Unconventional Mate

Chapter One

Clay's golden curls were badly in need of a cut. He would let them grow until they reached the back of his neck, giving him an almost hippy-esque appearance. At that point, either Jeremy or I would brave his wrath and force him to submit to the indignity of a haircut. It wouldn't be long, his hair was already falling into his eyes, obscuring his vision. And, if I had his eyes, dark, yet bright blue, it definitely would not be a feature I'd want obscured.

Yes, trying to pick up chicks in a bar would certainly be easier if my companion wasn't a blue-eyed blonde with model caliber looks, but I wasn't worried, I never end up leaving by myself. Besides, it's not like Clay was much competition, not with his tendency to glare (and, if they don't get the hint, snarl) at any human woman brave enough to approach him. Tonight, especially, he wouldn't be any competition. He was sitting by himself, no humans venturing into his personal space, and yet he was still glaring into his glass of brandy as if the liquor had personally offended him.

I laughed and reached over to slap his shoulder "Come on, Clay, you have to admit, I had a point."

"You had no goddamn point!" His snarl better suited to his wolf form than human.

"You're a nineteen year old guy, never had a girlfriend, never show any interest in girls. Never even talk to them." I set down my glass of chardonnay to poke at his ribs. "Whenever I brought over those playboys as a kid, I know damn well the only thing you were interested in was the car ads."

My finger never made it to his ribs. He intercepted, blocking my hand as though the jab were a serious assault.

"Ow!" I whined, more for effect then out of pain, though my wrist did give an unpleasant throb.

"A gay bar, Nick? A fucking gay bar? What, were the fern plants and the men in tight jeans supposed to force me to have some kind of revelation?"

"I didn't see a single fern plant, and only one guy was wearing tight jeans." I smirked at the memory, hoping to fix it in my brain forever. "He was pretty cute, right?"

The glare he gave me could have boiled water. I smiled. Even in a gay bar, pretty-boy Clayton Danvers always attracted a lot of attention. Yet for safety's sake, scooted my bar stool back a few inches. If I were with any other pack werewolf, I wouldn't think twice about ribbing them in a public settings. But with Clay….well, social norms never seemed to matter much to him. A lesson I learned after he decked me in the movie theatre when I stole a handful of his popcorn.

Clay knocked back the remaining brandy in his glass, his sixth so far, and beckoned to the bartender for a refill. I frowned. Normally, I have to needle and beg Clay to get him to come bar hopping with me. I do it because I like the company…up until I leave with "company" of a different gender, that is. Clay goes along because he's doing me a favor. Ive never seen him drink more than two of anything in a sitting.

"You're not seriously upset, are you?" When the bartender poured Clay's brandy, I reached for it "Maybe you should let me have this one, we don't know how well you can hold your liquor yet."

Again, Clay slammed my hand away, harder this time. "I'm holding my liquor fine, and yes I'm fucking upset. More than ten years, and you don't know me well enough to know that I'm not gay?"

My own lip curled a bit, my inner wolf growling unhappily at the pain. "I was just checking, Clay. Even if I was off-base, you should just take it as a joke."

He drained his glass of brandy as if it were a shot. "Some fucking joke" his words slurred.

Werewolves have high metabolisms. We can eat undercooked food, meat past it's best-before date, and manage mild toxins without much trouble. I've seen Malcolm, and even my own Grandfather down enough booze to poison a human and walk away with only a little drunken swagger in their steps. But my grandfather, pack alpha, is nearly triple Clay's size and weight. Malcolm is only slightly bigger, than Clay, but he's been drinking daily for years and probably built up a tolerance. Clay drinks at most twice a month. This could be bad.

I slapped two hundred dollar bills onto the bar, radically overpaying for Clay's booze and my two glasses of wine, but I didn't want to bother asking for the bill. "Ok, we're leaving, now."

Clay growled. "You're telling me we need to leave? That's a first, normally Im the one who has to drag your ass outta the bars."

Clay never dragged me out of a bar, just sat next to me, made faces, and let out puffs of exasperation. "If I'm the one that's saying it's time to leave, then it's time to leave" I lowered my voice.

Clay's eye's narrowed "Don't you fucking growl at me, Sorrentino." He slurred loudly, much too loudly for the setting. Keep the secret was one of the pack's mottos. Announcing to the entire bar might not have the patrons thinking "oh my god, that man is a werewolf!" but it certainly wasn't discreet.

Before I could retort, Clay pushed himself up from the barstool. "Fine, you wanna leave? Lets leave. Hate this fucking place anyway."

I winced, gazing at the bartender apologetically, but he merely winced back. Yeah, it was painfully obvious that Clay was blotto….but I wonder if the guy would still be so sympathetic if he knew that drunkenness wasn't making Clay any ruder than usual. It was only making him louder.

As Clay pushed himself away from the table and made his way for the door, I had to reach out and grab him by the elbow to keep him from falling flat on his face. Though he was barely steadied, he shook me off immediately, with a snarled "I can walk."

"Thank god we took my car" I muttered under my breath "I'd hate to try and wrestle the keys away from him."

But maybe I would have been better off if we had taken his car. Then, at least, we would only have to wash his puke off of his used Mustang instead of my new Mercedes. At least he got most of it on the outside of the car.