Prickly Business (15 page)

“Mr. Otis?” Avery stepped into the house with the tote bag of food hooked over his elbow.

“In here.”

Avery found Mr. Otis seated at the small kitchen table, sorting pills into a daily dispenser. He set the bag on the counter and started unloading it.

“What is it today? Do I smell Salisbury steak?”

Avery glanced over his shoulder. The old wolf was focused on his task, but his coloring looked good and the tension that bracketed his mouth wasn’t as pronounced as usual. “Got it in one. Salisbury steak for dinner, but there’s a Caesar chicken wrap and pasta salad for lunch. Your meals for the weekend are in here too.”

Mr. Otis grunted. “I don’t like those wraps much. Care to split it with me?”

The invitation startled Avery so much, for a moment he couldn’t think of how to respond.

“It’s okay if you have to go,” Mr. Otis said gruffly when the silence stretched.

“No, I… I’d be glad to.”

Avery finished unpacking the bag and put Mr. Otis’s dinner and the extra meals in the refrigerator for later. He’d helped get Mr. Otis set up enough times he knew the location of the plates and cutlery. He grabbed the necessary supplies and carried them to the table with the Styrofoam box containing Mr. Otis’s wrap and the carton holding what smelled like a pasta salad drizzled with balsamic vinegar and feta cheese. He split the contents onto two plates while Mr. Otis shoved his medicine to the side. Then Avery grabbed a bottle of water for himself and the grape juice that had been sent for Mr. Otis.

When he joined Mr. Otis at the table, the old wolf picked up his wrap and took a bite with his typical lack of enthusiasm. Avery started on his own food and searched for something to say. It wasn’t lost on him that the Avery of months’ past would have been judging Mr. Otis’s dingy kitchen and mismatched plates and flatware, sneering at the tattered curtains on the window over the sink and the pockmarked linoleum floor. He would have felt uncomfortable in this modest house and worried about whether or not the dishes had been properly sanitized.

Now, Avery knew he was in no position to judge. He hadn’t earned a single thing in his expensive loft. His modern dinnerware set only matched because his family’s cook, Miss Georgie, had purchased it for him as a housewarming present when he’d moved to Portland. Same for his Italian leather couch, which his parents had given him, though now he suspected it had probably been a gift to celebrate him not returning home.

How could he maintain any level of snobbery when he’d been living on his parents’ handouts for years? Sure, his trust fund would be coming to him fair and square. By birth, he had a right to that money and the luxurious lifestyle it afforded him. He’d simply gotten lucky being born with a proverbial silver spoon in his mouth instead of the stainless steel Mr. Otis had been dealt.

If the circumstances surrounding Mr. Otis’s birth weren’t as auspicious, that certainly wasn’t Mr. Otis’s fault. He’d done what he could with what he had—and that deserved respect if nothing else. Avery had gained enough perspective to acknowledge that.

“I’ve seen some pictures around the house,” Avery said for lack of any other ideas. “Was that your wife, the dark-haired woman?”

Mr. Otis stopped chewing and went still. After several seconds, he swallowed hard and took a slow sip of his juice. He nodded without looking up. “Yeah. That was my Evie. She died. Five years ago, in the accident that took my leg and eye.”

Avery recalled some of the other pictures he’d seen. “And the younger girl?”

Mr. Otis stabbed viciously at one of the bowtie noodles on his plate. “That’s my daughter. Lacey.”

That explained the shrine-like, girlish bedroom Avery had stumbled on when searching the house for Mr. Otis last week. Avery hesitated. He wanted to ask if she’d passed in the accident too, but he couldn’t think of a way to phrase it that wouldn’t be completely tactless.

As if reading his mind, Mr. Otis continued, “She’s been missing for a couple of months.”

Avery blinked. “Missing?”
Whoa.
A dead wife and a missing daughter. No wonder Mr. Otis seemed so depressed. “What happened?”

Mr. Otis lifted a bony shoulder, but his fingers clenched around his bottle of juice, betraying the casual gesture. “Dunno. The police haven’t gotten anywhere. They and Alpha Odell think she’s run off with some man.”

“Why do they think that?” Avery asked, his tone careful. He didn’t want to insult Mr. Otis, but he sensed there was more to the story.

Mr. Otis’s grip on the bottle tightened until the plastic creaked. “Lacey’s been a bit wild the last few years. Staying out late at those clubs. Dating around. Just having fun and sowing her oats. She’s a good girl.” Mr. Otis’s voice wavered, and he stopped to clear his throat. “Her purse and phone were found at that big club downtown. Inter-something? I got a call from a young man, A.J., who said he found Lacey’s purse lying on the floor under his table. He saw me as her emergency contact and called. He was sweet enough to bring it by too. Not very many people would do that these days. But when he dropped it off, and I hadn’t heard from her, I knew something was wrong. Lacey always had that phone with her. She wouldn’t leave it anywhere. Not by choice.”

Avery’s brow furrowed. When he’d seen the photos of Lacey, he’d felt a vague flicker of recognition, but nothing solid. Those pictures must’ve been old, though. That girl could never have gotten into a club, not even with the best fake ID. “Do you have a recent picture of her?”

Mr. Otis met his gaze. “In her bedroom. It’s on the dresser.”

“Mind if I go look?”

Confusion twisted Mr. Otis’s features, but he shrugged and waved down the hall. In moments, Avery stood in front of a dresser lined with makeup, bottles of perfume, and nail polish. A picture of Lacey sat on one corner in a cheap plastic frame. He picked it up and carried it back to the kitchen, where he resumed his seat.

“How old is this?”

“Oh, I’d say about eleven months. It was taken around Thanksgiving last year.” Mr. Otis reached out and touched the frame with a shaky finger. “Lacey was our surprise late in life. We thought the time had passed and we wouldn’t be blessed with a child. Then there she was. Evie was so happy. We both were.”

Avery considered the picture, his throat tightening at the sorrow in Mr. Otis’s voice. He’d definitely seen this girl before. “Do you know if Lacey spent any time at Howl?”

Mr. Otis tilted his head. “That’s one of the shifter clubs, right? Downtown?”

Avery nodded.

“Yep. I think she went there almost every weekend.”

“I’m pretty sure I’ve seen her.” Avery set the picture on the table. “She looks really familiar.”

Mr. Otis straightened in his chair. “Recently?”

“No. I haven’t been to Howl in a while. I only go there when….” When he was in the mood for mindless, trashy fun. Howl wasn’t good for much more. Avery had to be in a very specific mood to go there. He preferred the higher-end nightclubs, classier ones with top-shelf liquor that weren’t owned and run by shifters. However, he couldn’t exactly say that to Mr. Otis when his daughter frequented the damn club. “I could go tonight and ask around.”

Mr. Otis’s watery eyes widened. “You… you would do that?”

Avery shrugged lightly. “Sure. I go there sometimes anyway. It wouldn’t be a hardship.”

Mr. Otis swallowed and looked at the picture. “I’d appreciate that.”

“You said she left her phone. Do you mind if I take it? She probably has selfies on there, right?”

Mr. Otis blinked at him. “Pardon?”

“Pictures of herself.” Avery waved a hand. “Never mind, I’ll go check. Is it in her room?”

“Yes, on the nightstand. I’ve kept it charged, just in case. I thought the police would keep it for evidence when I reported her missing, but they said there was no reason to. No signs of foul play or that she hadn’t left on her own. But the officer did take it for a while. He said something about saving her information on a card.”

“Probably a SIM card.” Avery grabbed the picture. “I’ll be right back.”

He returned the frame to its position on Lacey’s dresser and found her phone. He collected both the cell and the charger, then paused when he spotted a pink purse on the floor. Bending down, he rifled through the contents. Makeup, tissue, gum, pens, tampons, and—
there
, a small matching wallet.

A quick peek inside revealed Lacey’s license, and behind that, an impressive fake ID that listed her birth year as four years earlier. So, she was only eighteen and sneaking into clubs by pretending to be twenty-two. Avery wasn’t surprised she’d been successful. She looked older, and the fact that she was beautiful doubtless eased her path. He grabbed the fake ID and slipped it into his pocket before rejoining Mr. Otis in the kitchen.

Avery held up the phone. “I’m going to borrow this, okay? I promise I’ll take care of it.”

Mr. Otis looked dubious for a second. Then the expression cleared, and he nodded. “I’m willing to try anything that’ll help me find her. No one’s taking me seriously. Lacey would’ve never gone without her things.”

“I believe you.” Avery reached out and laid a hand over Mr. Otis’s where it rested on the table. He felt as surprised by the gesture as Mr. Otis appeared to be. Avery quickly broke the contact, unsure what had compelled him to start it in the first place. Flustered, he gathered up his plate and fork and carried them to the sink. He quickly washed the dishes and set them in the drying rack. “Um, I’d better get going. I have a few deliveries left.”

“Best be on your way, then.” Mr. Otis pushed his plate aside and went back to his pill sorting.

Grabbing the empty tote bag, Avery tossed Lacey’s phone and charger inside. “I’ll see you Monday. Earlier if I have any news.”

“Sure.” Avery was halfway out of the kitchen when Mr. Otis’s voice stopped him. “And, Avery? Thank you.”

Avery flushed and ducked his head, grateful Mr. Otis couldn’t see him. “No problem.”

He left the house feeling puzzled. He didn’t know why the sadness of this wolf called to him. Maybe his father’s prejudices had colored his own views, but in the past, Avery had never borne much sympathy for wolves, with the exception of Jaden. He found many of them as crass and uncouth as his father did. The Avery of before wouldn’t have cared at all about some old wolf’s problems. So why did he feel this compulsion to help Mr. Otis, to try to ease some of the man’s obvious pain?

Avery couldn’t say. Maybe, like the Grinch, his heart had grown a few sizes in the wake of Dylan helping him when his parents cut him off. All Avery knew was he had to try something, and he had nothing to lose. Going to Howl wasn’t a chore. If nothing else, it would be a fun night out. After the month he’d had, he was definitely due.

“E
ARTH
TO
Dylweed. Come in, Dylweed.” Kirk’s heavy chuckle bounced around the shop.

Distantly Dylan heard the words. He’d spaced again. It had happened a lot in the past few days. Avery’s kiss had knocked him for a loop.

“Houston, we have a problem,” one of the other guys squawked from the lift next to him.

He felt the lopsided grin plastered on his face, so he turned back to the Flathead. She was almost ready for body work. He had the new fork to install and a fender on order. Then the real fun could begin. A flutter built in his stomach. Anticipation. He loved this part. It’s why he’d fallen in love with this line of work. There was nothing quite like customizing a bike—the construction, the inner workings, the paint job. It was art, and he was the artist.

Dylan owned three running bikes—a Fatboy Lo, a Chieftain, and a Softail with ape hangers. The Flathead, though, would be his pride and joy. No intricate designs for her body. Dylan was going with retro to match her look, her feel. She was a beauty, and she went far beyond plain. He was thinking olive green with mahogany accents. Sure, he could blow out flames on the tank and color her purple, but his Flathead—she was a class act, and Dylan intended to showcase it.

“Boss man, what’s up with you?” Sawyer eyed him from the opposite side of the Harley. “Didja finally take that dancer up on his offer?” The question came out as playful, so Dylan was probably the only one who heard the growl—a warning?—beneath the intent.

A round of snickers echoed around the metal room. Dylan lifted an eyebrow at Sawyer.

“No,” he answered flat and resolute. His first thought was to tease back, but he wouldn’t do that to his friend. Not when the usually stoic, unflappable Sawyer had found something to fight for. Or growl over, as this case may be.

With a curt nod and indiscernible expression, Sawyer walked away.

Huh.

When Lucas walked up, Dylan had to hold back a huff of frustration. With his signature asshole smirk that made him look like both the boy next door and a dickhead, Lucas said, “Seriously, dude, what’s going on? You’ve been traipsing around here for a week with that goofy grin on your face.”

“I don’t traipse,” Dylan grumbled, but bent his head low, pretending to work through a wiring problem, in hopes that Lucas had missed the grin stretching across his face.
Fuck
. What
was
up with him? The answer came quickly.

Avery.

Lucas continued as if Dylan hadn’t said anything. “Half the time your head’s in the clouds, and the other half you’re concentrating so hard you completely zone out.”

Dylan shook his head. What could he say? He hadn’t seen Avery in nearly a week, hadn’t heard from him, but he still couldn’t get the bratty hedgehog out of his head. Morning, noon, and night, he was there in Dylan’s head, taunting him with sweet smiles and tempting kisses.

Part of him wanted to growl at the frustration of connecting with his mate so thoroughly. He blamed Lucas. It had to be his fault. Why else would Dylan have asked Avery out so spur-of-the-moment if not for Lucas’s not-so-subtle prodding? Maybe the whole thing had been Dylan trying to prove to himself and to the world that mates weren’t the be-all and end-all. That no matter fate’s plan to bring two souls together in perfect harmony (or some such bullshit), not every soul had a perfect match out there. Maybe it was a way of proving to himself that Avery was exactly what Dylan thought he’d always been—spoiled, hopeless, and self-serving.