Alpha Knight Read online

  I snatch the helmet and toss my hair before I pull it on. It’s too big, and I ruin the haughty effect by fumbling with the straps to try to keep the thing on.

  To complete the humiliation, Bo steps closer to help me, adjusting the straps until they fit snugly against my chin. His movements are sure and deft, and he completes the action by patting the top of the helmet like I’m a child.

  “Aren’t you going to wear one?”

  “Nah, then I’d have two for the ride home,” he says, like that minor inconvenience is much worse than getting his skull smashed in. He produces a pair of sunglasses from the side bag and puts them on. He looks right off the set of a movie. Like a bad boy younger version of Chris Hemsworth. Only way dickier.

  I know. That’s not a word.

  “All set?” He swings a long, thick leg over the seat and looks back. When I gingerly climb on behind him, he gives my wedge sandals a skeptical look. “Normally I wouldn’t allow that kind of footwear on the bike, but I guess you don’t have much of a choice, do you?”

  “Nope.”

  Uber would’ve been a good choice.

  Why in the hell didn’t I Uber this? I was trying to establish this stupid partnership with Winslow. Show some trust to make him trustworthy.

  Now look where I am.

  About to risk my life on the back of a motorcycle.

  He starts the Harley, and the only warning the asshole gives me that he’s going to take off is a look over his shoulder before we lurch.

  I bite down a scream and grab his waist in sheer panic. It takes a mile or two before I realize I’m digging my fingers into his skin through the thin t-shirt, but no matter how firmly I tell myself to ease up, I can’t.

  So much for playing it cool.

  Bo stops at stoplight and turns his head sideways. “You freaking?”

  “Nah-o.” The one-syllable word becomes two as I lie through my teeth.

  He covers one of my clawing hands. His palm is large and rough. Calloused from hard work or maybe playing football—I don’t know. He tugs my hand around the front of his body, until it reaches his washboard abs.

  “Oh—sorry! Was I hurting you?” I don’t normally get flustered by guys. I’m usually the one doing the flustering—especially if we’re talking about high school boys. Being five foot nine by seventh grade made it impossible for me to ignore the effect I have on the opposite sex. But I’m a total disaster in this moment.

  I blame it all on the motorcycle. It’s not from the blue eyes or washboard abs.

  His chuckle is low and soft. It shouldn’t unexpectedly warm me the way it does. “No chance of that, Legs.”

  “Legs? Is that what you’re calling me?”

  The light changes, and he takes off again without warning.

  I wrap my other arm around his waist, too, so now I’m hugging his back like a freaking koala. Or do they ride on the front? A chimpanzee, then, who has to hold on for dear life while her mama swings from tree to tree.

  And then we’re zipping onto the highway that leads to Cave Hills. I don’t know how many miles it takes for my fear to morph into something different. Something warmer and more alive. By the time we’re down the hill, I’m all tingles and awareness, my breath coming in short pants inside the helmet, my hands molded to Bo’s abs. The heat from his body radiating into mine. The motorcycle like a giant vibrator between my legs.

  I hate that I even find this scenario a turn-on. Motorcycles aren’t cool. Boys who ride them are redneck and basic.

  Except my body doesn’t seem to agree. Or maybe it’s not about the motorcycle. Maybe it’s about the giant baller whose back I’m glued to.

  * * *

  Bo

  I purposely scare her because I’m a dick.

  I’m a dick, and I fucking love making her scream and cling to me for dear life every time I take off too fast.

  I also don’t mind the way it feels having her snug against my back, her slender arms squeezing in on my ribs every time I lean into a turn.

  I’m pretty sure I just heard her mutter, you suck, the last time I wove through the lanes of traffic to get ahead.

  Serves her right. She’s trouble, this one, and she’s dragging my brother into it with her.

  “Where to?” I ask when we get down to Cave Hills.

  “5th and Davidson.” She attempts to pry her own hands from me, but I gun the bike, and she seizes me again.

  “You’re doing that on purpose,” she accuses, balling her fists up in the front of my shirt.

  She knows what’s up. I guess to be a car thief, you’d have to be pretty smart. Or else pretty dumb. But she doesn’t strike me as dumb. I saw enough wariness on her face when she was talking to Winslow to know she understands the risks.

  I take her to 5th and Davidson. “Now where?”

  I half expect her to just get off and not show me where she lives, but she gives me directions to her house. Turns out she doesn’t live in one of the many million-dollar homes that make up the wealthy community north of Scottsdale. She’s in a townhouse—a nice one—but not that big.

  “Right here,” she says, pointing. She swings her long leg off the bike and tries to unbuckle the helmet with shaking fingers.

  “What’s the story with the Porsche?” I ask her point-blank, watching her fumble and not offering my help this time.

  I know Winslow isn’t going to tell me, and I’m looking for confirmation.

  “It’s my dad’s,” she says. “He’s out of town, and I put a dent in it. Your brother said he’d help me fix it without him finding out.”

  “I didn’t see a dent.”

  “He already fixed it. Now it just needs a little paint.” She tears at the straps of the helmet, like I’m holding her hostage with them. “Your brother said he’d get fixed by tomorrow.”

  Yeah, right. Total bullshit, of course.

  She manages to get it unclasped and yanks the helmet off, tossing out her long thick hair.

  I don’t want to be stunned by how gorgeous she is up close. I’m looking for some flaw. Some irregularity that can make me dismiss her. But even the large mole on her cheek looks like it was put there just to make her more tempting to guys. Or girls who like girls. Or yeah, pretty much anyone with a pulse.

  She doesn’t look like she belongs in high school. This girl has probably been frequenting college parties since the day she hit puberty. She’s all that.

  And I can’t fucking stand her for it.

  “Thanks for the ride, Bo.” She thrusts the helmet at me.

  “I didn’t catch your name.” I ignore the helmet. She seems to be in a huge hurry to get away, and I’m not going to make it easy for her.

  “I didn’t throw it.” She nudges my belly with the helmet, and when I still ignore it, she lets it go and turns on her heel.

  I stoop to catch it before it hits the ground. “You don’t have to be cunt,” I call out after her. Not because I think she is one—although I’m not ruling it out—I say it more to see if it gets a rise out of her.

  It does.

  She whirls, her face flushing. “Nice,” she nods, walking backward. “Real nice.”

  I grin because seeing her mad gets my dick hard. “I don’t do nice. See you tomorrow, I guess? Will her highness require a pick up?”

  I’m watching for a flush or proof of her lie, but she’s too good for that. She just flips me the bird as she turns around and unlocks the front door.

  Definitely trouble, that one.

  And there won’t be any talking to Winslow about it. Or stopping him.

  I commit her house number to memory. If anything happens to Winslow as a result of this bullshit, I will come down here and rip that entitled Cave Hills bitch apart.

  Right after I put her on her knees in front of my open fly.

  Chapter 2

  Bo

  “The moon is almost full, gents,” Coach Jamison preaches in the locker room after practice. We get this lecture every month, and after four years,
I can pretty much recite it.

  But still—I know it’s important shit—especially for the freshmen who are still in the throes of puberty.

  “Lock yourselves in your rooms before the game and after the pack run. Do not go anywhere near a female, or” —he holds his hands up— “a male, if that’s your interest. I’m not judging.”

  He paces through the locker room as we filter out of the showers wrapped in towels to stand at our lockers and get dressed. “You boys have raging hormones. You are not safe for the community at large. The moon amplifies your need. It makes you too aggressive. Jack off before the game—I don’t want that much testosterone running through you when we play Lakeside. I can’t risk one of you breaking a human’s neck.

  “And other than jacking your own cocks, you will keep it zippered. I’m not going to warn you to use condoms because you will not be getting your dicks wet this weekend.

  “Even if you have a girlfriend—especially if you have a girlfriend—stay the hell away from her tomorrow night. And I don’t subscribe to the sow your wild oats with humans philosophy. Boys, you are even less safe to human females right now. They can’t defend themselves. If I ever hear one of you forced a girl—human or she-wolf—you are permanently off this team, and I will personally kick your ass. Understood?”

  “Yes, Coach Jamison,” we all reply.

  “Louder.”

  “Yes, Coach Jamison,” we shout, our voices echoing off the metal lockers.

  “Wilde, you keep an eye out for every boy on this team during pack run,” Coach tells my buddy, who is team captain.

  “Yes, sir.” He pulls a t-shirt over his head.

  Coach lays a lot of pack-alpha responsibility on Wilde, which is one of the reasons I’m glad I wasn’t named captain. Yeah, I’m alpha. There’s a reason me and my buddies are called the alpha-holes of Wolf Ridge High. But ruling the school and leading a pack are two different things. One comes from a place of rebellion. We flip the bird to everyone but our coach and do whatever the hell we want. We make the social rules at Wolf Ridge High—who is popular. Who gets invited to the mesa. Who’s worthy to date.

  But Wilde has to uphold rules now. Although Jamison’s list of rules is short: No fighting with humans. No impregnating females—human or wolf. No taking a female against her will. No mating bites, even if we think we’re in love.

  We head out, but our meanest alpha-hole, Cole, hangs back. “Austin, can you take Casey home tonight?”

  Abe, Austin’s younger brother walks over to catch a ride home, too. He’s a sophomore but already playing varsity with us, which says a lot because every guy on this team is an athlete of magnitude.

  Austin narrows his eyes at Cole. “Yeah, why?”

  We all know why.

  Cole showed up to practice with the scent of that human all over him. His next door neighbor—the one he hates because her mom took his dad’s job.

  Only everyone knows hate is pretty fucking close to something else. Something bordering on obsession, if you ask me. I’ve seen the way he crowds her up against her locker. The way he’s always looking for her.

  Cole shrugs. “I have to see a teacher about homework.”

  Uh huh.

  But whatever. My dick’s hard for a human, too.

  I went straight home after dropping the Cave Hills bitch off and yanked it all night. I had her scent all up in my nose. It had rubbed off on the back of my t-shirt where she pressed those luscious breasts against me while we rode, so I took the shirt off and wrapped it around my cock. Pretended she was giving me the handjob to show her gratitude for the ride.

  I fell asleep to the image of her tossing that mane of hair over her shoulder with her flippant I didn’t throw it line as she walked away. Every time I replayed it, I had a different comeback. All of them physical. All of them ending with her on her knees in front of my cock, saying please may I suck it?

  Yeah, as if that ever happens in real life.

  The trouble with porn is that it makes regular high school sex about as exciting as sitting through American History class on a half day.

  * * *

  Sloane

  I unlock my bike after cross country practice and fling my leg over the seat. My legs are still shaking from the long run, but I don’t mind the ride home. I think getting in a car and driving would just make my body tighten up. My muscles may be shaky and weak, but pushing them just a little more—in a different way—actually feels good.

  Or maybe I’m just a masochist.

  My car—or the one my dad let me use—was one of the many assets seized by the government when he went to jail. So maybe I have a little bit of deserve wrapped up in riding the bike.

  I definitely don’t deserve the luxury of a car, and I ought to feel ashamed I ever had one, considering where the money came from. I shake my head to remove the flashes of the days after my dad’s arrest. The faces of people who had been my friends, known me my whole life, sneering and turning away from me in scorn as I walked the halls of my old high school to class.

  Turns out the sins of the father aren’t just visited upon the sons. Daughters inherit that shit too.

  I check my phone one more time before I take off to see if there’s any message from Winslow.

  If I don’t get the money by tonight, I’m fucked.

  No message.

  Dammit.

  I lean into the right pedal and take off, riding hard like I can outrun all my father’s past transgressions.

  I just can’t seem to go fast enough today to chase away the shadows around me.

  Inside me.

  The breeze blows in my face, and I suddenly remember the whip of the wind around me yesterday on the back of Bo’s bike. The feel of his hard muscles beneath the slide of his cotton t-shirt. The sound of that deep, growly voice.

  My panties get damp, and I rock against the hard lip of the bike seat to alleviate the ache between my legs. I don’t know why I find such a cocky asshole so hot, but I do.

  It’s the bad-boy vibe, I guess. The motorcycle and Rebel Without a Cause attitude.

  The ice blue of those eyes judging me for some crime. Whether it’s the one I actually committed or a different one, I can’t be sure.

  All I know is that he doesn’t like me.

  Neither does his brother, although that bothers me far less.

  There’s some kind of long-standing rivalry between Cave Hills and Wolf Ridge high. Maybe the animosity stems from that. I don’t know—I’m just the new kid here, but I guess Cave Hills’ kids are the haves; Wolf Ridge, the have-nots.

  I was once one of the haves. I lived in a three-quarter million dollar house in Grosse Pointe, Michigan, the wealthiest suburb of Detroit. My dad was a stock broker.

  But if they only knew how far this princess has fallen, they might not hold it against me. The crown has been firmly knocked off my head and crushed underfoot.

  My dad went to jail for embezzlement last year, and last month the guards found him hanging in his cell, his bed sheet around his throat. Suicide… allegedly. With everyone my father screwed over, who knows.

  I’m living with my mom’s sister and my eleven-year-old cousin without a penny to my name. Have been since a little after my father was picked up by the feds.

  I turn onto my aunt’s street, and my stomach drops out onto the pavement.

  The black Lincoln Navigator that I’m becoming all too familiar with is parked in the lot in front of the townhouses.

  The sweat on my skin turns cold and clammy.

  I don’t make them chase me. I’m not that stupid. I ride my bike right up to the driver’s side window.

  “Hi guys,” I call out brightly, waving my hand beside my face as I peer in.

  The window rolls down, and I’m facing two assholes in sunglasses and first class frowns.

  They are Vinny and Tom, or as I like to call them, Goon One and Goon Two, even though they look more like middle-aged divorced dads with thinning hair lines and bellies that hang
out a little past their belt buckles.

  “Where is it?” Vinny demands. He’s in a god-awful peach colored polo, khakis and Ray Bans, like he just came off the golf course.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket and check the screen just to see if Winslow messaged yet. Still nothing.

  Fucker.

  “How’d the greens treat you today, gentlemen? Hit under par?” I try for levity and false confidence.

  Tom, in his gray-striped Adidas polo and Titleist hat, opens his mouth like he’s about to legit answer, but Vinnny’s not having it. “Don’t be smart, kid.” His hand shifts to the console between the seats and rests on a black handgun.

  I swallow, my throat suddenly very dry. “I’ll have it. There’s a lot to go through. But I’m looking. Every day.” There’s nothing to go through. The few boxes I have of my father’s belongings are full of clothes and pictures. My mother’s wedding ring…

  Tom picks his teeth with a toothpick. “Clock’s ticking. Boss’ll be back soon.”

  Sweat trickles down my back. I lean my elbows on the doorframe, enjoying the cool breeze of the A/C, then straighten when both their gazes drift down and lock on my tits. I’m not above using my sexuality whenever necessary, but with these guys, I’m trying to play more of the poor, scared teenage kid role.

  I decide to go with the God’s honest truth. “Even if I don’t find his stuff, I can raise cash to cover it. I stole a Porsche and got a new title for it, but I still have to fence it. When it’s sold, I hope to have at least ten grand for you, maybe fifteen. Maybe I could make payments—like until I find it.”

  I see grudging appreciation on Vinny’s face. “That right? You stole a Porsche?”

  “Yeah. It’d be easier if you’d take payments in the form of cars. Is that a possibility?”