Star-Crossed Read online

  EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ®

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2017 Megan Morgan

  ISBN: 978-1-77339-336-0

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: Audrey Bobak

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  For Francis

  STAR-CROSSED

  Romance on the Go ®

  Megan Morgan

  Copyright © 2017

  Chapter One

  He smelled her long before he saw her. A block away, maybe two. That was how it worked, when one found his mate. No amount of distance could suppress it, no other scent could obscure it. That particular fragrance awoke a primal urge deep inside of him and made his back teeth ache.

  “But I’m only twenty-three!” Gentry slapped his hands on the steering wheel and proclaimed this to the interior of his car. The light was still red. He suddenly wanted to run it.

  “Late bloomer,” his father chortled later on the phone. “I met your mother when I was nineteen.”

  Gentry thought he had at least a few more years, though. A few more years to screw around, play the field, sample a bigger cross-section of all the beautiful women southern California had to offer. Once he found his mate, that was it. He wouldn’t want another. He couldn’t want another.

  This all seemed terribly unfair, some huge biological joke. He’d heard about some not finding their mate until their forties, anomalies every one. But secretly, he’d hoped to be one of those anomalies. His whole pack would worry and fret, but goddamn, that was all they did anyway.

  So much for hanging out with his new friends tonight, or attempting to be a normal person for a while. He’d come here to get away from the realities of his life, but here they were, hooks ready to sink right back into his flesh. Or claws, as they were.

  He followed the scent, his original destination forgotten, half-grudging, all instinct. The trail led to a flashy nightclub on Sunset with a long line of people waiting outside. He scanned the crowd and parked across the street like some kind of creeper. He was, sort of.

  When his gaze fell upon her, he knew in an instant. His breath caught. That ache in his teeth turned to a throbbing that made him salivate. So here she was. His destiny, his gift. He squinted, trying to get a better look at her.

  Wow.

  ****

  Starr glared at her phone screen through the ribbon of smoke that curled from the end of her cigarette. “I hate people who don’t answer their damn phone. Or their damn texts, or anything.”

  The red-headed chick with her—Mary? Marnie?—shook her head. Starr regretted bringing her, since all the girl did was whine, but she hated to go to these places alone even more. Too many weirdos. Too many guys trying to scope her out and pick her up. Starr was new at the restaurant, and this girl was the only person she’d met so far who wasn’t too coked out to act as a bodyguard. Sisters in solidarity, and all that crap.

  “We’re not getting in there.” Mary-Marnie stood on her tiptoes and peered over the heads of the people in front of them. “The place is packed. No one is coming out. Fire code, you know. And besides, I don’t think my fake ID is good enough to get me in. Why don’t we go somewhere else? I know this cool bar. They don’t even check IDs. It’s a few blocks from here.”

  Starr rolled her eyes and plucked the cigarette from the corner of her mouth. “I gotta get in there. This producer I want to meet is supposed to be here tonight. I know if I just talk to him, he’ll let me audition.” She scowled at her phone. “James said he could get us in, dammit. Why isn’t he answering?”

  Mary-Marnie snorted. “James the dishwasher guy?”

  “He said he’s got connections in the industry.” Starr turned and scanned the building. Maybe there was a back door they could sneak in. A fire escape? She’d never done anything that crazy or badass, but they did it all the time in the movies, right?

  “James tells all the girls that. He’s trying to get laid.”

  “Wait, so the producer isn’t going to be here?” Starr would strangle him with her bare hands.

  “Why don’t we go hang out at my parents’ place? They’re away all weekend. I can get us some blow and we can call some of the guys from work.”

  So much for a sober guardian.

  Starr shook her head. “I need to get in there for a few minutes and see if—”

  Mary-Marnie stared over Starr’s right shoulder, her brow furrowed, frowning. Starr suddenly got the feeling someone was close by, right behind her, looming over her. She whirled around.

  Some tall, blond—strikingly handsome—motherfucker stood right up behind her, breathing on her like a dog. Her first instinct was self-preservation and she enacted it by socking him in the gut.

  “What the fuck are you doing!” she shrieked and backed away. “Creeping up on me like you know me or something? Good way to get stabbed, moron.”

  The guy barely doubled over. He gave a sort of tight smile and a wince. Then she caught the glint in his eye, the strangeness of his face. That whisper of otherworldliness. She’d only met a few in her life, but she instantly knew.

  Starr gasped and gripped Mary-Marnie’s arm. “Werewolf.”

  Then, Mr. Wolfy grabbed Starr by the wrist and yanked her out of line. His touch was warm. Despite the total insanity of the situation, a shiver passed through her, followed by a pleasant flush. He dragged her down the street.

  “The fuck are you doing?” She looked over her shoulder, popping her eyes wide.

  Mary-Marnie watched them go, mouth dropped open like a stupid fish.

  “Do something!” Starr admonished her. “You’re gonna let him drag me away and rape me?”

  The dumb broad didn’t move. Why couldn’t she count on anyone in her life? None of the idiots in line jumped out to help her, either. Chivalry was dead.

  “I’m not going hurt you.” The dude had a voice rich and smooth like honey, and it only added to her strange wooziness. “I have to tell you something.”

  He let go of her. She should have hit him again, this time in the jaw, and ran. But she didn’t. She simply stood there staring up at him, her heart pounding.

  Goddamn, he was kind of a hot ass. Not kind of. Totally.

  He put his hands on his hips and heaved a deep sigh. “I got some bad news for you. For both of us.”

  Starr blinked at him.

  “You’re my mate.” He said this in the same way one might announce to their close family members they’d been diagnosed with cancer.

  She kept blinking. Her damn false eyelashes were getting itchy.

  “Gentry.” He held a hand out to her. “Gentry King. Nice to meet you.”

  She stared at his hand. Big and broad, long fingers. Manicured nails. Her head was spinning wretchedly, but it slowed and then ground to a halt.

  No damn way. No damn way. But he looked as serious as a heart attack.

  “Aw, fuck.” She put the cigarette back in her mouth.

  Chapter Two

  Fucking brat made me start smoking again. Only took two weeks of knowing her. Gentry took a deep drag of his cigarette. When he exhaled, the billow of smoke mixed with the low-hanging haze beneath the club ceiling. Made up of one part fog machine and a million parts evaporated sweat and cheap cologne, the haze smelled acrid and coated his tongue. Technically, he couldn’t smo
ke in bars. Technically, some of them didn’t care, as long as the actual cops didn’t pay a visit.

  His gaze, leveled over the top of red-tinted Gucci wire frames, stayed fixed on the center of the room, where a mass of shimmering, gleaming, sometimes glittery flesh writhed to the rhythm of the music. The song was hard and sexy. The hour was late and hardly anyone wore shirts, including some of the women.

  Gentry had arrived twenty minutes ago and took up a perch on the last vacant stool at the bar. He ignored the random jostles, the smiles from drunk women, and one chick who asked him between slurred giggles what kind of fabric his shirt was made of while pawing at it. He’d given her a “not interested” frown and pulled away before she could sense what he was. Werewolves were allowed in public spaces, but they made people nervous, especially this close to the full moon.

  Twenty minutes. That was how long it took for the brat to notice him. She marched in his direction, the blaze in her eyes informing him that he was dead meat. He smirked and pushed his glasses up his nose so he could look at her through a fiery filter.

  Starr’s auburn hair spilled over her shoulders, straight, thick and layered, with a blonde streak down one side. Her black tank top was tied above her navel and showed off the flat, tanned plane of her stomach. Gold bracelets flashed on each wrist. Her jeans were—just barely—held up by her sleek, narrow hipbones. Even when she was pissed off, her hips swung when she walked like they were on pivots. He already knew from experience she couldn’t hold those things still in any situation.

  “Are you stalking me, asshole?” Starr shrieked loud enough to be heard over the thump of the music. “How many times do I have to tell you to fuck off?”

  “I told you, can’t do that. You think I want to be chasing you around all over the place? I don’t have a choice in the matter. So why don’t you stop going out and flirting with other guys?” Maybe, part of that wasn’t jealousy toward her so much as jealousy toward himself. How come he couldn’t bring himself to flirt with another woman, but she was still able to mingle?

  Well, stupid, she’s the human one.

  She sneered. “What, you think I’m going to marry you or something? I hardly know you.”

  He flicked his gaze over her body. They knew each other well enough. The desire was stronger than anything else, the lust hotter than what could be denied, and only getting stronger the closer he got to his transformation.

  “Don’t eyeball me like that,” she warned, but there was no conviction in it. “Not a piece of meat. Not your piece of meat.”

  “I don’t want to follow you around. I could be somewhere having a good time with my friends. But knowing you’re out here, with other guys…” He curled his fingers against his thigh, the phantom ache of claws pushing at his fingertips. “I can’t help myself.”

  She looked at his hand, then back at him.

  “You gonna wolf out? I want to know, so I can clear out. Not trying to end up in prison with you.”

  He shook his head. “Just leave here with me.”

  “I’m dancing.”

  Gentry took a swig from his bottle. His gaze wandered back to the dance floor. The tall, wiry boy she’d been dancing with stared in their direction, dark hair in his eyes. Frowning. Watching Starr and glaring at Gentry at the same time. If Gentry stood up and stalked toward him, or even let the vapid young thing get a good look at him and realize his nature, he would probably piss his pants and dart for the nearest exit.

  “You trying to pick him up?” Gentry asked.

  “Fuck off, all right?” She grabbed his beer, took a drink, and handed it back.

  He glanced at the yellow wristband hidden amidst her bracelets and smirked. She flounced back toward the dance floor, hips swaying. Then she stopped and came back.

  “You told me you quit smoking.” She snatched his cigarette as well and departed with it. She yelled over her shoulder. “Quit following me!”

  Gentry leaned against the bar and watched her work her way back into the crowd. Dark-haired boy didn’t seem impressed. Her lower back gleamed with sweat and had a smudgy hand print across it. He lifted the bottle to his lips and licked her spit from the rim.

  “Sorry, darling,” he murmured. “Can’t help myself.”

  ****

  No matter how hard she tried, she ended up here, with him. Drawn to his scent, to his body, to the heat and presence of him. Drawn to his taste as he stretched her jaws and filled her mouth. She could say no, had even done it a few times, but every time she denied him, she hurt, from the inside out, like something poisonous was burning through her veins.

  His release brought her relief, weirdly. She stifled a moan around him, swallowed down what he gave her, and sat up.

  Only then, could she regain her senses.

  “I hate you.” She grabbed the rearview mirror, directed it at herself, and wiped her chin. Her lip gloss had vanished—well, actually, she knew where it was now. With a scowl, she rubbed her wet hand across the thigh of Gentry’s jeans.

  He smirked and tugged up his zipper. “Not my fault you’re bad at swallowing.”

  “Not what I’m talking about.” She leaned back and pushed a hand into her pocket. “Shit. You got a cigarette?”

  He tossed her his pack. “Have ’em. I’m trying to quit.”

  He was too good-looking, and she hated him for that, too. Sandy-blond hair, long enough he sometimes wore it in a sloppy knot or a ponytail, and she would never admit how good it looked on him. Scruffy, square jaw. Eyes so blue they seemed unreal, and they even shone in the dark, like right now, in the low light of the front seat. Was he really beautiful? Or was it this thing between them that made her think so?

  “Why do you keep showing up where I’m at?” she asked around a cigarette as she lit it. “How do you keep finding me?”

  “We’ve discussed this. You’re marked. You’re my mate. I can’t stay away from you.”

  She snorted. “I don’t want to be mated to a werewolf, thanks.”

  She’d heard about it happening before, even happened to a couple women in her old hometown. The world was full of monsters, but she never thought she’d be hooked up with one.

  He dragged his hand through his hair. “You think I want to be mated to a gutter punk club bunny? I’m as surprised as you are.” He plucked at her yellow wristband. “How’d you get in the club? You said you’re twenty.”

  “Fake ID, duh.” She yanked her arm away. “And twenty and three-quarters, thank you. My birthday is in two months.”

  Starr fell silent as she smoked. She stared out the window. The dashboard light created an eerie reflection of her face in the glass, lit up in tones of red occasionally as she pulled on the cigarette.

  “So how come you get freaky with me, if you hate me and all this?” Gentry asked.

  “I don’t have a choice in the matter either, now do I?”

  “You could run. You could.” He paused. “I’d probably find you, though.”

  She turned and shot him a dirty look. It was super dirty, too. She never pulled punches, he’d learned that the hard way. He claimed when she punched him the night they met he knew he’d never love another. Maybe he was being sarcastic. Probably not.

  Gross.

  She looked back out the window.

  “Sorry,” he said. “You better get back to Mr. Tall, Dark, and Anorexic before he does so much blow he can’t get it up, huh? Maybe that’ll kick some of the addiction to me.”

  She frowned, though not at Gentry. More at her own reflection. She ground her cigarette out on the smooth, unblemished leather of his front seat, and then reached over and plucked the red-tinted glasses from his face. She slid them on.

  “I need a ride home.”

  Chapter Three

  It was way too early in the morning to be knocking at Starr’s door. The sunlight still had that fresh-but-sleepy slant, and there were more twittering birds than traffic sounds. Too early, especially since Gentry knew how late she’d gone to bed. So, he made s
ure to pound extra hard.

  While he waited for the lazy brat to answer, he hummed and rocked back and forth on his heels. He wore socks with sandals—usually a fashion faux pas, but he thought he pulled it off fine with his wide-legged jeans that covered most of his feet anyway. Only problem was, his socks didn’t match. One white, one blue. He’d lost the other white one, and it seemed a shame to dirty up both blue ones.

  Through a pink haze, he stared across the street at a row of little shops. At least he’d gotten his glasses back. He sighed and looked at the door again. His fingertips were getting uncomfortably warm on the bottom of the Styrofoam container.

  He pounded on the door again. This time, he heard a thud and Starr’s muffled voice shouting that she was fucking coming.

  A few more thumps, the distinct sound of huffy footsteps, and then the lock clicked.

  Her hair was rumpled, dark circles were under her eyes, and she wore a blanket around her shoulders. Not her best look, but his instinct, his hunger for her, still rose unbidden.

  “I might have known,” she grumbled in a sleep-graveled voice. “What do you want?”

  He grinned. “Good morning, brat. I brought you some breakfast.” He held up the Styrofoam container.

  She muttered something that had the word “fuck” in it, and turned away from the door, leaving it open. Gentry took that as “come in,” so he did.

  Starr’s apartment reflected its occupant, in that it was both nice to look at and messed up. The walls were covered with complex pieces of artwork and vintage movie posters. She also owned a few interesting conversation pieces, among them an authentic copy of Marylin Monroe’s nude calendar. However, once one looked away from the walls, it was a disaster. She didn’t seem to think furniture was something every household needed, so she only owned a couch and a coffee table. Beyond that, any books, magazines, DVDs, or anything that could have benefitted from a shelf, was scattered about in boxes, crates, or on the floor.