Alpha’s Touch (Crimson Hollow #1)

Chapter One

P r e s ton just stood there on the cracked sidewalk, squinting against the glow of the early evening sun as motorcycles thundered past. The first guy led the group like a predator, his bike all polished pipes with a custom paintjob that looked black until the sun caught the blood-red undertones.

The rider seemed totally at ease, a man comfortable in his own skin.

In his mind, Preston imagined himself sprinting into the street to jump on the back of his bike.

You wish you had the guts.

The rumble from the motorcycles traveled through his sneakers, up his calves, and vibrated deep inside his chest. All that chrome gleamed in the fading light, and Preston could practically feel the powerful thrum between his own legs.

Stop fantasizing about him. Guys like him never noticed someone like Preston, and he probably wasn't even into dudes, anyway.

Bummer.

The group, about a dozen strong, each one rocking the same look. Jeans, boots, tight T-shirts, and the kind of casual confidence that came with knowing they could take a punch and throw one harder.

Not that Preston wanted to find out. As big as the lead guy was, Preston valued his jaw unbroken, thanks.

Still, he was just in awe of them. Well, only one of them. There was just something about a guy on a motorcycle, arms extended toward the handlebars, legs stretched out in front of a solid machine.

He sighed dreamily.

A traffic light stopped them for a breath. The lead rider swung a boot to the ground and tipped his head toward Preston.

Black aviators, a cut jaw, arms bronzed to perfection, and hair so unfashionably long it had to be intentional… Wait. Crap! His vision of lust was looking right at him!

Preston tried to look away, failed, and felt his face flush under the intensity of the guy’s stare. If that muscled hunk wanted to stare, Preston would let him. Why not? He was doing the same damn thing.

Trying to pull off the casual look as well, Preston leaned a hand toward the light pole next to him. He missed, stumbling forward and off the curb, nearly becoming a flat pancake as a box truck honked its horn.

Nope. Preston was not looking to see if the handsome devil had witnessed such a humiliating moment. If Preston pretended it didn’t happen, then it didn’t happen.

You wanna stop making a fool of yourself and get to work? Not yet. Preston clearly had a kink for mortifying situations. Who knew?

The bikes idled, the air filling with their collective exhaust and the hot, animal tang of summer.

Preston was still watching the lead guy, still marveling at the muscular frame in the casual slouch, when the light changed.

The engines roared in unison, the formation snapped back together and rolled down Main, and the street settled into its normal, sunbaked quiet as if the whole thing had been a mirage.

Preston exhaled, and now his chest felt hollow, rinsed clean. He wasn’t sure why he was feeling that way. He didn’t even know the guy’s name, yet he stood there and watched until they were out of sight.

Pull it together and get your butt to work, you horny toad!

Work. Right. Preston started moving again.

The Frothy Pine was only three blocks away.

The town, Crimson Hollow, was new to him, but the ecosystem of main streets, bars, and bored summer people wasn’t.

He tried to walk like someone with somewhere to go, not like someone who’d been paralyzed by the sight of a stranger who looked like he’d fallen out of a cologne ad and straight onto a Harley.

You’re hopeless.

He turned down the alley shortcut behind the bakery, where the dumpsters stunk of sourdough and delicious sugar and the only sign of life was a stray cat licking jelly off its paw.

“Hi, kitty.” Preston waved.

The cat meowed loudly and took off, rounding the corner.

“I was just saying hi.” As he began walking again, his mind looped the image of the lead biker—shoulders, arms, the lazy flick of the head—until he almost convinced himself he’d imagined it.

Stopping under the brown awning outside the Frothy Pine, he checked his reflection in the window and tried to flatten his hair.

It never did what he wanted, sticking out in every direction no matter how much product he used. Giving up, Preston swung open the door.

Holy crap. The music slapped him back a step.

Inside, it was a different world from the blinding, quiet street. The music was so loud it vibrated the glassware on the shelves. Now Preston wondered how many glasses actually had fallen or broken because of it.

If you asked him, it had to cost a pretty penny to replace broken glasses. Ash needed to either turn the music down or consider a better glassware arrangement.

Bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder at the tables, and even the booths were overfilled with people shouting to be heard over the thrum of a song that was either ’90s grunge or classic rock.

Since that wasn’t his type of music, Preston wasn’t sure. But he liked whatever it was.

You can do this. You need the job and half the people look like they drink from beer bottles. No fancy drink orders that Preston had no clue how to make.

The bar itself dominated the left side. A long slab of oak, stained with decades of spilled drinks. Behind it, Ash. Preston’s new boss. Hot as fuck, too. When the guy had interviewed him, Preston had been terrified he’d start drooling.

The interview had been on a slow Monday afternoon when the place appeared deserted. It’s not dead anymore.

Ash had the kind of easy, but chaotic energy that made him impossible to ignore, even when he was just restocking napkins.

Tonight, Ash was in his element, flipping bottles and sliding pints down the bar, making bartending look like a breeze.

The man’s smile was so big and white it made him look like a game-show host, but the way he shouted orders, you knew he would toss you out the door if you so much as looked at a customer wrong.

Preston hesitated at the entrance, trying to gauge when to jump in. The barback, a guy with a manbun and a sleeve of tattoos, nodded at him like they were old friends.

What was his name again? Nothing came to mind. Preston wiped the sweat from his palms onto his jeans and walked behind the bar, where the air was at least ten degrees cooler and the smells of bleach, citrus, and cheap whiskey mingled in a way he was already starting to find comforting.

Ash clocked him immediately and grinned, eyes crinkling at the edges.

“Glad you didn’t bail,” he yelled over the music, grabbing another pint glass. “We go by the deep-end method here. You drown, or you learn to swim.”

All Preston knew how to do was doggy paddle. Crap. He forced a smile and nodded, feeling every molecule in his body vibrate with anxiety and something else.

Anticipation, maybe, or pure panic.

Definitely panic.

He remembered nothing from the interview, except that all the taps were sticky and the cash register was older than he was. But his nearly empty checking account had left him no choice but to say yes to the first job that offered tips.

Besides, the town was already starting to grow on him, even if he couldn’t explain why.

Probably the view. Crimson Hollow was nestled up in the mountains, surrounded by a dense forest. From the bedroom window of his rental, he could see mountain peaks, the very tips covered in a blanket of snow.

Which was weird to him since the days were hot as hell.

“You with us?” Ash called out.

The rush hit hard. Preston’s whole world shrank to the four feet of space behind the bar and the endless parade of hands waving, voices shouting, faces demanding.

He poured shots, fumbled bottle openers, and tried not to look like he was keeping a secret every time someone ordered a drink he’d never heard of.

Ash was everywhere at once, zipping up and down the bar, catching mistakes before they happened, tossing out instructions without ever making it sound like an order.

If every shift was like this, Preston would have no problem losing the little bit of belly fat he carried from his stressed-out life.

It was only half an hour into the shift when Preston saw the bikers again.

They filed in like a human wrecking crew, taking up three booths and staking claim to various tables.

The lead guy wasn’t with them—Preston scolded himself for noticing, for even caring—but the others brought the same sense of momentum, as if they carried the road’s chaos indoors with them.

The regulars barely glanced up. Clearly, this was a “normal” occurrence.

The bikers ordered like they owned the place. Beer, whiskey, more beer. Simple stuff that even Preston couldn’t mess up. They barely looked at him when they ordered, treating him like part of the furniture.

Preston wiped down the bar and tried not to stare. These guys had an energy that made the whole room shift around them. Conversations got quieter. People gave them space without being asked.

“Stop gawking and restock the beer cooler,” Ash called out, snapping Preston back to reality.

Right. Work. Not ogle customers who wouldn’t notice him if he burst into flames.

When he straightened, the lead biker was standing at the counter. Right in front of him. Preston froze, staring into the prettiest honey-brown eyes he’d ever seen. He couldn’t pull enough air into his lungs as he stared at the leader like he’d never seen another human being before.

Ash snapped his fingers in front of Preston’s face. “You fall asleep on your feet?”

Preston didn’t even blink.

With a shake of his head, Ash turned toward the leader. “What can I get you, Zeppelin?”

Zeppelin. Preston was never going to wash his ears again.

“Cold beer, Ash.” Zeppelin smirked as he stared at Preston, like he was used to shorting out someone’s brain.

Pull yourself together. You’re making him think you’re a moron. Preston blinked several times, like a crashed computer rebooting. “Hi,” he squeaked, embarrassing himself even more.

Zeppelin’s smirk widened. “New guy?”

“First night,” Ash answered for Preston, who was apparently too brain-dead to speak for himself. “Preston, meet Zeppelin. Zeppelin, this is Preston. Try not to break him on his first shift.”

Preston could only manage a nod toward the man of his dreams. Words seemed like an impossible concept.

Ash grabbed a beer from the cooler and popped it open, sliding it across the bar. Zeppelin caught it without looking away from Preston.

“Thanks.” He took a long pull from the bottle, and Preston’s eyes tracked the movement of his throat.

Snap out of it. The guy's just drinking beer, not performing surgery. Preston was completely and utterly wrecked by this man. A guy he’d caught a thirty second glimpse of on the street.

“You gonna stare all night, or can I get some service over here?” someone called from down the bar.

Heat settled beneath Preston’s collarbone, all because of that soft, sideways grin. Yeah. Other customers. Who weren’t walking sex gods in leather.

Zeppelin chuckled, a low sound that made Preston’s knees go weak. “Better take care of your customers, new guy.”

Preston nodded like a bobblehead and stumbled toward the waiting customer, nearly tripping over his own feet. Behind him, he heard Ash mutter something about “hopeless cases.”

The rest of the shift blurred together. Preston poured drinks, wiped tables, and tried not to combust every time Zeppelin looked in his direction. Which happened more than it should have for a guy he thought was straight.

Or maybe Preston was imagining things.

Around midnight, the crowd started thinning out. The bikers were still there, nursing their drinks and talking in low voices. Preston was loading glasses into the dishwasher when he felt someone watching him.

He turned around. Zeppelin stood at the end of the bar, empty bottle in hand.

“Another?” Preston’s voice only cracked a little this time. Progress.

“Nah. I’m good.” Zeppelin set the bottle down. “You always this jumpy around customers?”

His voice was smoky, like embers glowing in the dark—soft and dangerous.

Preston’s laugh came out strangled. Maybe by closing time he could actually die from all the embarrassment he was experiencing. “Normally, no.”

A teasing, sideways grin from Zeppelin made breathing harder. “So, does that make me special?”

It will tonight when I fantasize about you. “Nope.”

Zeppelin’s smirk rearranged the rhythm of Preston’s pulse. “You sure about that, sweetheart?”

Preston pretended to check the time, even though he already knew it. “Yep.” Liar.

A slow inhale flared Zeppelin’s nostrils, his eyes darkening as if he could already taste Preston. A strange look crossed his face before it vanished, making Preston wonder if he’d actually seen it. “Okay then. I’ll let you get back to it.”

What just happened?

Zeppelin turned and sauntered back to his booth, and Preston could’ve sworn his ribs loosened, like they were finally given permission to breathe. He managed to keep his cool right up until Zeppelin looked back and gave a wink that made Preston want to run in the opposite direction.

That wink was a crime against gay men with vivid imaginations and no survival instincts.

* * * *

That hadn’t gone exactly how Zeppelin wanted it to. He’d pictured a different reaction in his head, and it didn’t include his mate looking bored with him.

He sat there completely stunned, still shocked that he’d felt the pull when the cute bartender had stood from behind the counter.

He’d known the moment the pull hit him. It was like the universe just whispered, “pay attention,” directly into his soul.

The sensation had blindsided him as soon as he’d gazed into gorgeous green eyes.

“You planning on staring at him all night?” Vaughn, his beta, slipped into the booth across from him, setting down two fresh beers.

Zeppelin took the bottle without looking at it. “Maybe.”

He watched the bartender—Preston, Ash had called him—move like he was still learning the dimensions of his own body, catching his hip on the edge of the counter, fighting the treacherous curve of a pint glass, wiping sweat off his brow with the back of a trembling hand.

Zeppelin couldn’t look away. He wondered, not without sympathy, if the human even realized how obvious his discomfort was or if he was one of those people who thought their inner storms didn’t show.

Vaughn drummed his fingers on the tabletop then leaned in, trying to catch Zeppelin’s eye. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?” Zeppelin finally tore his gaze away from his breathtaking mate. Short, with a small belly Zeppelin was dying to explore. With his tongue. The extra weight was hot as fuck, and Zeppelin was dying to bend the guy over the nearest stool.

“Like you’re about to either eat him alive or propose. It’s disturbing.”

Preston was definitely on the menu. “He’s my mate,” Zeppelin replied, the words strange but amazing on his tongue as he went back to watching Preston.

The guy balanced a tray of drinks on one hand, and Zeppelin coiled in anticipation of jerking from his seat to catch the order if his mate tripped over his own feet again.

A beer bottle hit the table with a dull thud. Zeppelin wasn’t sure if it was his beta’s drink or someone else’s in the pack.

“A human?” Vaughn lowered his voice. “You’re sure?”

Zeppelin stared incredulously at him. “It’s the pull. Of course I’m sure.”

He’d never been more certain of anything.

The sensation was still hot inside his chest, as if someone had poured a shot of high-octane whiskey directly into the space between his ribs.

The evidence was in every cell of his body, every glance he shot at the bartender, every time Preston laughed or flushed or clumsily dropped a bottle.

The pull thrummed stronger when Preston bent over to retrieve a fallen napkin from the floor, and Zeppelin’s grip tightened around his beer bottle.

He could smell Preston’s scent even from across the room—something clean and warm, like soap and nervous sweat, with an underlying sweetness that made Zeppelin’s mouth water.

Every instinct screamed at him to walk over there, pin the human against the bar, and claim what was his.

Instead, he forced himself to stay seated and watch Preston fumble with the cash register, completely oblivious to the predator tracking his every movement.

His mate laughed at something Ash said, the sound bright and genuine, and Zeppelin’s wolf perked up like it had heard its favorite song.

The human had dimples when he smiled. Zeppelin hadn’t noticed them before, too distracted by those green eyes and the way the guy’s hands shook when he tried to speak.

“He’s terrified of you,” Vaughn observed, following Zeppelin’s gaze. “Guy looked like he was about to pass out when you were talking to him.”

That bothered Zeppelin. He wanted Preston to feel safe with him, not scared. The human was so small compared to him, probably a foot shorter and built like a runner rather than a fighter. Zeppelin could break him without even trying.

The thought made his stomach clench. He’d have to be careful, gentle.

His wolf didn’t like that idea. It wanted to claim and possess and mark, but Zeppelin forced it down.

Preston was human. He didn’t understand what it meant to belong to a shifter, didn’t know that Zeppelin would die before letting anything hurt him.

Preston dropped a beer mug, the sound of shattering glass cutting through the bar noise. Even from across the room, Zeppelin could see the flush creeping up his neck as Ash waved him away from the mess.

“Smooth,” Vaughn muttered, but there was amusement in his voice rather than judgment.

“Mock my mate again and I’ll rip out your tongue.

” Zeppelin found himself standing before he made the decision to move.

The pull tugged at him, demanding he go to his mate, help him, comfort him.

Preston was embarrassed and flustered, and every protective instinct Zeppelin possessed had him moving across the room.