign up to ride the bull yet?” he asked Jack.

  “Nope,” said Jack. “You?”

  “I wasn’t the champion,” said Houston.

  “This isn’t a tequila sunrise, is it?” Jack asked.

  “Greyhound,” said Houston. “I know you don’t do tequila after midnight.”

  “Cheers,” said Jack, and the three of them clinked their glasses together.

  “I have an idea,” said Kirsten.

  Another country western song kicked on the jukebox, and the guys at the table behind them whooped and started singing along.

  “Is it more karaoke?” asked Houston. “This is more my speed. I think I know the words to this one.”

  She pointed at Jack.

  “You ride the mechanical bull,” she said. “And if you last for less than eight seconds, you show me your scar. Eight seconds is the rodeo time, right?”

  Normally she wouldn’t try to badger a man into taking his shirt off, but tonight was a special exception.

  “Yes, it’s the rodeo time,” Jack said, teasing her. He looked over at the bull like he was considering it, but then looked back at Kirsten, making his face more serious.

  “If I get on that, I will throw up,” he said. “And then they’ll kick us all out, because it’s a bitch to clean those mats, and then we’ll have to walk back past the Elvis who doesn’t know much about Elvis, and we might be drunk enough by then to make some rash decisions.”

  “I don’t know,” said Kirsten. “I bet it’s pretty romantic to get married by Elvis as he sings Beatles songs with a terrible accent in the basement strip mall of a casino.”

  She took a drink through the narrow cocktail straw.

  “Besides, I was led here with false promises,” she teased. “What about you, Houston? If you manage it, he shows me the scar.”

  “That’s the opposite of what you said before,” Jack pointed out.

  “You two are very exacting about taking off your shirt for a drunk girl,” she said, pretending to pout. “I can’t believe I have to do more than ask.”

  “Have you tried saying please yet?” asked Jack. He leaned back against the red vinyl booth, his plaid shirt falling against his chest, his belt buckle glinting in the soft light. For the first time, Kirsten got a good look at it: a rattlesnake, coiled and ready to strike.

  “She’s staring at my crotch,” Jack told Houston. “I feel objectified.”

  “You poor thing,” said Houston.

  “I was looking at your belt buckle,” Kirsten said, defensively.

  “Sure,” said Jack, winking at her.

  She glanced down again, this time definitely not looking at his belt buckle.

  “All right, fine,” she said at last. “Jack, can I please see your scar?”

  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  “Come on,” she said.

  “It’s gonna cost you.”

  “You just said—”

  “I asked if you’d tried that. I didn’t say it would work.”

  “This is unfair,” Kirsten said. “I protest this treatment.”

  She leaned back against the booth and her left hand found Houston’s thigh. She looked down. She hadn’t realized he was so close, but she didn’t move h
er hand away, either. Under her hand, she felt the rock-hard muscles of his thigh stretching the denim.

  It felt like a river of liquid fire — lava, was that lava? She couldn’t remember — was traveling straight down her center, from her lungs down to her core.

  Nothing like this had ever happened before. Attraction, yes; this sudden, mind-melting desire, no. Kirsten swallowed hard and tried to maintain her composure.

  “What’s on your belt buckle?” she asked Houston, her lips curving up into a smile.

  He covered it with one hand.

  “Guess,” he said.

  Instead, Kirsten made a face and grabbed the hand, trying to peel it back from the belt buckle, working her own fingers underneath his so she could lift his hand up, brushing along the denim just below the belt buckle as she did.

  She could have sworn that she saw something stiffen underneath, but then Houston had both of her wrists locked in one of his big hands, held in front of her, his other hand still covering the buckle.

  Kirsten couldn’t stop giggling.

  “Come on,” she said. “Please?”

  Houston and Jack exchanged a glance, and then Houston moved his hand, revealing a shiny buckle with a turquoise mountain, green stone trees, a sliver of a moon, and in the foreground, a wolf howling.

  “It’s the Cascadian flag,” Houston said. “With a wolf added.”

  He let her wrists go, instead taking her left hand in his and simply leaving them entwined on the table.

  Kirsten narrowed her eyes, trying to figure out how to frame the question that she had.

  Can I just ask if they’re wolf shifters? she wondered. They have to be, right? They kind of look wolfy, and they’re partners, and Houston has a wolf on his belt...

  “Are you...” she started.

  “Wolves?” finished Jack. He took another sip of his drink, draining it, and sat the glass on the table.

  Kirsten just nodded.

  Without warning, Houston threw his head back and howled, and Jack joined in.

  “AWOOOOOOO!”