Read Blake, Her Bad Bear: A Paranormal Bad Boy Romance for Free Online

him and his gang, she thought, and had to giggle at the tiny crack in his armor.
    “Is the gang always that rowdy?” she asked, trying to lead him into questions.
    Blake took a moment to reply. “They’re a roughneck group of guys and girls,” he said, “who’d just as soon buy you a drink as clock you in the jaw for looking at them wrong. The funeral has got them up in a frenzy though—again, I’m sorry about Ogre.”
    Lily shook her head and slipped the key into the lock of her room. Inside, she had neatly laid out her few belongings, and there was an almost obsessive-compulsive tidiness. She motioned for him to take a seat and make himself at home as she went into the washroom and turned the faucet on to wash her face.
    “It’s no biggie, really,” she said. “Who was the funeral for?”
    At this Blake hesitated again. “A friend. Actually, our leader,” he stammered, “a good guy, all around. He’s going to be missed. But you can understand why the gang is a bit broken up about it, and why they think dousing themselves in booze will help.”
    “I’m sorry,” she said, and surprised herself at how sincerely it came out. I’m not a monster , she tried to reconcile. She had a job to do, and a possible story, and had already slipped into that faux caricature of herself in order to make Blake feel more comfortable. Then why do I have a lousy feeling about what I’m doing? she wondered. She was used to this sort of play-acting in order to loosen the tongues of people, and took a special pride in it. And yet, as she peered around the corner of the bathroom and saw Blake sitting with his arms on his knees and his face etched in a sort of distance contemplation, she felt a stab of guilt.
    “In any case,” the biker said, and he began to slacken his tie, “life goes on, as it is.”
    “As it is,” she agreed, coming back out and opening a bottle of wine she had brought with her—she’d planned to drink it by herself after getting the scoop on Samson’s stories, but this seemed as ideal a time as any. She poured two glasses and handed him one. “Here’s to your friend. Your boss. May he rest in peace.”
    They clinked their glasses and she kept her eyes on him as they both drank deeply. Once again, she felt herself restraining a swoon at the masculine figure she had invited back to her hotel, and she began to wonder if there wasn’t some other subconscious reason she had made the offer.
    “What are you doing here?” he suddenly asked, blatantly, and then softened his meaning. “That is, you’re clearly not from around here. But you’ve got just about as much grit as some of those guys that were hassling you.”
    She looked over her glass and her eyes narrowed behind her glasses. “Truth be told, I’m a reporter,” she admitted, and then blushed— can I so easily blow my cover for a handsome face, she wondered. “I mean, I’m on assignment. Just finishing a story. But I thought I’d check out the bar.” She looked for the tell-tale signs of repugnance from Blake, but was thankful to see only that quiet speculative countenance again, like he was perpetually trying to work something out behind those slate grey eyes.
    Most times she confessed to people she was a reporter there was a knee-jerk reaction to suddenly recoil in suspicion.
    “No kidding,” he said at last, and took another sip. He undid his tie a little more, and she saw that the top buttons of his white shirt under his blazer had come undone, revealing dark curled matrixes of black chest hair. “Wow, that must be a hell of a job. I like to write, when I can—probably the last thing you’ll hear coming from a biker. But I could never write for a newspaper.”
    “It’s an addiction,” she admitted, leaning back on the bed across from him. Her sweater lifted with the movement, and she saw his eyes dart toward the narrow rim of tan flesh that peeked out above the top of her cargo pants. “But who cares about me, I’m