An Alpha's Thunder (Water Bear Shifters 3)
Read An Alpha's Thunder (Water Bear Shifters 3) Online
Authors: Sloane Meyers
Tags: #Paranormal, #Contemporary, #Fiction, #Romance, #Forever Love, #Adult, #Erotic, #Panda-Shifter, #Mate, #Suspense, #Violence, #Supernatural, #Panda Bears, #Legendary, #Alpha Male, #Bachelor, #Single Woman, #Secrets, #Millitary, #Navy, #Artist, #Art Show, #Secluded Life, #Dream Boyfriend, #Taking Chances, #Coast Guard, #Worth Shaking Up, #Comfortable Life, #Enemies, #Leaving Behind, #Demanding Job
An Alpha’s Thunder
Water Bear Shifters, Book 3
By Sloane Meyers
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Similarities to actual people or events are entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Sloane Meyers. All rights reserved.
This was the blackest night San Diego had seen in months. The dark clouds that had arrived this afternoon without warning had only grown thicker as the daylight faded, and not a single star could be seen above the city tonight. Rain pelted mercilessly against Caroline Hall’s face, and her long hair whipped wildly about. The wind blew the droplets with such force that they left tiny red marks on her skin, but Caroline was numb to the pain. She dug her feet into the wet sand and let her eyes dart back and forth across the angry ocean, taking in the scene hungrily.
Most people were frightened to be on the beach and close to the water during a storm like this. But not Caroline. She lived for these moments. The sight of a raging sea storm had a strange, soothing effect on her soul. She often waded into the water until the salty waves beat against her face, threatening to make her lose her footing and be swept out to sea. She got as close to the storm as she could without completely giving in to it.
Despite the darkness, Caroline was able to make out the towering crests of the waves as they rose impossibly high before crashing back down. Her night vision had always been above average, which gave her a great advantage during these dark storms. She took mental photographs, saving every little detail in her mind so that she could transfer it onto a canvas later. She could make dozens of paintings from the imagery of a single thunderstorm. Violent, stormy seas were the only thing Caroline painted. She had no desire to paint anything else, and, so far, her obsession with the angry ocean had served her well. At every exhibition, her work sold out. Longtime collectors and new fans alike swooned over each new painting, snatching up their favorites well before the exhibitions were scheduled to end. She signed her paintings simply “C. Hall,” and she had developed a huge following. Everyone marveled at how she could paint stormy seas over and over and yet have each new scene look so unique. After all, at the end of the day, a storm was just a storm, right?
Caroline never understood this astonishment. Of course each scene looked unique. Every storm was different. The wind, waves, and clouds moved differently with each new round of rain, thunder, and lightning. Caroline had an uncanny ability to pick out the distinctive details that everyone missed, and she turned these details into paintings that had made her a living. A very comfortable living.
Caroline’s focus was brought sharply back to the present by the whir of helicopter rotors. She looked up at the sky and saw the sharp outline of a Coast Guard rescue helicopter, zooming fearlessly away from the shoreline and toward the open seas. Caroline smiled. The only other people she knew who didn’t fear the stormy oceans were the Coast Guard rescue crews. She often saw them out here on nights like this, shuttling back and forth between the air station and boats in peril. She had never painted anything manmade, preferring to stick with the natural world of thunder, lightning, and rain. But she had often contemplated breaking that tradition to paint a series on a Coast Guard rescue crew flying their helicopter.
A huge gust of wind blew sea spray and sand at Caroline’s face, causing her to momentarily lose sight of the helicopter. She rubbed her eyes to clear away the debris, and strained to see the aircraft as it vanished further out to sea. She watched with interest as the helicopter’s search light bobbed back and forth across the black waves. Occasionally, a flash of lightning illuminated the ocean and clouds, making it easier to see. But within a few minutes, the helicopter was gone, too far out of for Caroline to see.
It would be back, though. And there would be others. On a night like tonight, these men would be busy. Caroline glanced down at her wrist and pushed a button on her watch to illuminate the time. Three-thirty a.m. She had been standing out here for nearly an hour, letting the rain and wind soak and chill her to the bone. She had seen enough for now, and she turned to head back to her sporty black Volkswagen Jetta. She climbed into the driver’s seat, where she had already placed several thick towels to protect the new leather seats from her soaking wet clothes. Her thin, white t-shirt clung to her skin, and her black leggings felt twice as heavy as normal from the water they were holding. She was barefoot, having given up long ago on wearing shoes to storm-watch. The sand and water were especially harsh on shoes.
She started her engine and turned the heater on full blast. The April weather in San Diego was usually mild, but on stormy nights the temperatures always dropped. Caroline shivered so violently that holding the steering wheel steady proved difficult. She hardly noticed, however. She would warm up within a few minutes, and her hands would steady out by the time she got home. Then she would spend the next several hours sketching out ideas from the storm she had just watched. She would work until she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer, then she would collapse into bed to sleep for a few hours before getting up and getting back to work.
When Caroline was on a roll with her paintings, she wouldn’t sleep or eat much for weeks. She became completely focused on her paintings, finishing up a series in one long, fixated stretch. Her roommate thought she was crazy, but it’s just how Caroline’s muse worked. At the end of a creative streak, she would have several new paintings ready, and she would choose an art gallery to call up. She had a few favorites, but she liked to occasionally branch out and try new ones. Whichever gallery she called would jump at the chance to show her work, and would handle all the marketing and set-up details for her. She would show up the night of the exhibit, dressed in a sparkly cocktail dress from her ever growing collection. She would pretend for the night that she was glamorous and trendy. She would pretend that she was outgoing and talkative, hiding the fact that underneath it all she was an introverted, reclusive artist.
Caroline had a love-hate relationship with these events. She had met some amazing people, and she had sold hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of paintings thanks to the efforts of the art galleries. But she could only take so much glitz, sparkle, and wine before she needed the quiet and simplicity of her own bedroom and a pair of sweatpants.
That quiet solitude was where the real magic happened. She let her imagination take over, and created the masterpieces of angst that had become her calling card. The sea was her muse, and when it called, she came. When it spoke, she listened, and painted its messages into the blue-black waves of her canvas.
Tonight, the sea was speaking in a slightly different tone. Caroline arrived home and peeled off her wet clothes. She slipped into some soft cotton pajamas and then began mixing paints. There were shades of dark blue and black, as always. But there was a newcomer to the palette this time—orange. The color of the rescue helicopters that had long been insisting they deserved space in her paintings.
Caroline painted until the storm outside had subsided and had given way to the gray-pink light of dawn. She set down her paintbrush and lay her head down on her pillow, telling herself she would just take a five minute power nap. But she had soon drifted off into a deep sleep, with the faces of imaginary Coast Guard rescue crews racing across her dreams.
Lance Bowman breathed in deeply, enjoying the scents of fresh fruit and vegetables. The mid-May sun shone warmly on his face, and the pleasant sounds of laughter and happy chatter floated through the air. Lance loved this little Farmer’s Market. He had discovered it a little over a year ago, and he came here on Saturday mornings whenever his work schedule allowed for it.
He wasn’t much of a cook—who had time for that, with busy, ever-changing shifts at the Coast Guard Air Station. But he often bought fresh fruit to snack on, and he usually picked up some other item of interest from the many vendors. Over time, he had been persuaded to buy artisan honey, hand-poured soap, and bottle openers with hand-carved wooden handles. The honey he had eaten himself and enjoyed immensely, the soap he had gifted to a friendly old lady who worked as a teller at his credit union, and the bottle openers he used on an almost daily basis.
Lance wandered aimlessly through the stalls, wondering what treasures he might find to take home today. He stopped to buy a cup of coffee made from freshly ground beans, and he sipped the velvety black liquid as he continued to take in the colors and smells of the bustling market. He made it to the far right corner of the market without finding anything particularly interesting, so he stopped at Merva’s Fruit Stand, his favorite spot to replenish his stash of fresh fruit. The lady who owned the stand wasn’t actually named Merva. She was Linda, and she had only named the fruit stand Merva’s because she thought it gave the place a pleasant, old-timey aura.
“Lance!” Linda called out when she saw him. “You haven’t been by in several weeks. I was beginning to wonder if you had forgotten about your old friend Linda.”
Lance smiled. “Naw, you know I’d never forget about you. Things have just been busy at work, with all the storms lately.”
Linda nodded. “I’ll bet. I haven’t seen storms this bad in nearly a decade. The news said it’s going to keep up this way for several more weeks. Something about unseasonably warm temperatures over the gulf.”
Lance groaned. “It’s already been our busiest spring on record. Our rescue numbers are ten percent higher right now than they were this time last year.”
Linda smiled. “Well, job security, right?”
“Yeah, I guess. Although I wish people would learn to be a little more careful out on the water.”
Lance worked on a rescue crew of four men. His friends Ace and Ben were the pilot and copilot, and his friend Brett was the rescue swimmer, who jumped into the water to help pull up survivors caught out at sea. Lance held the title of Flight Technician. He helped lower and lift Brett into and out of the ocean, and he helped lift survivors into the helicopter using a rescue basket. He also provided emergency first aid to survivors who needed it—which lately had been pretty much everyone. The crew had seen some pretty nasty injuries in the past few weeks, and Lance was grateful to have the day off today to rest and recuperate.
As Lance grabbed a basket to hold his fruit selections, Linda’s face suddenly lit up.
“By the way,” she said, “Did you hear the rumors about the newest C. Hall exhibition?”
Lance glanced up from the pile of oranges he was inspecting. “C. Hall? What’s that?”
Linda raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know about C. Hall? I’m surprised. She’s known pretty well even outside of art circles. And I thought someone like you who works in stormy oceans would have been familiar with her work.”
Lance furrowed his brow in confusion. “I’m sorry. I’m still not understanding. What kind of work does she do?”
“She’s an artist. A painter. She exclusively paints scenes of ocean storms, and she’s really good. She’s made quite a name for herself around here. People have been trying to get her to expand and paint something else, but she refuses. She’s even been offered generous sums of money to branch out, but she won’t. She has an art show tomorrow with all new work, though, and rumors are flying that she’s added a new element to her work.”
Linda paused dramatically. Lance wanted to roll his eyes at her over-the-top explanation, but he liked Linda and this seemed important to her, so he played along. “What’s the new element?”
Linda’s eyes widened with excitement. “She’s incorporated Coast Guard rescue helicopters into the storm scenes. Some have even said that she actually did a few scenes with people in them. If that’s true, this is huge. She’s never painted anything but nature before. Helicopters
and
people? Wow. That’d be a huge departure from her previous work.”
Lance wanted to laugh as he watched Linda fanning herself with a sheet of paper. He had never really been much of a fan boy about anyone or anything. He’d never idolized the rock star of the moment, or even any of the big name sports players. He certainly wasn’t going to get ecstatic about a random painter. Art wasn’t exactly his thing. Even a painting of a Coast Guard helicopter didn’t spark his interest. He saw those helicopters every day at work. Why would he want to hang a picture of one on his wall?
“Sounds cool,” he said, and turned his attention back to choosing oranges. He had tried to sound genuine, but Linda caught on to his disinterest.
“Ugh, I can’t believe you’re so unimpressed. This is the biggest news to hit the San Diego art scene in ages!”
Lance shrugged as he placed his basket of fruit in front of Linda for her to ring him up. “Sorry, Linda. I guess I’m just not a big art guy.”
Linda shook her head at him in exaggerated pity, then started counting out his oranges. Lance couldn’t help but chuckle. He liked the vendors at the Farmer’s Market. They were all friendly and hard-working people. But he couldn’t pretend to get excited about some random paintings. Artisan honey, sure. But romanticized paintings about stormy oceans? He drew the line there.
“Thanks Linda,” Lance said as she handed him his bag of fruit. “I’ll see you next week, hopefully.
Lance spent the rest of the weekend catching up on all of the things that fell to the wayside when he was working crazy hours. He caught up on balancing his checkbook and paying bills. He cleaned his condo, and went to the grocery store to restock on staple items. Late Sunday morning, he swung by his favorite barbershop to get his hair trimmed. He hadn’t made an appointment, but he only had to wait fifteen minutes for his favorite stylist, Sara.
“Lance!” Sara said before he had even settled into her stylist’s chair. “I can’t believe you know C. Hall! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“C. Hall?” Lance asked, racking his brain to try to place the name. Why did it sound so familiar?
“Yes! She’s only my favorite artist,
ever
! Do you think there’s a chance you could introduce me? I don’t want to be that annoying person who asks for a favor like that, but I can’t help myself. She just seems so edgy and cool.”
When Sara said the word artist, it suddenly clicked in Lance’s mind who she was talking about. “C. Hall the painter?” he asked as Sara draped a black barber’s cape around his broad chest and shoulders.
“Yes, of course. What other C. Hall would I be talking about? How do you know her?”
Lance frowned. “I don’t know her. In fact, I only heard of her for the first time yesterday.”
Sara raised an eyebrow at Lance in the mirror, and gave him a look that clearly said she didn’t believe him. “Then why are you featured in her latest set of paintings?”
“What are you talking about?” Lance asked, exasperated. He was starting to get annoyed with the sudden C. Hall obsession that seemed to have affected everyone around him.
Sara crossed her arms. “I went to the opening night of her new exhibit yesterday. Her latest paintings all feature a Coast Guard rescue team. Which, as you know, is a major departure from her previous work.”
Lance wanted to roll his eyes. “Of course. Everyone knows that,” he said sarcastically. But Sara didn’t seem to notice his mocking tone as she kept talking.
“Most of the images don’t clearly show faces, but there are three that do. It’s your face, Lance. She used you as a model, so don’t try to act like you’ve never met her.”
“It must be a coincidence,” Lance said. “I swear I’ve never met the woman. I’m not really even into art.”
Sara still looked doubtful. “It’s definitely you. If you saw the paintings, you would know for sure.”
“If you say so,” Lance said, not wanting to argue about it further. “Now, can we talk about something other than C. Hall?”
Sara made a pouty face but agreed. “Fine,” she said. “How’s work been lately?”
Lance relaxed and started telling Sara about some of the more dramatic recent rescues. C. Hall wasn’t mentioned again for the rest of the haircut, and Lance walked out of the hair salon happy to have escaped discussing the artist further. He walked into a coffee shop next door to grab some caffeine, shaking his head in amusement at the thought that he had modeled for a painting. He had better things to do with his time, and C. Hall’s painting efforts didn’t interest him. He wasn’t going to start following an artist just because she happened to be painting Coast Guard scenes.
But as he stood in line at the coffee shop, he couldn’t help noticing a front page blurb in a local paper. “C. Hall Discusses Her Groundbreaking New Work in Exclusive Interview.” Lance sighed, and snatched up a copy of the paper to add to his purchase at the last moment. Who was this woman, whom he was suddenly hearing about constantly?
Lance settled into one of the big comfy chairs in the coffee shop and flipped to the page indicated on the front page blurb. He was greeted with a picture of a beautiful woman in a sparkling, emerald-hued cocktail dress. The woman’s hair was pulled into a tight bun, and she flashed a perfect smile at the camera. Underneath the photo, the caption read
Caroline Hall, known simply as “C. Hall” to those who love her paintings, dressed elegantly at the opening of her new exhibition, titled “Storm Chasers
.”
Lance studied the picture for several moments. The woman was undeniably beautiful, and not exactly what he’d expected. He’d thought someone who exclusively painted storm scenes would appear a little more angst-filled. Caroline looked perfectly happy and peaceful. She definitely wasn’t his type, though. He didn’t usually go for the “elegantly dressed” crowd. He was more of a t-shirt and jeans kind of guy. Nothing was hotter than a girl in a pair of dark blue jeans and a tight, white t-shirt.
Lance sighed, and forced himself to stop imagining his dream woman. He had too many other things to worry about right now without adding finding a potential lifemate into the mix. He turned his attention to the text of the interview with Caroline.
“
What inspired you to make such a big departure from your previous work?”
“[Laughter] I’m surprised that people are hailing it as such a huge departure. It’s a little different, sure. But to me, the images of a Coast Guard rescue team at work flow naturally with the energy of ocean storm scenes. I’ve watched their helicopters flying over for years. They’re the only ones I ever see willingly out in the middle of the crazy storms we get. They almost seem to become part of the storm to me. I know they’re not part of nature, but they’re so ingrained into the scenery of the storms around here that I almost view them as another force at work during those stormy nights.”
Lance raised an eyebrow at the woman’s description. He had never heard the rescue crew described as part of the forces at work during a storm. He always heard them described as a beacon of light in the middle of the chaos, or something along those lines. But he kind of liked the way Caroline had worded it. He didn’t always feel like a beacon of light when he was out on a mission. He often felt like he was just a small speck being tossed around in the middle of all the turmoil. He knew his work made a difference, but often he felt like just one more small piece in the huge puzzle that a strong storm system created.
Lance read through the rest of the article and didn’t find much of interest. Caroline described her painting techniques, and brushed off questions about whether there were any special men in her life. At the very end of the article, the interviewer asked whether the man in the paintings had been modeled after anyone in particular, and Caroline said no. She told the interviewer that the man in the paintings had been a figment of her imagination, and a representation of how she thought a Coast Guard Rescue Crew member might appear. Lance smirked. Sara had been so sure that it was him, but clearly “C. Hall” just had a good grasp on what a generic Coastie looked like.
At the very end of the article, the schedule and location for C. Hall’s
Storm Chasers
exhibition was listed. Lance hesitated for a moment, then tore the address out and stuck it in his pocket. He threw the rest of the paper in the recycling bin and left the coffee shop, unsure of what had suddenly possessed him, but knowing that he would be showing up at the exhibit tonight.
* * *
Lance stood in the entryway to C. Hall’s art exhibit and tugged at his suit jacket. He glanced around at the crowd already inside, and decided they were pretty much exactly what he would have expected. Wealthy looking men and women milled about, munching on hors d’oeuvres and sipping glasses of wine. Lance caught snippets of their conversations, and resisted the urge to roll his eyes at statements like, “This piece shows an appreciation for deconstructionism” or “The juxtaposition of the clouds and the helicopter shows unexpected symmetry.”