The Grant Wolves Box Set Read online

  Grant Wolves

  Books 1-3

  Lori Drake

  Contents

  Early Grave

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Shallow Grave

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Grave Threat

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Want more?

  Published by Clockwork Cactus Press

  651 N US Highway 183 Ste 335 #107

  Leander, TX 78641 USA

  EARLY GRAVE (GRANT WOLVES BOOK 1)

  Previously published as A TURN FOR THE WORSE.

  Copyright © 2018 Lori Drake

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9994333-4-8

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Please refer all pertinent questions to the publisher.

  Second Edition: June 2018

  For Kendra.

  1

  Heart racing, Joey spilled out into the alley behind the dance club. The heavy metal door clanged shut behind her, muting the loud music, but the thump of the bass still beat at her back like a steady, percussive pulse. The alley was dimly lit, and stank of urine and refuse.

  She filled her lungs with the night air, stench and all, and looked up at the moon. It wasn’t full anymore, but it was still damn close. Her body tingled as she positioned herself beside the door, counting the seconds until it opened again.

  Tonight was supposed to be about letting go, dancing out her grief in a bacchanalian frenzy of movement. Instead she was pressed against a graffitied wall in a filthy alley, getting god knows what on her favorite shoes, waiting for her freshly acquired stalker to follow her out the back door.

  If the creep thought she’d be easy pickings, he had another think coming.

  The door opened. The man in the leather jacket stepped out into the alley and looked around, but didn’t see her already behind him. Using that to her advantage, she grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back. He cried out in surprise as she pivoted gracefully, swinging him around and shoving him against the building, face first.

  “Who are you?” she growled.

  “Dean!” he said, not even requiring her to twist his arm further. “My name’s Dean.”

  “Why are you following me? What the fuck do you want?”

  “To help! Christ, lady!”

  “Help? With what? How?” she asked, her skepticism plain.

  “There’s a spirit attached to you!”

  Joey blinked slowly. She hadn’t thought any excuse he offered would surprise her. She was wrong.

  Three days earlier…

  Joey gazed into Chris's eyes, mere inches from her own, breathing heavily in the stillness of the quiet room. Her heart thumped in her ears, pulse racing from their exertions. But it wasn’t his baby blues that held her attention as they lingered in the routine’s dramatic final pose. In truth, she barely saw him as she went over the choreography in her head, comparing it to their performance.

  Good, but not good enough.

  “Again,” she said, prompting him to set her back on her feet. She was halfway back to the small X of masking tape on the studio floor when her keen ears detected a marked absence of footsteps shadowing her own. Her dark eyes met his lighter ones in the mirrored wall, questioning.

  “It was fine. It was great,” Chris said. Winded from their most recent run-through of the routine, he lingered where they’d ended, hands on his hips.

  His reassuring tone failed to soothe her. “I fucked up in the middle. One more time won’t kill you. C’mere.” Her long auburn ponytail swayed as she motioned him over with her head.

  He rolled his eyes and chuckled as he turned away instead, moving toward where their bags and water bottles were stashed.

  “I didn’t notice anything,” he said, a hint of weariness creeping into his voice. “Even if you did, one more run-through today isn’t going to make it perfect. Our six hours are almost up and there are still three weeks before the competition. Let’s just tackle it in the morning when we’re fresh.”

  Joey narrowed her eyes, but glanced at the wall clock. Sure enough, it was nearly 4 p.m.

  “We still have four minutes,” she protested, but Chris didn’t even turn around. Vexed, she wiped sweat from her brow and sighed. “Fine,” she huffed, giving in and walking over to join him. It didn’t help that she could literally hear the clock ticking, seconds sliding irrevocably into the past. “You know I hate losing time. Every—”

  “Minute counts,” Chris finished, flashing her a knowing smile. “I remember.” The words had been drilled into them by their childhood dance instructor, alongside a rigorous practice schedule that they’d maintained into adulthood. In the world of professional ballroom dance, raw talent would only get you so far.

  He tossed her water bottle to her with a gentle underhand motion when she was within range. She caught it, still frowning at him, but took a quick sip nonetheless.

  Chris squirted a bit of water on his head before drinking. His dark hair was already damp with sweat, so a little more hardly made a difference. He scrubbed his fingers through his short hair, then shook his head, sending droplets flying.

  Joey was preoccupied, still running through the choreography in her head. She blinked when droplets of water spattered her face.

  “Hey!” she exclaimed, giving him the e
ye as he tossed a towel at her next. “What’s the big rush? Got a hot date?” she asked, arching a pale brow while she mopped her lightly freckled face and neck with the towel.

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” Chris flashed her one of his trademark boyish grins and wiped his own towel across his face before giving it a twist and draping it around his neck. “With Claire. Or was it Claudia?”

  She didn’t need to see his grin to know he was joking about not remembering the name of his date. “So hard to tell them apart, eh?” she fired back, but didn’t pry. Chris was her adopted brother and best friend since childhood. They were only a few months apart in age. There was a time when they told each other absolutely everything. But at a certain point you stopped telling your best guy friend absolutely everything and you stopped trying to get him to tell you absolutely everything.

  “It’s a curse,” he replied, with lingering joviality, and stooped to gather the rest of his things. “I’m gonna hit the showers and get changed.”

  Nodding, Joey tossed her towel over one shoulder and faced the mirror, hands moving absently as she marked some of the steps with quick feet. She still had two and a half minutes before their reserved studio time was up.

  “You should take a break. Get something to eat,” Chris added as he strode toward the exit.

  “Yes, Mom. See you at home,” she said.

  He glanced over his shoulder with a grin and pushed open the door. “Don’t wait up.”

  By the time Chris hit the club, the evening was in full swing. His feet had caught the rhythm of the music on the sidewalk outside, steps unconsciously shifting to fall on the pulsing latin beats as he approached the front door.

  Inside, the smell of alcohol and sweaty bodies in close proximity washed over him. It wasn’t a great time to have a super-sensitive nose, but after twenty-six years he was pretty good at ignoring what he didn’t want to smell.

  “How’s it going, Chris?” A muscular bouncer in a tight black shirt greeted him just inside the door.

  Chris smiled, bumping fists. “Alright, Tony. You?”

  “Can’t complain,” the bouncer replied, looking away briefly to give a pair of new arrivals a cursory inspection. “Where’s Jojo?”

  Chris shrugged, slowing down on the way past but not really stopping to chat. “Not my night to keep track of her.” He grinned and gave the man a friendly two-fingered salute in passing.

  The music called to him. Even after a lengthy rehearsal, he still had some energy left to burn. The shower had helped, as did a bite to eat and the ride over to the club with the sun roof open and the evening breeze in his quickly-drying hair. He’d felt a mild pang of guilt over lying to Joey about his “date.” It wasn’t the first time, and it probably wouldn’t be the last; his dating life was far less active than she realized, but the last thing he needed was her trying to fix him up. For one thing, there were bound to be compatibility tests, charts, and spreadsheets involved.

  The moon was up, and nearly full. Every wolf handled the phases differently, could feel it as the moon waxed and waned. For him, it was energizing. For Joey, it was why she was being particularly detail-oriented. In two night’s time, the whole pack would gather for their traditional moonlight run. For now, all he could do was look forward to it, riding that cresting wave of energy until it peaked.

  He stopped on the edge of the dance floor to survey the offerings, watching men and women move with varying degrees of skill to the rhythmic latin beats. None of the women had Joey’s grace or charisma, but there were a few more confident than others. He spied one in particular that seemed a bit more skilled than her partner. The poor fellow was sweating profusely and clearly struggling to keep up, but he had a glint of determination in his eyes.

  Chris stepped out onto the dance floor. The music was in his blood, singing almost as much as the moon had on the way over. He snagged the hand of a wallflower lingering near the edge of the floor. She barely had time to set her drink on a nearby table before he had her in his arms. He flashed her a charming smile, white teeth bright in the strobing black light as he led her through a few basic steps. He loved Salsa. Such heat, such passion. She seemed to love it too, smiling up at him and managing to keep up with only the occasional stumble. Another time, he might have enjoyed lingering to show her a few things, but he had an ulterior motive in sweeping her onto the dance floor tonight.

  Across the floor they went, taking an indirect path toward the dancing siren. A suave turn and tap saw him trading his less experienced partner for the siren, leaving hers with someone a little more his speed in the process. It was a risk, but the fellow didn’t make any serious objections. Not a boyfriend, then. He did catch a disappointed look from the wallflower, and offered her a wink before turning his attention to the woman now in his arms.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, as they moved to the music, letting their bodies get acquainted.

  “Selene,” she said, with a smile. Her dark hair was pulled back in a high ponytail that bobbed and swung with her movements. Occasionally a head roll caused it to whip about.

  “Beautiful,” he replied.

  She laughed. “Glad you like it.”

  “Hmm?” he feigned ignorance for a moment, then grinned. “Oh, the name is nice too. I’m Chris.”

  It was the last thing he said for the space of several songs, during which he led her through turn after turn, even a few basic lifts common in these sorts of hole-in-the-wall dance clubs. Yet all good things must end, so he made the best of it and parted ways with her even though he could see she would have liked to continue. Always leave them wanting more, right? He walked away with her number in his phone and bellied up to the bar for a drink.

  “Hola Rico, cerveza por favor,” he said to the familiar tattooed man behind the bar. It wasn’t quite the full extent of his Spanish fluency, but it was close. You didn’t live this close to the border without picking up at least a few things. San Diego had a rather large hispanic population, but Rico wasn’t Mexican. He was Cuban, like the owner and most of the staff at Santiago’s.

  Rico flashed him a smile. “Hey man,” he said, lifting a hand to bump fists over the bar before fetching Chris a pale Mexican beer from the cooler. His expert hands uncapped the bottle on the edge of the bar, then stuffed a cut lime down the neck and set the bottle down in front of Chris.

  “Saw you dancing with Selene,” Rico went on to say, as he swiped Chris's card at the terminal.

  “Did you?” Chris replied, suddenly cautious. Maybe there was a jealous boyfriend in the vicinity after all?

  But Rico just smiled as he passed the card back, flashing him a wink. “She’s a firecracker. Fair warning.”

  “Noted, thanks.” Chris lifted his beer in salute before taking a swig.

  “You flying solo tonight?”

  “So far,” Chris said, with a shrug. “But the night is young, right?”

  Rico laughed. “That it is, my friend. That it is. Let me know when you’re ready for another.”

  As Rico moved off to see to other patrons, Chris turned his back to the bar, leaned against it, and sipped his cold beer. He let his eyes roam the club. It was a small affair, sandwiched between two more respectable storefronts, and a bit cramped with so many bodies packed inside. Hopefully the fire marshal didn’t show up for an inspection. It wouldn’t have been the first time the place was shut down early for being over capacity.

  The vast majority of the club’s patrons were dancing. Sure, it attracted its share of gawkers but this wasn’t really the sort of place you came just to have a few beers or engage in some barroom banter. It was a place you came when the rhythm in your soul couldn’t be contained a moment more. When you had to move or explode in a paroxysm of unfulfilled longing for that movement. He was already on the lookout for his next partner when a feminine voice caught his attention.

  “Excuse me,” she said. He looked down. A short, auburn-haired woman in a tight black dress smiled up at him. He turned aside smoothly, givi
ng her a spot at the bar to ease into. She didn’t move. Instead, she twisted a lock of her long wavy hair around a finger and bit her lip. “I saw you dancing. You’re Christopher Martin, aren’t you?”

  Chris's brows inched upward. It’s not like he was a household name, by any stretch. He smiled uncertainly, but not without charm. “I’m afraid you have me at a bit of a disadvantage, Miss…”

  “Tasha,” she said, filling that expectant lull. She practically vibrated with excitement once her suspicion was confirmed. “Sorry, I don’t mean to come off like a stalker. I saw you dance last year in the U.S. Grand Championship Final. You were amazing.”

  “Thanks. But really, it’s kind of a team sport.” He lifted his beer in salute and looked her over, as inconspicuously as possible. She was small and curvy, with intense hazel eyes and an infectious smile. Easy on the eyes, for sure. She didn’t have the look of a dancer about her, but appearances could be deceiving. “Wanna dance?”