The Mane Squeeze

CHAPTER 20

It was bad enough he let his uncles goad him into things he didn’t want to do, but now he was letting Gwen do it, too. And all she did was stare at him with those gold eyes.

Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, he wanted to show Gwen. That he wanted to let her in to the part of his life that only a chosen few had access to.

Lock pulled into one of two parking spaces at the warehouse and shut off the motor. They sat in silence for several minutes until Gwen asked, “So what exactly was going on behind your uncles’ bar?”

Surprised by her question, Lock could only stare at her.

“What?” she demanded. “You think I’m stupid? You disappear with your uncle, then Ric shows up, but he never comes inside. No one discusses what’s going on out there, and even though everyone is trying to be quiet, I can still hear ’em all out there. And I know I smelled something dead in that alley.”

Realizing that trying to get anything over on Gwen would be futile, Lock shrugged and said, “They found a shifter corpse behind the bar. And before you ask,” he said when she opened her mouth, “no, my uncles didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Someone sending them a message?”

“Doubtful. It’s no one they know and it’s happened randomly over the last five or six months. Chances are it’s just a good dumping ground.”

“For what?”

“So far it’s been hybrids. Male wolf mixes.”

“Hunted?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You worried?”

“Don’t know yet.”

“Why bring in Ric?”

“It’s the kind of thing that gets him all up in arms. He’s a big believer in protecting all shifters, full-blood or mixed.” He took her hand. “That being said, I want you to be careful. At least until we know what’s going on. You and Blayne.”

“No worries there. We’re always careful. We have no choice. I’m an O’Neill and she’s the best friend of an O’Neill. Now are we going inside to see what your uncles were talking about or are you hoping I’ll completely forget and you can totally puss out?”

Dropping her hand, Lock snarled, “Fine. Get out.”

Lock stepped from the SUV and slammed his door. He walked to the warehouse and unlocked the door, shutting off his alarm system and heading inside, assuming Gwen would follow.

Gwen stood in the doorway and gazed up at the high ceiling. The place was an old warehouse, but even in New Jersey it couldn’t be cheap to own or rent a place like this, even for storage. Which she was sure it was with all the furniture lying around.

And nice furniture, too. Really nice.

Captivated by the first thing that caught her eye, Gwen wandered over to a sweet little side table. It was made entirely of wood, and she was amazed at the craftsmanship. Gwen crouched down in front of it and ran her hand over the smooth wood.

“Well?”

She heard tone from the bear behind her, but she chose to ignore it. Besides, the more she touched the end table, the more she wanted it. “Where did you get this from?” When he didn’t answer right away, Gwen glanced over her shoulder and was surprised by how uptight he looked. “What’s wrong?” She stood, gently placing her hand on his forearm. “What’s the problem?”

“Nothing.” He shrugged and admitted, “I made it.”

Gwen looked down at the table and back at the bear. “No, seriously.”

“I am serious. I made it. And I was drawing a front door for the house. Dad’s been wanting a new one.”

Gwen reached into Lock’s back pocket and pulled out the racing form. She’d grown up looking at these and helping her own uncles with their winnings and losses. It surprised her that she and Lock had that much in common. It surprised her even more what was drawn on that racing form.

It wasn’t simply a door, as the MacRyrie bears had put it. The design was intricate, beautiful. As someone who worked with carpenters and construction people most of her life, Gwen knew when she was looking at something amazing. But could he actually create this?

Gwen stepped closer to the end table and examined it again. Straightening, she walked down to the next piece. A rolltop desk that looked like something out of the nineteenth century but had been kept in impeccable shape. She pushed the rolltop up and then down. She studied every inch carefully.

“You did this?” she pushed, really not sure she believed him, but he looked so nervous and embarrassed, she was beginning to realize he wasn’t lying. And if he could do this, then she doubted the door would be much of a challenge for him.

“Yeah. I did.”

“This is your hobby? The woodworking you like to do?”

“Yeah.”

Momentarily speechless, she stepped to another piece. This one a long dining table that she knew her mother would kill for.

“Hobby?”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

She whirled on him. “Because hobby means whittling. Or birdhouses. Remember the birdhouses?

“You said birdhouses. I never said birdhouses.”

“It means,” she went on, ignoring him, “a badly put-together table that your friends only pull out of the garage when they know you’re coming over. This—” she gestured around the room at all the amazing pieces surrounding her “—this isn’t that.”

Without waiting for him to say anything else, she ran her hand over the dining table. It looked similar to the table in his parents’ house. No wonder he’d gotten so weird when she’d asked about it. He’d made it! And although this table had a similar style, she could see a marked difference in skill level between the two. He was growing, getting better, becoming a true artisan at his craft.

“Okay, so how much for the table?”

Lock’s head tilted to the side. “How much?”

“Yeah. Ma would love this and Christmas is coming up.”

“Uh…”

“And don’t try and out-haggle me. I’ve learned from the best.”

“I don’t haggle.”

“All right. How much then?” She gestured to herself with her hands. “Hit me with it. I can handle it.”

“Gwen…” he seemed so confused “…you can have it.”

“Have it?” Gwen looked at the table that was slowly going from Christmas gift to her mother to Christmas gift to Gwenie.

“Lock, I can’t take this. I mean you’ll lose what? Four, five grand for it? Okay, it’s true, the sex is great and all but four or five grand? That’s a lot of money for the sex to live up to.”

“I don’t mean…” He dropped his head but she saw the smile. He wasn’t laughing at her, it was a surprised smile. A smile of pure pleasure. “What I mean is I don’t sell my work. At least not yet.”

It took her a moment to understand him. “You don’t sell your work? At all?”

“No.”

“Why? What are you waiting for?”

He shrugged. “I’m waiting for it to be…better.”

“Better?” Wow. The man had higher standards than she realized. “Lock, I mean this in the nicest way possible, but…you’re an idiot.”

“How do you mean that in the nicest way possible?” Lock demanded, never knowing which direction Gwen would come from.

“I mean, you’re an idiot if you’re not selling this stuff. And I don’t mean at yard sales. I’m talking about selling it to a furniture specialist shop. Where rich people go. You want rich people to buy your shit because they tell their rich friends and they tell their rich friends and on and on.”

“None of these are ready for sale,” he argued. “These are all just…drafts.”

“Drafts?”

“Right. Because I’m still learning.”

“Okay. So you’re saying everything isn’t perfect yet.”

“It doesn’t need to be perfect.” Just as close as humanly possible. “But I have to be comfortable getting money for it.”

“Fair enough.” She pointed at the dining table. “So what needs work on this?”

Lock walked over and refreshed his memory on the dining table he’d made a year ago. “Um…this.” He crouched down and pointed. “See those crossrails? They’re slightly…off.”

“Off?”

“Uh-huh.” He stood up. “I’ll make another one and try and fix that.”

“Right. Okay. And you said you had to take care of something here, right? What was that?”

“Since my uncles goaded me into coming here, I figured I could grab a chair I made for Jess, and we could drop it off at her place. If I give her the chair now, she can’t guilt me into going to her baby shower later…and she’ll try.” Oh, she would try.

“Can I see the chair?”

“Sure.” He walked her over to the chair and took off the drop cloth he kept over it to protect the wood.

Gwen studied it for several long moments before she dropped her head into her hands and groaned.

“Was it the Viking runes?” he asked, wincing. “Too much? I wouldn’t put it on anyone else’s chair, but this is Jess and she’s—”

“You’re not charging for this?” Gwen cut in.

“No.” He looked at the rocking chair, admiring the lines but easily spotting all the flaws. “I made it as a gift.”

“Let’s say you didn’t make it for a gift, but you simply made it. Would you sell it then?”

Lock frowned. “Probably not.”

“Another crossrail problem?”

Lock laughed. “No. Not this time. It’s just…I’m not real happy with this joint. Right here.”

She nodded. “Is that a problem that would have Jess falling on her ass when the chair broke?”

Insulted, Lock said, “Of course not. I’d never give her anything that wasn’t absolutely sturdy and reliable.”

“So it’ll last, let’s say, a hundred years or so?”

“More than that, I hope. And it can handle at least fifteen hundred pounds.” He knew this because he’d sat in it as bear. If it could handle his weight, it could handle a pregnant little wild dog.

Abruptly, Gwen paced away from him.

“What?” he asked, already planning to start a new chair for Jess tomorrow. “Is it that bad?”

“No, Lock. It’s perfect.” She whirled on him again, but he was glad she didn’t do that 180-degree thing with her head instead. “But, hon, I was right…you’re an idiot.”

“Why am I an idiot?”

“You’re an idiot because you’re not selling this.”

“It’s a gift.”

“Not the chair, you mongrel. I’m talking about all of it. You have a fortune sitting here.”

“No,” he said, even as his pulse raced. “It’s not—”

“What? Perfect? Art is supposed to have imperfections. That’s what makes great art.” She stopped, blinking in surprise. “I can’t believe I remembered that from Sister Ann’s stupid art history class. And let me tell ya…not exactly an ‘A’ student with her.”

“Not a big art history fan?”

“Not a big fan of Sister Ann. She was the one who started all the nuns and Father Francis calling me the devil’s whore and Blayne the devil’s whore’s lackey, which did nothing but hurt Blayne’s feelings.”

As always, amused by Gwen’s random comments, Lock smiled as he reached down to lift up the chair he would be giving Jess, but Gwen placed her hand on the seat, halting him.

“Wait.”

He looked up at her.

“Are you telling Jess you made this?”

Immediately, Lock shook his head at the uncomfortable thought. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Don’t be silly. She’ll appreciate it more if you tell her.”

“I don’t want to tell her.”

“So you’ll lie to her.”

“I won’t have to lie to her. She never asks, so there’s nothing to admit to.”

Gwen’s eyes narrowed the tiniest bit, and he knew he was in trouble. “How much stuff have you given her?”

“A few things,” he hedged.

“And you haven’t charged her for any of it?”

Her voice was even and controlled, but he could still hear the outrage in it. “No. I haven’t charged her. And I don’t plan to start now.”

As always when annoyed, Gwen placed her hands on her hips, those Philly girl nails of hers tapping against her cargo pants. “What is your deal with her?” Before he could answer, she held up her hand and went on. “What if she asks? Then will you tell her?”

“She won’t ask.”

“But if she does?”

“She won’t.

Her eyes flashed wide in warning. “But. If. She. Does?”

“Breaking one simple sentence into several sentences won’t change the fact that she won’t ask. She never asks and, like most dogs, Jess is a creature of habit.”

Gwen suddenly relaxed, which made Lock tense up instead.

“How about a bet then?” she asked.

“I don’t gamble.”

“Because once you start you can never stop or because you have moral issues with it?”

“Because I hate to lose.”

She smiled. “That’s valid.”

“Your other two options weren’t valid?”

“Valid but a little more depressing.”

Not sure where she was going with this, Lock rested his arms against the back of the chair. “Okay. So what bet?”

“We take your chair over to Jess’s and if she asks where you got it from—you tell her.”

“No.”

“Again with the ‘no’?”

“Gwen, I saw you clean out my uncles. You’re what we in the high-stakes military game refer to as tricky.” She laughed and Lock smiled but was honest. “I know you, Gwen. You’re going to slip her a note or spell out my name in semaphore.”

She frowned. “I don’t even know what semaphore is. And I swear not to say a word about you making the chair.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Seriously. No looks, notes, sema-whatevers, or smoke signals to imply you had anything to do with its creation. I won’t say, write, or mouth one word about who made this chair or any of the other furniture you’ve stupidly given rich dogs for no pay.”

He couldn’t believe she wasn’t letting that go. “I like giving Jess stuff. She’s a good friend.”

“Yeah,” she said, turning away. “A good friend with big perky tits and a round, wild dog ass, but I’m sure that has nothing to do with it.”

“Wait…what?”

“Nothing.” She headed toward the door. “Let’s go.”

“Wait.” She stopped and faced him. “The bet?”

“What about it?”

“Aren’t you supposed to have stakes for a bet?”

“According to the bookie I had in tenth grade…yeah.”

No wonder she’d beaten his uncles at cards. “You had a bookie in the tenth—”

“We’ll keep it simple. If she asks about the chair, I win and you give me that dining table free of charge.”

“I was going to—”

“If they say nothing and you win…” She shrugged. “I’ll fix your plumbing for free.”

Lock frowned. “What makes you think I have plumbing problems?”

Gwen silently walked across the large room to the one and only bathroom, far off in the corner. She disappeared inside and flushed the toilet. Lock cringed when the pipes shook and shuddered throughout the entire building.

She walked back to him and stared.

“All right!” he yelled over the shuddering pipes, flinching when the noise abruptly stopped and his voice ended up echoing around the room. “It’s a bet.”

The front door opened and Gwen could see through the metal-and-glass security door the eyes of wild dog pups. They didn’t notice her, however—too busy staring up at Lock.

“Hi,” he said, keeping his voice low and even. “Your moms home?”

The cutest little girl with big blond curls turned and yelled, “Mommmmmmm! Bearrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!”

“There’s a welcome,” Gwen teased Lock.

“And it only gets better.”

Sabina, the Russian wild dog that even Blayne called “prickly,” came to the door and unlocked it, pushing it open with one hand. “Why are you here?”

“To see Jess.”

“Will you be long? We are going to eat soon and I don’t want us all starving like peasants while we wait for you.”

The woman, with her thick Russian accent, did simply reek of warmth and hospitality, didn’t she? Gwen knew gang members who were nicer to crackheads who owed them money.

“No. We won’t be long. I just want to give something to Jess.”

“Then come.” Sabina started to turn away than turned back, her left forefinger raised. “We will not feed you, bear. We don’t have enough food. You and the cat must starve.”

Gwen hissed and Lock urged Gwen forward with his hand against her back. “That’s fine.”

Sabina went back into the house and Gwen asked, “Is it only fear that keeps you from tearing her head off that puny dog body?”

“Pretty much. Because even missing her head, I’m not sure she’d actually die.”

They stepped into the long hallway and found more children than had originally been there. They stood around Lock, staring up at him with wide eyes. They were waiting for something.

Jess walked up to them and raised her brows at Lock.

“I’m not a dancing bear,” he complained.

“Please?” Jess pushed lightly, giving him a smile that made Gwen want to deck her.

Appearing more embarrassed than Gwen had seen him, Lock looked down at the children—and roared.

The children screamed and took off running, scattering in all directions while Jess clapped and laughed.

“And today’s Lack of Dignity award goes to…” Gwen muttered.

“Shut up.”

“They love the roar!” Jess enthused, before her attention was quickly snagged to what was resting on the stairs. “What’s that out there?”

“It’s for you,” Lock explained. “A little something in honor of—”

“Getting knocked up,” Gwen cut in.

Instead of being insulted, Jess clapped her hands together again. “Gifts for me! Gifts for me!” she cheered, making Gwen and Lock laugh.

“Show me,” Jess insisted.

Lock went back outside and grabbed the drop cloth-covered chair; together they followed Jess into the living room. Setting the chair down, Lock pulled off the cover and stepped back. Gwen could tell from the look on his face that he was nervous as hell about his gift. She didn’t know why. It was exquisite.

Jess gazed at the chair, May and Sabina coming up behind her. Then they all gazed at the chair. Gazed and said nothing.

It was a rocking chair, large and roomy. Definitely too big for Jess alone, but once her baby had gotten much bigger, the chair would be a perfect fit for mother and child to sit in together. Maybe while Jess read to him or her. Gwen could picture it perfectly in her head and it made her smile.

“Do you like it?” Lock asked. “If you don’t, I can—”

Jess held her hand up. “It’s…perfect.” She swallowed and walked around the chair. “Really. Perfect.”

Gwen almost rubbed her hands together in villain-style glee. Excellent.

Lock watched Gwen closely as she leaned forward, studied the arms of the chair, said, “Huh,” and leaned back.

While all three women peered at her, Sabina spoke first. “What was that?”

Gwen blinked, giving that same innocent expression she’d given Lock’s uncles. “What was what?”

“That ‘huh.’”

“Nothing.”

“You lie, feline. Tell me what you know!”

“Y’all,” May cut in. “No reason for everybody to get crazy.” She ran her hand across the back of the chair. “Maybe this chair is simply not to Gwen’s tastes. If she’s tasteless.”

Sabina didn’t seem to be buying that as she walked around the chair.

“What are these?” Sabina demanded, pointing at the wide arms of the chair. “Cut into the wood.”

“Those are Nordic runes,” Lock explained.

“Nordic?” Gwen asked. “Oh! You mean like Nazis?”

Turning on her, Lock exploded. “Nazis?”

“Hey, hey,” she said, holding up her hands. “It was just a question.”

“You give us chair owned by Nazis?” Sabina demanded.

Lock couldn’t believe this. “Of course I didn’t!”

“You are Nazi lover!” Sabina accused.

“I am not!”

“Everybody calm down!” May let out a huff. “This is ridiculous. We all know Lock. Been knowin’ him for years. He’s not a Nazi lover. Are you, Lock?”

“Of course I’m—”

“So you say,” Sabina cut in. “But you tell us nothing of this chair. Perhaps it was made by Nazi lover.”

Lock glared at Gwen. “This is ridiculous.”

Gwen gave the smallest of shrugs, a tiny smile on her lips.

“Ridiculous or not,” Sabina said, “our Jess will not sit in your Nazi chair until we know where you got it from.”

Jess, who’d been about to put her butt in the chair, stood back up. “Oh, come on!”

“Do you want to promote Nazism?” Sabina demanded of her Alpha.

“Jesus Christ!”

“Blasphemy,” May muttered under her breath.

“Shut up.” Jess folded her arms over her chest. “Lock, just tell us where you got the goddamn chair from so we can stop all this foolishness.”

Lock’s jaw popped as he kept his focus on Gwen. How the hell did she manage it? For the last three years he’d been giving his stuff to Jess and her Packmates and not once had they asked where he got it from. They’d never cared, usually too busy amusing themselves with the gift instead. But without breaking her word, Gwen had gotten them to do what they’d never done before!

Understanding his body language more than she should this far in to their relationship, Gwen explained to him, “I’ve been best friends with Blayne Thorpe since ninth grade and she’s more dog than wolf. So do the math, Jersey boy.”

“Well?” Sabina pushed. “Tell us where you got this or get your Nazi chair out of here.”

“It’s not—” Lock stopped, took a deep breath in an attempt to remain calm and keep the embarrassment at bay. “It’s a combination rocking chair and Viking throne,” he explained. “I looked at some of the old Conan the Barbarian art and stole some ideas for the chair from that and combined it with a standard rocking chair design. Hence the Viking runes—not Nazi.”

Sabina looked at the chair and back at Lock. “I do not understand.”

But Jessica did. “You made this, Lock?”

He shrugged, livid with Gwen. Could he wring her neck and get away with it—legally? “Yeah. I made this.” He cleared his throat. “But if you don’t like it, I can definitely—”

Lock’s words abruptly halted as Jess burst into tears, his gaze quickly swinging to Gwen’s in panic, but all she could do was shrug helplessly.

“Jess,” he began, desperate, “if you really don’t like it, I can make you something else.”

Jess took a step toward him, still sobbing, and raised her arms.

Lock briefly closed his eyes. “Jess, come on.”

She slammed her foot down, her arms still raised. Lock glanced at Gwen again before he reached down and picked Jess up.

Gwen’s eyes narrowed as Jess buried her face in his shoulder, her arms around his neck, and continued to sob.

Chewing her lip, May slowly moved around the chair and was about to sit down in it, when Jess’s head snapped up.

“Your ass hits that chair and it’s the last thing it’ll ever do!”

“Oh, come on, Jess!” May begged. “Just let me sit in it.”

“No! It’s mine!” Jess rested her head against Lock’s shoulder. “All mine. My throne of power. By this chair I rule.”

“I can’t believe you’re being so selfish!”

“Mine!” Jess screamed.

Sabina slapped Lock’s arm and pointed at the chair. “Make me one but with Russian words I will give you.”

“Hey!” May snarled. “That’s not fair.”

“What is not fair?”

“Why should you get a chair first? I’m the one pregnant again. So if he’s making another chair, it’s gonna be for me!”

“You spawn like the salmon this bear eats,” Sabina accused. “Why should you get something special for something you seem to do constantly?”

“Why? Because I’m creating the future leaders of the United States of America. You, however, are breeding thugs!” May smiled at Lock. “I’m sure Lock wouldn’t mind making my chair first.”

“He make your chair first in hell.”

“Back off, Putin!”

“I pay,” Sabina offered Lock, gripping his arm. “Three thousand for chair.”

“I’ll give him five thousand.”

“Ten, hillbilly.”

“Fifteen, Chekhov.”

With Jess still in his arms, Lock stepped between them. “Stop it. Both of you. I can make you both chairs for—owwww!” He glared down at Gwen while a spot on his thigh throbbed from where the little psychopath had pinched him. “What the hell was that for?”

“I’ll handle this,” she said, grabbing hold of an arm from each wild dog and pulling them out of the living room. “You show Jess her new…uh…throne.”

Lock glanced at the woman in his arms. She was no longer sobbing, but was now smiling and giving her best Queen Elizabeth wave to her nonexistent “people.”

“I,” she somberly intoned, not to Lock but her invisible “people,” “as your ruler and sovereign, do thank you for this lovely throne.”

She motioned to the chair. “You may now place me in my throne.”

“You have got to be kidding me, Jessica.”

“Place me!”

“All right. All right.” Lock placed her in the chair and Jess leaned back, sighing and smiling. “I love it, Lock,” she said. After she rocked back and forth a few times, she stopped and looked up at him again. “The other stuff you’ve given me. The desk, the dining table—where did you get those from?”

Lock let out a breath and wondered how Gwen could manage to cause so much trouble without really trying.