Boarlander Silverback (Boarlander Bears #3)(21)

Kirk Slater, 6’3”, quiet, loves to hug, is a demon in the sack, and ready for an immediate mate, great second best friend. If you want this man and to birth all his gorilla shifter babies, contact him here.

There was an arrow pointing to a Poke Me Hard button, and underneath was a gif of a shirtless Kirk striding by in slow motion, running his hand through his wet hair and giving a panty-melting smile. It played on an ovary-exploding loop of hotness.

“Oh, my damn,” she murmured. This was not okay, and now her insides had turned green. “How many people can see this?”

Brunette leaned over her friend’s lap and pointed. “His page has gotten over seven thousand hits since it went live a couple days ago. But realistically, probably a hundred of those visits are me. I can’t stop watching the gif!”

This is what rage felt like. Molten lava in her middle, tingling fingers, an all-consuming urge to break things. Carefully, Alison handed the phone back and ground out, “I’m sorry you traveled here all the way from…”

“South Dakota,” Blondie offered helpfully.

“Yes, South Dakota, but you can’t just show up to their houses. Try the contact button, or better yet, attend a Shifter Night in Saratoga. They’ll come down to mingle if they’re really looking for mates. Now go on. You’ve been waiting here for an hour, and I’m about to start handing out tickets.” For what, she hadn’t a clue, but the bluff worked because the trio of beauties pulled out from in front of her cabin, their botoxed lips in a pout.

Finn was chewing a long cord of rope candy, an annoying smile on his face. “They were hot.”

“But mostly obnoxious.” Alison made her way into her cabin and stripped out of her uniform.

“You look mad,” Finn said from right behind her, smacking loudly.

“Do you mind?” she yelled, shoving her legs into her jean shorts.

“Not at all.”

Idiot. She’d had her suspicions she wasn’t the only one being punished with this job, and apparently she’d been right. When she’d searched for dirt on Finn, a rap sheet had come up of sexual harassment warnings filed by other female cops in his precinct. He’d been given a leave of absence and somehow ended up here, with her. Goodie.

She shoved him out of her bedroom doorway and slammed the door, then pulled on a tank top, red to represent her rage. Kirk was gonna get it. And by it, she meant the verbal mauling of a lifetime. Bangaboarlander.com? What the hell? No one was supposed to be banging Kirk but her!

“Mind the office,” she demanded as she grabbed a hoodie and stomped across the small porch.

Bangaboarlander. Mother fluffer. What was she to him? His Monday mate? He still needed to fill the rest of the days of the week? She was going to kill him, then revive him, then kill him again. She hopped into the SUV she’d been issued and pulled out of the yard. When she looked back in the rearview mirror, Finn was glaring suspiciously at her, arms crossed over his chest, stick of rope candy hanging from his hand like a ready sword.

But right about now, she gave exactly zero f*cks about his opinion. Why? Because he was a lady groper, and he had no place being judgmental of her life choices.

She pulled around the road block, mud shooting up around her like a rooster tail, then skidded and straightened out onto the road. Two days ago. He’d uploaded his profile two days ago, so after his gorilla had “chosen” her, after they’d slept together, and after her whole heart had latched onto him. She hated games. Hated. Them.

She nearly went up on two wheels turning right onto the gravel road that would lead her to Boarland Mobile Park. She’d never been jealous in her life, but this was different. She’d bared her soul to a man who was playing her. He’d sympathized with her admission of what had happened to Riggs, and all the while, he was online looking for groupie *? Everything was bathed in shades of red.

She came to a skidding stop under the Boarland Mobile Park sign and leaned forward over her steering wheel. She blinked hard and shook her head to clear the hallucination she was clearly having.

A dark-headed giant of a muscle man sat in a plastic lawn chair held together with strips of duct tape. In his hands was a fishing pole, and the end of the line disappeared into a giant pothole in the middle of the road.

Alison’s windshield wipers dragged loudly over the sparse raindrops on her window. Sebastian Kane was fully bearded, wearing a damp white T-shirt and holey jeans, looking completely relaxed as he fished out of the pothole. Beside him, his mate and wife, Emerson Kane, was draped across another plastic chair, white sunglasses on, her curly black hair gathered at the top of her head in a wild bun, and was reading a book under a bright pink umbrella. She and Bash would be the vision of contentment if it weren’t for the giant fire blazing in the middle of the street behind them. And several yards from the fire, a sandy blond-haired man in yellow eighties-style short shorts and matching tube socks lay shirtless on the ground, hugging a half empty bottle of cheap whiskey.

In a daze, Alison cut the engine, shoved her door open and slid out, her anger evaporating by the second.

Bash pointed with his index finger and grinned. “Police woman. I like your tattoos, and your face is red, my second favorite color.”

Emerson shoved her sunglasses over her hair. “Are you here for a meeting with Harrison or something?”

“Uh, no. I’m here to see Kirk.”