Hunting The Alpha Wolf (Dark Paranormal Romance (Erotic Horror, Erotika)) by Emily Dante Page B

and a woolly hat pulled down over her
forehead, she stood out.
    She stood out rather a
lot when compared to the ruddy faced farmers and small-town business people who
inhabited the bar. Some of whom despite the air of 'Leave me alone' that she
was trying to give off, were eyeing her up. She could see at least one who was
trying to build up the courage to speak to her.
    Leave me alone, she
projected, I'll just tell you to get lost if you come near me.
    Looking up from her
map, she surveyed the room for the hundredth time. The pub was small but been
recently renovated, and so the uneven floor and slightly grubby bar managed to
look quaint, rather than just tatty. The locals, the regulars as it were, were
gathered around the bar, so she'd had to lean past them to order and pick up
her drink. They had resolutely refused to move to one side for her, and had in
fact simply carried on talking around her as she paid for her drink.
    Most of them ignored
her completely, which suited her perfectly.
    Taking a sip of the
strong black ale she grimaced. She had no real taste for beer, which was why
she had ordered it. Being a child of the nineties she had grown up on cheap
imported lager and Alco pops. She would have much preferred a bottle of Peroni,
but she knew that she would have drunk that far too quickly.
    A pint of Guinness, her
father’s drink of choice, would she hoped, have lasted the half hour before her
contact was due. She liked it just enough to sip it, but not enough to drink it
quickly.
    Still it warded off the
cold quite nicely.
    And it was a very cold
night.
    December the 16 th 2011, there was thick snow on the ground which would soon turn to slush and a
biting wind in the air. And, she thought, to make matters worse, it’s my
birthday, my twenty sixth birthday, congratulations girl, sitting in a pub alone,
waiting for a contact for a story that she didn’t even really believe existed.
    Trouble was that he was
late, over an hour late, and she had drank half the pint, and the bar staff
kept giving her funny looks.
    Sara had driven up from
London in her old, battered Volvo estate that afternoon, and was planning on
finding a quiet corner and sleeping curled up across the boot. Put the backseat
down and there was just enough room in the boot for her to stretch her legs.
    Her old sleeping bag,
which had seen better days, would still be more than warm enough to cope with
the winter temperatures, and she had her rucksack to rest her head on. He dad
had always insisted that she should buy the best quality that she could, and
both the rucksack and the sleeping bag had travelled with her across Europe and
across the tracks of Nepal.
    The main worry was that
Sara had just enough petrol to get home, and no spare cash.
    She hoped the trip
would be worth it.
    She hoped that she
could sell the story to cover her rent for the next few weeks.
    Sara was a freelance
journalist, freelance meant unemployed. She had never really fitted in with the
corporate environment, and so within a week of landing her job at a major
national newspaper she had left. Well to be honest she'd had to leave.
    Telling the editor to
fuck off during a development meeting had not gone down well. “Get your own
fucking coffee,” had actually been what she'd said when he had come in, sat
down and told her to fetch his coffee.
    Still she had a sharp
eye for a story, and a good turn of phrase, so she had been able to drag in
enough money over the last 6 months to keep her head above water, but it was
tough.
    So here she was in the
sleepy market town in Cheshire, hunting down a story, which she hoped would pay
her rent and food bills for another month.
    If not, then there was
always lap dancing. Sara had paid her way through university by working in a
local gentleman’s club. But she'd hoped that she had moved on from that. She
hoped that she could earn a living through her writing, not by being pawed by
middle-aged businessmen, or having to rub her breasts across