Chapter Three
Crowbar
“Ready to see Indoors?” I asked Gunner as I pulled her out of the saddlebag, tiny goggles covering her eyes.
She yapped, tail going nuclear, then twisted in my hands trying to get down.
Three days she’d been gnawing on my rings like chew toys, ignoring every single one Spencer had picked out for her.
The male had been right about the collar though.
Made the darker patches in her fur pop. She looked like she should have her own cut and a road name.
I’d had to pry her away from Trent, Prez’s mate, because I wanted her to come with me to the pet store.
Show her the money I had to spend to replace the pee pads she’d chew up like cotton candy on a sugar binge.
“We’re going to behave like the perfect little lady inside, aren’t we?” She licked my nose. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
I removed her goggles, placing her on my shoulder, and headed inside. A wall of cedar shavings and kibble hit me. It was like walking into a warm blanket made of sunshine.
General Patton spotted us first.
“Asshole!” the bird shrieked from his perch.
“Gotta wolf you can play with.” I gave the parrot a look that would’ve made grown men piss themselves. The bird puffed up and turned his back to me. Smart.
Gunner growled from my shoulder, a sound so small it was like a teakettle trying to intimidate a hurricane.
The store was quiet for a Friday afternoon. A couple browsed the fish section near the back, and an older woman was comparing two bags of birdseed like there would be an exam at checkout. No sign of the green polo behind the register. No messy blond hair. No name tag with crooked letters.
I walked deeper into the store, Gunner’s nails clicking against my leather as she repositioned herself, her nose working overtime at the scent buffet surrounding us.
My wolf was doing the same thing, but it wasn’t tracking animals.
It was hunting for one specific scent, something clean and sweet, like vanilla extract and laundry detergent, threaded through with the faintest trace of strawberry.
The baking kind. Not the candy kind.
I rounded the endcap near the reptile section and spotted him. Indoor person. I wasn’t sure why that had stuck with me, but it had.
Spencer was crouched in front of the bottom shelf in the cat food aisle, a pricing gun in one hand and a clipboard balanced on his knee.
His polo was still too big, the fabric bunching at his waist where he’d tried to tuck it in.
His hair was falling into his eyes yet still defying gravity at the crown, and he was mouthing along to whatever was playing through the single earbud dangling from his left ear.
I stopped walking, as my world tilted.
The male was compact, like someone had taken a full-sized person and distilled them down to the essential parts. Narrow shoulders, wrists I could wrap my thumb and forefinger around, and a jaw that came to a point, which made his face look sharper than it probably was.
My wolf growled softly, pressing against my ribs.
Gunner spotted Spencer, and her entire body vibrated with the force of her excitement. Before I could tighten my grip, she let out a bark so loud it startled a cage of birds, causing them to frantically flap their wings.
Spencer’s head snapped up. He turned on his heels, still crouched, and his whole face lit up like somebody had plugged him into the goddamn sun.
Eyes wide, mouth breaking into a grin so genuine it nearly split his face in two.
But that radiant smile wasn’t for me. His gaze had locked onto Gunner on my shoulder like I was just the transportation system.
“Noodles!” Spencer scrambled to his feet, abandoning the clipboard entirely, and crossed the aisle with an enthusiasm usually reserved for airport reunions. His hands were already reaching. “Oh my god, look at you. You’ve gotten bigger. How have you gotten bigger? It’s been three days!”
Gunner launched herself off my shoulder, and Spencer caught her mid-air with reflexes that surprised both of us. She was licking his chin, his neck, the inside of his ear, and he was laughing, a bright, rapid-fire laugh while trying to hold her squirming body against his chest.
“Her name is Gunner,” I said.
“Her name is Noodles, and she loves me.” He buried his face in her fur, and Gunner’s tail was a blur. “Don’t you? Don’t you love me? Yes, you do. You’re perfect, and your dad has terrible taste in names.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but my wolf settled into a contented stillness that shut me up. Watching Spencer hold my dog, face half-hidden in black-and-tan fur, laughing like the sound had been stored up and was finally spilling over, did something I didn’t have words for.
Then he winced when he shifted Gunner to his other arm.
There was a quick tightening around the eyes and a slight hitch when he adjusted his grip. His left arm. He’d moved Gunner to his left arm and the weight had hit something that hurt.
My wolf stopped settling and started paying attention. So did I.
Spencer didn’t notice me noticing. He was too busy letting Gunner chew on his name tag while he babbled about her growth rate and ear development and something about puppy teeth that I was only half hearing.
My eyes were locked on the way he was holding his left arm just slightly closer to his body. Protective.
Three days ago, that arm had been fine. He’d dragged cat litter bags with it, reached for collars, and scanned barcodes. No hitch. No wince. No careful tucking against his ribs.
Something had happened between then and now.
“So…” Spencer said, adjusting Gunner again—right arm this time, smooth, no wince. “What brings you back?”
“Pee pads.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Chewed through them.” I pulled the toothpick from my mouth and rolled it between my fingers, watching the way his eyes tracked the movement before snapping back to my face. Color crept over his cheeks. “Need the heavy-duty ones, if you’ve got ’em.”
Spencer looked down at Gunner. “You eat pee pads? That’s disgusting. I’m disappointed in you.” Gunner licked his chin. “Okay, I forgive you. But we’re going to work on your dietary choices.”
He was already moving toward the aisle, Gunner tucked against him like she’d always been there. “We have a brand that’s supposed to be chew-resistant. I say ‘supposed to’ because I personally haven’t tested them with my teeth, but the packaging makes bold claims.”
“Bold claims.” The male was amusing. And had no clue what he was doing. I’d clocked it the last time, yet he was good at faking his way through it.
“Very bold. Almost aggressive, actually. There’s a picture of a Rottweiler on the front looking very smug about it.”
He stopped in front of the display, scanning the shelves with his free hand while Gunner gnawed contentedly on her collar.
“Here. These ones. Triple-layer, adhesive backing, quote indestructible unquote.”
He turned the package over. “They also cost twice as much, which feels like a scam, but capitalism is just organized theft with better branding.”
“You always editorialize the merchandise?”
“Guess I don’t know when to shut my mouth.” His eyes flicked to mine, held for a beat, and darted away. The color on his cheeks deepened, spreading toward his ears. “These should work. If she destroys them, bring the remains back and I’ll write a strongly worded letter to the manufacturer.”
I took the package from him, and our fingers brushed. He didn’t pull away immediately. Neither did I. His skin was soft and warm, and up close I could see a faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose that the fluorescent lights had hidden last time.
My wolf pressed even closer.
“Thanks.” I tucked the pads under my arm. “Spencer.”
His name sat differently inside of me than it had three days ago. Heavier. Like it had picked up weight somewhere between the pet store and every time I’d replayed the sound of his laugh while lying awake at two in the morning with a puppy snoring on my chest.
“You’re welcome.” His voice had gone quieter. “Mr. Biker.”
The corner of my mouth pulled. Why did that nickname amuse me so much? “Name’s Crowbar.”
“I figured that out already. I saw it on your cut the last time you were here,” he admitted. “It’s displayed like a billboard.”
“I sometimes forget it’s back there.” I liked that he’d already known my name. I liked a lot of things about the human, especially how easily he blushed.
Spencer stared at me. Then he looked at Gunner. “Something just struck me. Your name is Crowbar and you named your dog Gunner.”
“Yeah.”
“Were you born in an action movie? Is there a sequel? Do explosions happen when you walk away from things?”
“Only when I eat chili.”
That laugh again. Short, startled, like I’d caught him off guard. He pressed his lips together, trying to kill it, but his eyes were still bright and his shoulders were shaking with the effort.
“Crowbar,” he repeated. The way he said it, almost reverent, like he was handling something he wasn’t sure how to hold. “Stop staring. Those were legitimate questions.”
“You’re holding my dog hostage,” I pointed out.
“She loves me. That’s not a hostage situation. That’s a custody preference.” He finally glanced at me, and the flush had crept from his cheeks down the side of his neck. “Besides, you look like the kind of guy who could take her back if he really wanted to.”
“Maybe I don’t want to.”
Spencer’s hand stilled on Gunner’s nose, and I watched his throat work around a swallow. His eyes held mine for a beat too long.
“Well,” he said, voice a fraction softer, “then I guess she’s mine now. I’ll send you visitation schedules.”
“Generous.” I leaned against the shelf, arms crossed, the pee pads tucked under one elbow. The position put me closer to his height, though closer was relative when there was a full foot between us. From this angle, I could see the faint shadows under his eyes. He hadn’t been sleeping.
“I’m a generous person. Ask General Patton. He’s called me a dipshit three times today and I didn’t get offended.”
Gunner sneezed in her sleep, and Spencer laughed again, quieter this time, directed at the puppy instead of me.
“Spencer.”
He looked up. Something about the way I said his name made the color deepen along his jaw.
“What are you doing after your shift?”
His lips parted. Gunner snored softly against his chest, completely unhelpful.
“After my shift?” he repeated, like he was translating from another language. “Today? After this shift? The one I’m currently working?”
“That’s the one.”
“I—well, I was going to reorganize my spice rack because I bought new labels and the old ones are peeling, and then maybe watch something terrible on TV, but not too terrible because I have standards, low ones, but they exist, and—” He stopped and drew a breath.
The flush had spread to the tips of his ears. “Are you asking me to hang out?”
“Yeah.”
“Like, with you specifically?”
“That’s generally what asking implies.”
“Right. Yes. Obviously.” He pressed his lips together like he was physically trying to dam the flood of words. “It’s just… People don’t usually… I mean, you don’t seem like the type who—and I’m me, which is—” He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Yes. The answer is yes. I’d like that.”
My chest loosened. The toothpick rolled across my bottom lip. I watched his eyes go wide, then narrow, then wide again.
“Where?” he asked, trying to sound casual and failing beautifully.
“Deluca’s Auto Repair. We cookout on Fridays. Bring Gunner cupcakes if you want.”
Maybe tonight calls for an alpha with a soft spot—or a heroine who refuses to back down.
See what fits the mood at Lokepub.
“Her name is—wait.” His head tilted. “How did you know I made cupcakes?”
“You’ve got frosting on your chin.”
His hand flew to his face, scrubbing at a spot that wasn’t even the right side.
I reached over and swiped my thumb across the smear of pink just below the corner of his mouth.
His skin was soft. He went absolutely still under the contact, eyes locked on mine, and I could hear his pulse kick up from where I stood.
I slowly pulled my hand back.
“Strawberry,” I said, inspecting my thumb.
“Had one on break,” he murmured.
Gunner chose that moment to wake up and bark at a passing customer, shattering whatever had been building between us. Spencer startled, nearly fumbled the puppy, and recovered.
“Six o’clock,” I said, taking Gunner from his arms. She protested with a whine that bordered on theatrical. “I’ll text you the address.”
“I don’t—you don’t have my number.”
I pulled a pen from the cup by the register we’d migrated toward without me noticing and slid it across the counter. Spencer grabbed it and scrawled ten digits on the back of a receipt with handwriting so chaotic it looked like a doctor’s prescription.
“That’s a seven,” he said, pointing at something that could’ve been a seven or a lowercase F. “And that’s a three. I know they look the same. My handwriting is terrible.”
“I’ll figure it out.” I pocketed the receipt, paid for the pee pads, and settled Gunner back on my shoulder. She was already gnawing on my collar, her tiny teeth clicking against the metal snap.
Spencer stood behind the register, both hands flat on the counter, looking like someone had just told him he’d won something he hadn’t entered.
“Six o’clock,” he said.
“Six o’clock.”
“At Deluca’s Auto Repair.”
“At the garage.”
“With cupcakes.”
“If you want.”
“I want.” The words came out fast, then he blinked like he’d surprised himself. “The cupcakes. I want to bring the cupcakes. That’s what I meant.”
The toothpick shifted. I didn’t bother hiding the grin. “See you tonight, Indoors.”
I turned and headed away, Gunner perched on my shoulder like a furry parrot, and felt Spencer’s gaze follow me all the way out.