Captive Wolf (Werewolf Erotic Romance) (Amber in Darkness #1) by Julianne Reyer Page B
Authors: Julianne Reyer
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either let it, or go along for the ride.
And he'd already been there, so the latter option was out.
Still, he wasn't going to leave it on the side of the road. If nothing else, he was stubborn enough that he wanted it towed back to his motel. Where he could glare at it while he thought his way out of this predicament—stuck in the middle of nowhere with no way to travel. Then when he found an answer, he would take something solid and heavy to it as a parting gift to himself.
The town itself was mostly run-down and timeworn, nestled in the hills with only a thin, twisting highway to connect it to the rest of the civilized world. Yet it was home to a small liberal arts college, and Professor Louis Bauersfeld, one of the top academics on paranormal antiquities and folklore.
Of course, no one took the man seriously. Most people agreed that he was exploiting his tenure, and there were occasional grumbles in the local paper about that. To his colleagues, he must have been the academic version of the X-Files. But to Scott, he was something else. A light in the darkness. Hope in the nightmare. A place to begin his search for the truth.
After days of unanswered calls, and sleepless nights spent pacing in unfamiliar hotel rooms all over the country, Scott had finally heard back from the man. The professor was suspicious of course, expecting Scott to be from a gag news site or—more likely—insane.
But Scott had turned on the charm, laid it on thick, and he'd dredged up every ounce of academic flattery he could muster. "I've read all of your published journal articles, sir," he'd said, gritting his teeth. "Even the ones in Science Fiction Studies. I think they're brilliant."
He went on to say hastily that he was an English literature grad student—which wasn't quite true at the moment—and that he hoped to follow in the man's footsteps someday. It was that last bit that convinced Professor Bauersfeld to agree to a meeting.
And now Scott was going to miss his chance because his car had decided to shit itself.
He rounded the last bend in the road and the ramshackle bar came into view. The place was weathered, with grayish wood and a faded, unreadable sign. A row of gleaming motorcycles sat out front in a gravel-strewn lot: colors ranging from candy apple to midnight blue, in a sea of shimmering chrome. Mostly custom jobs, it looked like. He might have cared enough to notice them earlier if his car hadn't been in its death throes.
Scott ground his teeth as he opened the door and entered the dimly lit bar.
It was about mid-morning but the small place was already crowded with burly, leather-clad patrons. Surprisingly, not far removed from a gay fetish club , he thought, eyeing the crowd. Except their fetishes would be bikes and hyper-masculine posturing.
Of course, he wasn't planning to say that. He was out of his element, and he was well aware that his appearance didn't fit in. Just barely past college age, he was wearing a blue button down shirt and black slacks. His black hair was short—even if it was a week or two past needing a trim—and his eyes were dark brown, bordering on black with his mood. That suited him just fine for the most part, but given the circumstances, he forced himself to glance down and blink. Try to keep the seething cynicism in check until he was done here.
Scott was consciously aware as conversations quieted and eyes turned to him. He cleared his throat. "Can I use your phone?"
The bartender braced his thick, tattooed arms on the bar. "What's it worth to you?"
Scott pulled his wallet out. He only had a five and two fifties. "I can give you five bucks for it."
Something sharp poked against his back.
"There's a gas station at the bottom of the hill. Leave your wallet on the bar and get the fuck out." The man's breath reeked of whiskey and his body smelled sour from sweat.
The hairs on the nape of Scott's neck prickled like needles. His pulse quickened. His eyes gleamed like onyx. He hadn't
And he'd already been there, so the latter option was out.
Still, he wasn't going to leave it on the side of the road. If nothing else, he was stubborn enough that he wanted it towed back to his motel. Where he could glare at it while he thought his way out of this predicament—stuck in the middle of nowhere with no way to travel. Then when he found an answer, he would take something solid and heavy to it as a parting gift to himself.
The town itself was mostly run-down and timeworn, nestled in the hills with only a thin, twisting highway to connect it to the rest of the civilized world. Yet it was home to a small liberal arts college, and Professor Louis Bauersfeld, one of the top academics on paranormal antiquities and folklore.
Of course, no one took the man seriously. Most people agreed that he was exploiting his tenure, and there were occasional grumbles in the local paper about that. To his colleagues, he must have been the academic version of the X-Files. But to Scott, he was something else. A light in the darkness. Hope in the nightmare. A place to begin his search for the truth.
After days of unanswered calls, and sleepless nights spent pacing in unfamiliar hotel rooms all over the country, Scott had finally heard back from the man. The professor was suspicious of course, expecting Scott to be from a gag news site or—more likely—insane.
But Scott had turned on the charm, laid it on thick, and he'd dredged up every ounce of academic flattery he could muster. "I've read all of your published journal articles, sir," he'd said, gritting his teeth. "Even the ones in Science Fiction Studies. I think they're brilliant."
He went on to say hastily that he was an English literature grad student—which wasn't quite true at the moment—and that he hoped to follow in the man's footsteps someday. It was that last bit that convinced Professor Bauersfeld to agree to a meeting.
And now Scott was going to miss his chance because his car had decided to shit itself.
He rounded the last bend in the road and the ramshackle bar came into view. The place was weathered, with grayish wood and a faded, unreadable sign. A row of gleaming motorcycles sat out front in a gravel-strewn lot: colors ranging from candy apple to midnight blue, in a sea of shimmering chrome. Mostly custom jobs, it looked like. He might have cared enough to notice them earlier if his car hadn't been in its death throes.
Scott ground his teeth as he opened the door and entered the dimly lit bar.
It was about mid-morning but the small place was already crowded with burly, leather-clad patrons. Surprisingly, not far removed from a gay fetish club , he thought, eyeing the crowd. Except their fetishes would be bikes and hyper-masculine posturing.
Of course, he wasn't planning to say that. He was out of his element, and he was well aware that his appearance didn't fit in. Just barely past college age, he was wearing a blue button down shirt and black slacks. His black hair was short—even if it was a week or two past needing a trim—and his eyes were dark brown, bordering on black with his mood. That suited him just fine for the most part, but given the circumstances, he forced himself to glance down and blink. Try to keep the seething cynicism in check until he was done here.
Scott was consciously aware as conversations quieted and eyes turned to him. He cleared his throat. "Can I use your phone?"
The bartender braced his thick, tattooed arms on the bar. "What's it worth to you?"
Scott pulled his wallet out. He only had a five and two fifties. "I can give you five bucks for it."
Something sharp poked against his back.
"There's a gas station at the bottom of the hill. Leave your wallet on the bar and get the fuck out." The man's breath reeked of whiskey and his body smelled sour from sweat.
The hairs on the nape of Scott's neck prickled like needles. His pulse quickened. His eyes gleamed like onyx. He hadn't
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