Page 31 of Brandon’s Mate

There was a pause. Then:

Everything okay, Kits?

That was Remy for you. A total ass one minute, then caring and protective the next. Despite herself, a little smile came to her face.

I don’t know. I saw Brandon, and he’s okay for now. But I still have a bad feeling. And I think he doesn’t want any help.

There was another pause, and then:

Colt says “pshaw.”

And also, who fucking cares what B wants?

If there’s anyone who doesn’t know shit about what he needs, it’s Brandon.

Kitty smiled. She texted back:

Truth. Come soon.

Remy just sent a heart.

Damn, she loved those idiots.

Kitty put the car in gear and headed for the inn.

Brandon watched Kitty’s car pull out, carrying Kitty away from him. His panther was snarling.

Come back, he was muttering. Come back fire kiss want bad fuck.

Which not only could be interpreted about six different ways, but was also pretty much what Brandon himself was feeling right now. Him and his cat on the same crazy page. Great.

All because Kitty was here. Kitty Jameson—more beautiful and badass than he’d dared to imagine. And even more stubborn than he remembered.

She was here. He was still trying to wrap his head around the enormity of it. She was here, and he didn’t know what the hell to do with her.

At least he had a few hours to figure it out.

He sat down at his computer and found the BuffBody website. The closest one was two hours away, in a city big enough that Nick would have been totally anonymous. Just about enough time to get there and back before he was supposed to meet Kitty.

Make her stay, his panther whispered.

Dammit. He couldn’t let her stay. Maybe Colt and Remy could talk her into leaving—if they were even coming. This was a total cluster fuck. And his cat was getting agitated. If Brandon didn’t get him calmed down, he’d be looking for someone else to fight with.

He stopped back at the house to change and shower off the leftover blood from the fight. Nick’s panther ghost was lounging on the beat-up couch that, along with the beer fridge, decorated the front porch.

Next he’d be drinking a ghost beer, for fuck’s sake.

“I’m working on it, okay?” he said to the ghost as he went by. The translucent panther just stared at him.

He stepped cautiously inside, but there was no sign of the other ghosts. Brandon went to his hidey-hole and dug out his cell phone, plugging it in just long enough to boot it up and write down Colton McCall’s number before he hid it away again.

Then he went into the kitchen and opened the drawer that held his stash of brand-new burn phones. He opened one and texted Colt.

He wasn’t here, but Brandon could still fucking fight with him.

Dude. What the fuck is wrong with you?

A few minutes went by before he got a reply. Finally the phone pinged.