Chapter 6

Chapter

Six

R onan's Pub wasn't far from Wicked, but I drove around for a while first. The radio DJ was playing Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody" and Freddie needed my backup vocals.

The dim ache in the back of my head remained persistent.

Damn. I was getting weaker, and there wasn't much I could do about it. At least, not yet. Not until I found a buyer for the park.

"Gods, I miss you, Mom. Wish you were here. You'd know what to do."

The day I'd told her I was leaving home, she'd been lounging on the porch swing, brown eyes closed, long black hair flowing out behind her. Bronzed legs peeked out from beneath the dirt-coated hem of a gauzy skirt, bare feet hooked around the swing's chain. One delicate arm dangled, fingers pushed against the boards to keep the swing moving. A glass of iced herbal tea sweated on the porch floor. The radio station played a chill song from her high school days—something from the Eagles. "Peaceful Easy Feeling," maybe.

"You look sad, mija."

"I am."

"Come and sit by me. Let the magic in the soil unburden you," she'd said, in that drowsy, over-the-top, hippie tone she sometimes used.

"I can't. I have to leave, Mom."

"Leave? Why?"

"I'm a Lennox. It's time."

Lennox witches weren't meant to stay in one place. We were nomads, bringing magic to the people who needed us. At one time in her life, she'd been a travel witch, too. In fact, I'd taken over her practice when I turned seventeen because she'd devoted herself to the trailer park.

I'd stuck around for nine years. It had taken a life-altering incident with the father of one of my clients to finally convince me to walk away from the practice and Smokethorn, California. Mom had disapproved, but I hadn't cared what she thought by then, hadn't needed her advice, hadn't wanted her help.

That had been ten years ago, and here I was, a thirty-five-year-old woman, wishing she'd show up and tell me what to do one last time.

I hit the brakes on the bad memories and floored the gas pedal on the Mini.

No more dredging up old regrets. Today was not a day for distraction. I was meeting with a nameless client who'd wired me half of a five-figure payday for a small amount of demon-grown belladonna, and I needed to bring my A-game to the meeting.

The front entrance of Ronan's Pub looked more like a side entrance, with a steel security door that led to a small entryway and a glass door that opened into the bar. The entryway was spelled to repel humans, and since witches were similar to humans, I felt a tug of power when I reached for the door. It wasn't strong enough to send me away, just a nudge to make me aware it was there.

An old-fashioned jukebox sat silent in the corner. The radio behind the counter was tuned to my favorite station, and "Sail On" by the Commodores filtered through the room. Heavy wood tables and chairs were scattered about, but the only two patrons in the place sat at the polished mahogany bar. There were pool tables in the back, a dartboard, and a flat screen TV that was currently off.

The lights were low, but not so dark you couldn't see, and the background noise was quiet enough to actually hear yourself think, which was nice. The air conditioner clicked on and off periodically. Probably the fan to keep air circulating, since it was winter and a pleasant seventy degrees.

"Betty Lennox," Gladys Jiménez called out. "Come on in and grab a stool. I'll get you fixed up."

"Good to see you, Gladys. I'll take a bottled water for now."

Gladys was one of Ida's poker pals. In her late seventies, she wore her black hair in a heavily sprayed, wash-and-set style. She'd poured a triple-D chest into a size small white T-shirt with Ronan's in green over the left breast and wore black jeans and embroidered black cowboy boots. Her makeup was thick fake lashes, penciled-in brows, and dark red lipstick. She was Elvis's favorite version of Priscilla with sixty years of baggage.

My clothing and makeup hung out in the darkest corners of the color spectrum, but I had nothing on Gladys. It was my dream to be as cool as she was someday.

"You coming to the Galentine's hot tub party tonight?" she asked. "I'm bringing snacks."

"I plan to. Someone has to keep an eye on Ida. She's responsible for the wine."

"Did she get it from those two witches at the tower outside Sundance again?"

I groaned. "Let's hope not. The last time she brought that stuff I woke up in my garden room with Trini Orosco's cat sweatshirt tied around my head and two different shoes on my feet, neither of them mine."

Gladys chuckled. "Ida's eightieth birthday party, right? Goddess, that was a helluva night. I woke up in her bathtub. Couldn't move my head to the right for a week."

I didn't recognize the patrons at the other end of the bar but gave them a nod, which they returned. Morning drinkers were generally a mix of nightshift workers and insomniacs—people who rarely caused trouble.

A bar before noon on a weekday was as peaceful as a library.

"I didn't realize you were working here," I said.

"Just weekday mornings. Godsdamn social security cuts by those rich bastards in D.C. got me slinging drinks again. Rent goes up, income goes down. You know how it is." She set a bottle of water on a paper coaster in front of me.

One of the patrons held up a beer bottle in solidarity.

I opened my water, took a drink. "I thought you were living in pack-subsidized housing."

"Pack-subsidized doesn't mean free, and it doesn't mean they won't jack up the rent when they can get away with it. Thank Zeus and all the fates for Ronan. Without him, I'd be out on the street. Unlike some alphas, he cares about us old beta wolves."

"If you think the pack will allow it, I've got two spaces available at Siete Saguaros. Rent-controlled." I hadn't raised the rent since Mom last did it, and that had been ten years ago. "I've even got an empty mobile home since Ms. Berry's passing. I bought it off her daughter. I'd sell it to you for the price I paid, which wasn't much."

She looked hopeful for a moment then shook her head. "Alpha Pallás won't allow it. You know how he is."

Yeah, I did. Which was why I despised the old man and distrusted the hell out of his son, no matter how well he treated the beta shifters in the pack.

I mean, was I supposed to give the guy a medal for treating beta wolves like Gladys with the bare minimum of respect?

"Gladys, is there any coffee left?" a grumbling male voice called out.

"Hablando del rey de Roma," I muttered under my breath. Mom's version of "speak of the devil."

I hadn't heard that voice in months, but I knew it like I knew my own. I shouldn't have, but no one got under my skin quite like Ronan Pallás.

"Just made a fresh pot, boss."

"Gladys Jiménez, you are a saint among sinners."

"Oh, I don't know about that. But I do make a mean cup of joe."

Ronan strolled into the room through a door just beyond the restrooms. He was in his mid-thirties and built strong and lean. His cropped short hair was auburn, his eyes green-brown, his skin white with a hint of tan. Freckles were loosely scattered over his arms and face, and he wore a smart-ass smile. Something about the man woke up parts of me better left asleep, and I wished like hell I hadn't run into him before my meeting.

Fat chance of that. He owned the damned pub, after all.

"Betty Lennox, my favorite wicked witch." One burnt sienna eyebrow shot up. "Come to cast a spell on me?"

Gladys chuckled. "Nah, Betty doesn't cast spells on friends."

"No, I don't. Not on friends ." I gave him my most sarcastic grin. "Ronan Payaso, my least favorite bar owner."

"That's Pallás—pie- yAHs —no 'o' on the end, as you well know. I'm no one's clown." He poured himself a mug of coffee and brought it to where I was seated. He looked headed out for a run in a black T-shirt that hugged his muscled biceps, gray sweatpants, and running shoes.

"Brushing up on your Spanish?" I asked.

"My father has a foul mouth and a short fuse. I might not have been raised around him, but I know Spanish insults," he replied. "And compliments… bonita ."

"Keep your gross compliments to yourself." It was a crime how good the man looked in those sweatpants.

"Also, we both know you're lying, Betty," he continued, ignoring my insult. "I'm not your least favorite bar owner. I'm not even your least favorite in La Paloma."

I shrugged. "Fine, you're right. As long as your father owns Pallás Place, you'll remain my second least favorite bar owner."

Gladys moved down the bar to refill drinks, and I let out a tired sigh and dropped the lightness in my tone. "Alpha Floyd's abusing his elder wolves. Again."

For a second, just one, rage flashed across his face. Ronan's contempt for the father he'd only met five years ago was the worst kept secret in town. "I'm taking care of it, Betty."

"You're taking care of Gladys , for which I'm grateful, but you can't take care of them all. That's what the pack is for. It's why all those wolves pay into it. For protection and family. Alphas are supposed to watch over betas, not leave them out in the cold."

"Preaching to the choir, Lennox."

"You could do something about it."

"Not my call," he said through gritted teeth. "I'm not the alpha leader."

"Ever wish you were? Because I bet a lot of the wolves here do."

Power gilded his hazel eyes and trickled into his voice. " I will never be Alpha ."

The other shifters in the bar stopped what they were doing and reflexively tilted their heads to one side. They must've all been wolves, because they'd done it without thought or protest.

He drummed his fingers on the bar and struggled to get ahold of himself. It was almost as if the man had suppressed the power of his alpha side for so long it was starting to leak out.

Because I was the one who'd brought it out in him, and because I felt a little bad about it, I reached into the front pocket of my jeans and pulled out a slightly crushed lavender bud. I reached for Ronan's hand and set the bud in his palm then placed my hand over it and infused the herb with intention.

"Keep it in your pocket. Use it like a worry stone." I removed my hand and closed his fingers over the lavender. "Especially in the presence of your a-hole father."

The change in Ronan was immediate. All signs of his wolf drained from his eyes and his shoulders lowered. The power in the bar dissipated, and the other patrons went back to drinking and chatting as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

Wolves were weird.

"Thanks. For the lavender, not the insult to my father. You can do better than a-hole, Lennox."

A smile broke through the frown I was trying to maintain. "Raging shitbeast?"

"Better."

"Give me a break, I've gone through a lot of insults for your father over the last few years. Hard to be original at this point."

He grinned. "And yet I'm sure you'll come up with more."

"Maybe I should keep a notepad by my bed in case inspiration strikes after a nightmare."

"If it's all the same to you, I'd prefer you not think of my father while in bed."

I kept myself from asking what he'd rather I thought about, but it was a close thing. My mouth had a way of getting away from me in his presence. I might tease the man about being my second least favorite bar owner in town, but it was far from the truth.

"Go ahead. Ask." Ronan gave me that flirty, knowing smile again. "Don't be afraid."

"I'm not afraid of anything. There's just nothing to ask," I lied.

"Betty, Betty, Betty." He ducked his head so the others couldn't hear. Except they did, because all three of them were shifters and could pick up an ant passing gas a mile underground. "This thing between us is going to come to a head someday, sweet witch. You'll see."

"There's nothing between us but a bottle of water and a mug of coffee, Pallás."

"Liar," he drawled.

"Believe what you like." Uncomfortable, I got to my feet and picked up my water and coaster. When his voice went warm and soft like that, my resistance to his flirting threatened to melt away. "My mobile home park has a place for Gladys. Rent is low, so she can afford it and still eat. Maybe you can wrangle permission from Daddy Dearest for her to move in."

He winced. "Please don't say ‘daddy' when referring to my father. It hits wrong."

"Tell you what. If you convince him to allow Gladys to move into the Siete Saguaros, I'll say anything you like."

Damn that grin. He let it creep across his lips slowly, sensuality in every curve. "Anything?"

I tapped the bar with one black-painted fingernail. "Wolf, if you can pull this off, I'll stand on this bar in heels and a black lace minidress at eight o'clock on a Saturday night and proclaim you the sexiest man in town."

His eyes lit up—this time with interest, not his wolf. "Will you wear that red flower in your hair, too?"

"I'll wear whatever you like. The minidress was only a suggestion."

"No, that part's great." Beads of sweat appeared on Ronan's forehead. He shifted his feet and tugged on the waistband of his sweatpants. "Change nothing about that. Just add in the flower."

"Deal."

Gladys shot me two red-lacquered thumbs-ups from across the room, where she was wiping down the tables.

Ronan's tone gentled. "I'll talk to Alpha."

He'd do it. Not only because of what I'd promised him, but because he truly did seem to care about Gladys. There was no other reason for him to have hired her to work a morning shift that was this slow. He had other employees.

He was probably paying her out of his own pocket, too.

Sigh.

Damn the man for making me almost appreciate a Pallás wolf.

I sat at a table in the corner, away from everyone. Ronan toasted me with his coffee mug, and I cursed my big mouth for making that stupid bet. Not that I believed for a second he'd be able to convince the alpha to allow one of his wolves to move into my trailer park. Floyd Pallás hated my guts.

He was right to feel that way, too. I wished the worst things on Alpha Floyd, and I had zero qualms about it. The bastard had lied, cheated, and murdered his way to the top of the La Paloma wolf pack, and he deserved every bad thing karma deigned to send his way.

His son, though…

Ronan wasn't like his father. Where Alpha Floyd wore his cruelty like a badge of honor, Ronan appeared to go out of his way to help the lower-ranking members of the pack.

And I knew a secret, too. Something I'd learned a year ago while briefly working with him to find the teenager of a mutual friend of ours.

Ronan's wolf was far more powerful than his father's.

My cell rang, and I glared at the screen. Private number.

I groaned. Not this BS again.

"Betty here," I said.

"Once again, I've been detained and am unable to meet you at the arranged time."

"I am not at your beck and call, Mr. Anonymous," I said, through gritted teeth.

"Two o'clock. Same location."

"Fine. But I won't move the appointment again, and I won't return the money you've already paid. That was a deposit. I'd never have taken the chance I did without it." I kept my voice low, but it hardly mattered. I might as well have yelled it to the shifters in the room.

"That was the deal, if I recall correctly."

"You recall correctly," I said.

"Indeed." His tone hardened. "And, witch?"

"Yes."

"If you ever take a threatening tone with me again, I will rip out your tongue and feed it to your cat and gnome."

The call ended.

A shiver walked up my spine and settled between my shoulders. Whoever the client was, he not only knew about me, he knew about Fennel and Cecil. While I didn't hide the fact that I worked with a cat, very few people knew about Cecil. A few wolves, Ida, the fae twins at the coffee shop.

Which meant whoever this man was, he was watching me. Closely.

When I picked up my water to take a drink, my hand was shaking.