A Liar’s Moon (Strength of the Pack #2)

Chapter One

RILEY

Riley had thought living on the paper’s dime meant no more roach-infested, bottom-of-the-barrel motels.

The sour smell of burnt coffee and the rack of faded tourist brochures in the lobby suggested otherwise, and his soul shriveled a little.

But he forced a smile. No matter how much he hated it here, he’d have to play nice if he wanted the locals to talk.

“Can I help you, son?” The gray-haired woman behind the desk watched him with a shrewdness that suggested she was filing away every detail.

Riley had been on the end of that look too many times before, but he couldn’t blame her.

A place like this probably saw all kinds of strangers, and not all of them harmless.

“Riley Clark,” he said. “I’m booked for a week, maybe longer if I need it.”

As his car was the only one in the lot, it was clear a reservation hadn’t been needed. But everywhere else in town was out of his price range, and he couldn’t risk not getting a room.

“I’ve got you,” she said, finger stabbing a penciled entry in the page of an honest-to-God spiral-bound appointment book.

She turned to take a metal key from a row of hooks behind the desk.

He knew he’d left civilization miles ago, but he hadn’t realized he’d moved thirty years into the past when he’d passed the sign welcoming him to Elk Ridge.

“Room Seven,” she said. “What brings you to Elk Ridge?”

He gave a smile, the one he’d been practicing in the mirror. It made him look bashful yet a little proud at the same time. “I’m writing a travel guide,” he said. “Trying to get people to check out the real America, not just the tourist traps.”

Calculation flickered in her eyes. He was pleased with the cover story he’d invented—he could poke around and ask questions without raising suspicion. Every business owner in town would be dying to talk to him if they thought he could give them free advertising.

“When you made your reservation, I forgot to mention we’ve got a special offer going,” she said apologetically. “Three nights for the price of two.” She smiled at him for the first time, doubtless imagining the five-star write-up he’d give the motel.

“Thanks,” he said, biting back a smirk.

When she passed him the key, he noticed the nicotine-stained skin of her hand was rough and cracked, her knuckles swollen, and he pictured her scrubbing the floors of the motel herself, saving every last dime.

He shouldered his bag. Wasn’t his problem.

He was already doing enough, letting The Daily Sentinel foot the bill for this place.

Stepping out into the bright sunshine, he went looking for his room.

The motel was a shabby one-story building, with weeds growing through cracked asphalt.

The far end of the lot was marked by a crumbling brick wall, and he wasn’t surprised to see that no one had bothered to clear away the broken bricks and lumps of mortar strewn over the ground.

Expecting the worst when he unlocked his door, on which the number seven hung crookedly by one rusty screw, Riley was relieved to find the interior was clean.

The grout in the bathroom was stained an unappealing brown in the corners, the curtains looked as if they’d once been cream rather than the dingy gray they now were, but the worn carpet had been vacuumed recently, and the shower and sink had no stains.

The chair looked safer than the bed, so he sank down into lime green vinyl, rubbing at the back of his neck and trying to ease his growing tension. The one thing he hadn’t expected when choosing his cover story was that it would bring back memories.

When he’d mentioned his travel guide to that old woman, it had crashed back in on him—the hours he’d spent planning scenic drives, hiking trails, the whole Great American Road Trip itinerary.

The document that had taken him the best part of a year to finalize, sharing it excitedly with his dad, who’d promised him they’d take the trip together once he graduated high school.

Back then, Riley had still thought he’d be a performer.

An actor maybe, or a model, or something.

He’d definitely be someone. Planning that trip had felt just as thrilling.

It had taken a year to create and seconds to destroy, once his dad found out the truth about Riley.

It had hurt, but it had taught him something important—even the people who were supposed to love you only stuck around if you were what they needed. Better not to get sucked in again.

And he had no business thinking about the past. Not when he was sitting on the kind of lead most journalists would kill for—the alleged sighting of an Argent shifter.

He pulled a battered notebook from his bag, thumbing through the pages until he found the sketch he’d made of a wolf with an eerie silver sheen, half-concealed by forest shadow.

It had helped him visualize what he was searching for.

Argents were supposed to be extinct. Ancient rulers of the shifter world, they’d been wiped out centuries ago. Maybe they’d been real, maybe they were just campfire stories. But if one had survived, and if the local alpha, Urban, was hiding it...

Riley glanced toward the window, half-expecting something to be watching him. With a shifter that rare under his thumb, Urban could unite the packs and challenge the government. Start a war between shifters and normal people.

If Riley could prove it, he wouldn’t just break a story. He’d make history. He’d matter. Enough that maybe his father would finally see what he’d walked away from.

But that would only happen if Riley kept his head down and didn’t get himself torn apart by wolves in the process. Urban was both sheriff and alpha in a one-horse town, a recipe for corruption and abuse of power. Riley would need to be careful.

He breathed out slowly and ran a hand through his hair as he stood, checking his reflection in the brown-speckled mirror.

Small town or not, appearances mattered.

Maybe he was being unfair, basing everything he knew about places like this on bad TV shows.

But if they were even half right, all he had to do was let his story drop, go to ground for a day or two, and the town would do the rest. When he next emerged, everyone would know who he was and why he was here.

His skin itched at the prospect of having to spend even a day longer in this place than he absolutely had to.

He needed to be back in the city where, even if he were on the outside, everyone was too busy to notice that fact.

They’d buy his act that he was successful, unshakeable, and—well, happy.

And once he broke this story, damn right he’d be all of those things.

* * *

The size of the town meant it was only a couple of minutes before he was cruising down Main Street. It wasn’t exactly down-at-heel, but it gave the unmistakable impression the world had moved on and left it to fade gently into obscurity with its few shops and gas station.

A diner sat on the corner of a block, its red awning faded to pink. Looked like a place that served meatloaf and pre-made pies, probably drowned in gravy. Fantastic. He was going to have to eat like a trucker for a week.

He turned into the diner’s parking lot and killed the engine. Time to start work. He’d put his story out there and find out if anyone had a loose tongue.

JASON

Jason slid the chicken breast next to the collard greens and set the plate under the heat lamp, ready for Sam to take it to Ms. Taylor.

The plate looked kind of empty to him without any sweet potatoes, but it was the way Ms. Taylor liked it.

She’d smile at Jason and murmur something about watching her weight, though Jason couldn’t see she needed to worry about that.

According to Bryce, she was one of the most stylish women in town.

Jason couldn’t really comment on that, as his idea of style came with a flatter chest and a dick, but she was a nice lady who always made sure to compliment him on his food.

That was the last ticket done. The lunchtime rush had finished an hour ago, but there were always a few stragglers who came in late, and Ms. Taylor was usually the latest of those.

Jason took off the bandana he’d been wearing to keep the sweat from his eyes and rubbed his hand through his curly hair.

He was hot, tired, and ready to head home just as soon as three o’clock came.

Matt had insisted the pack patrol their territory every night since the hostile alpha Cale, along with his brutish pack, had attacked them.

Jason knew his alpha was right to do so, but that didn’t make it any easier to spend the night roaming the woods and hills around the ranch with every sense alert before coming in to do a full morning shift at the diner.

And then he had to return home to cook dinner for a pack of hungry wolves every night.

Some days he didn’t know why he bothered, because they all scarfed their food down so fast it was like they didn’t even taste it. But then Tristan or Dave would enthuse over something new that they liked, and it made all his work worthwhile.

Well, he’d thought it did. But something had changed recently, and he found himself almost resenting the amount of time he spent cooking. Not the cooking itself—he’d always love that—but the way it had started to feel like the only thing about him anyone really valued.

He wasn’t sure that was fair. But Jesse’s offhand question about his role in the pack had lodged in his chest. Was that all they saw him as—the cook?

And maybe that should be enough for him, because he’d finally found somewhere he belonged.

Somewhere safe. But he wanted… he wanted to be seen.

Not to have to apologize for taking up space.

He glanced up as the swing door from the diner opened, and Sam Fawcett poked her head through. “Jason, honey, can you watch the place for ten minutes? I want to look in on Natalie and check she has everything she needs.”

“Sure,” he agreed, wiping his hands on the dish towel and following her out.

He too had been wondering how Natalie was.

She was the full-time waitress here and, at six months pregnant, had called in sick last week and hadn’t been in since.

Sam hadn’t given Jason any details—and he was glad, because he was happy to live in ignorance when it came to that kind of thing—but he knew Sam was worried about her.

“Maybe take her a cupcake?” he suggested. “She likes the double chocolate raspberry.”

“She can’t eat that alone,” Sam said. “She’d feel rude.”

Jason bit back a smile as he picked out from the glass-fronted counter two of the cakes he’d made that morning. He boxed them up and handed them to Sam.

“Thanks, honey,” she said.

As she disappeared out the front door, she passed a young blond guy in a brown leather jacket on his way in. The guy took his shades off and looked around curiously, and Jason’s knees practically gave out.

What? No, seriously, what? Someone looking like that had come to Elk Ridge? That face should be on posters across the country. Underwear posters, looking at the rest of him—battered jacket open over a soft-looking sweater that somehow both skimmed and clung to his body.

Jason had never seen someone that hot in real life.

In his mid-twenties, Jason thought, with spiky blond hair, and a jawline that made him look like his face was sculpted from marble.

Nothing on that face gave away what he was thinking about what he saw.

The diner wasn’t the fanciest place, but they served good, honest food.

Jason had to actually lock his knees together when the man looked over at him and wandered in his direction. Why had Sam chosen now of all times to duck out? How the hell was he supposed to speak to someone this hot?

“You still serving lunch?” the customer asked, glancing at the blackboard that listed the day’s specials. Customer. That was all he was—a customer. Jason clung to that thought like a lifeline.

The customer changed the direction of his gaze to look at Jason, and the whole world crashed to a halt. There was something in those blue-gray eyes—something he’d never seen before.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” he stammered, his mouth so dry he wasn’t sure how he got the words out. He had no idea what the question had been but figured his answer would be the same in any case. There was no way he could refuse this man anything.

The customer’s eyes flicked back to the specials board. “I’ll take the pesto chicken special and an iced tea.”

“Sure,” Jason said, and didn’t have a clue what he was agreeing to.

“Should I just sit anywhere?” The man gestured at the almost empty diner.

“Uh, yeah, please. I’ll bring it out to you when it’s ready.” Jason finally managed to stumble through something resembling a sentence.

The man made his way across the diner to a seat by the window, and Jason watched him the entire way. He moved with absolute confidence, almost to the point of arrogance. But then, looking like that, why not?

Jason dragged his eyes away before he could get caught staring, and his gaze accidentally locked with Ms. Taylor’s. She was watching him, face lit with amusement, and as their eyes met, she raised a deliberate eyebrow.

“Jason, dear,” she said, pitching her voice so there was no way he could claim not to have heard her. “Do you have a minute?”

“I—uh—” Jason attempted a wave in the direction of the new customer to indicate he needed to be in the kitchen right now. Which he did. He just didn’t want to go back there and miss a second of someone as hot as this in Elk Ridge. In his diner. Because it would never happen again.

“Just for a second,” she insisted.

He made his way over to her, and she put her hand on his wrist. “One thing I’ve learned in this life is not to miss an opportunity,” she said. “Things don’t just happen on their own. You need to act.”

And then she flicked her eyes over toward the customer, as if… Jason’s jaw dropped. She couldn’t mean…

Had she not seen the guy who’d just walked in? Had she not seen him? Jason was wallpaper. Beige and quiet and useful. The guy in the leather jacket belonged on billboards and yachts, in lives where people like Jason were just background noise.

He’d never even had a real date. What was he supposed to do—walk up and introduce himself like he was someone worth noticing?

“I’ll, er,” he said uncertainly, and she patted his hand before releasing him.

“You do that,” she said.

He bolted for the kitchen.