TWELVE YEARS AGO
Trey
ALPHA GREEN, himself, picks us up from the police station after letting us spend the night in jail. Not juvey, either. All of us are eighteen, so we went to County.
Emmett Green is huge, imposing, like Garrett. The guy never fucking smiles, but right now he looks ready to commit murder.
“Possession of marijuana.” His voice drips with condemnation. It’s pack law to stay out of trouble with human authorities, so his own son getting picked up must rub him raw.
“Someone has it in for us-” Garrett starts to say, but his dad barks, “Not a word.”
Garrett’s right. Someone tipped the cops off. They specifically showed up at school to search the three of us. It had to be someone close to us, someone who knew where each of us kept our stashes-me under the seat of my motorcycle, Jared in his jacket pocket; Garrett in his car.
Someone wanted to get us in trouble.
Alpha Green honors his own request for quiet, giving us the coldest fucking silent treatment the entire ride home.
No-not home. He drives straight to the pack clubhouse. Garrett, Jared and I exchange glances as an icy realization slithers down my spine.
They called a meeting.
About us.
This isn’t fucking good.
We go in, and it’s just as I feared. Every adult in the pack sits waiting for us. A stony silence falls when we walk in.
A grinding sound starts up in my ears. I recognize it-it’s the one that used to play when my dad beat on my mom. When the cops came and took him away. When the pack kids whispered behind their hands about me and the adults met to discuss whether they should let my mom and me stay.
My face feels hot, fingers and tongue go numb.
We’re called up, one by one, and questioned. I don’t even know what’s said. I answer truthfully, mechanically. There’s no strategy, no thinking. I’ve already gone into life-is-over mode.
We sit while the pack deliberates.
It’s not until Lance Green, Sheridan’s dad, gets up to rail against us, saying we must be made an example of, and we’re a danger to the younger wolves that it all falls in place.
You’ll regret this.
Sheridan.
Would she be angry enough to do something like this? Call the cops on us and have us arrested?
From the satisfied look Mr. Green sends me, I’m fairly certain she did.
Our alpha doesn’t seem happy about it, but he throws in his vote against us, and just like that-we’re banned from the pack.
Not permanently-a four-year ban after which we can request re-evaluation of our status.
Garrett’s hands close into fists and he stands and stalks out.
Jared and I follow, accompanied by the sound of my mother’s broken sobs.
Present
SHERIDAN
WEDNESDAY NIGHT, I pull into Fight Club’s ratty gravel lot, park, and jump out like I’ve hit an eject button. My door slams so hard, I check it for dents. A crowd of bikers turn and stare. I ignore them as I stride across the broken concrete, focusing on the club door. It’s either that or flip them the bird.
I’m horn-gry. Horny and angry, and tired from tossing and turning all night with my nethers throbbing. I refused to rub one out, on principle. I am not going to lie in bed and touch myself while imagining Trey Robson and all the things we say. I am not.
No! My boot connects with a chunk of pavement, and when I kick it with more force than necessary, it flies off and almost takes out one of the wannabe greasers.
“Watch it, sister,” he barks, patting his hands over his perfectly slicked back hair as if checking for damage.
I bare my teeth at him. His gaze sweeps down and up my corseted form and he forgets to obsess over his coiffure. Appreciation lights his dark eyes, and his lips start to form a whistle.
“Don’t do it,” I snap, and he blanches. My Lily Munster makeup must be super scary. “If I wanted to be hooted at like a pinup girl passing a construction site,” I inform him gently, “I’d have taken off my jacket.” Then, lest men complain that I’m never nice to them, I peel out of the butter-soft leather, revealing the tight green-and-black satin corset underneath. It’s Scarlett O’Hara tight and does wonders for my boobs. Not that the girls need any help.
I spin on my heel and strut away to a chorus of cheers.
By the time I get to the club door, I feel marginally better. Without slowing, I put out both hands and shove, hoping some bodies fly on the other side. They’re shifters; they can handle it. Sheridan in the house, bitches. And studs.
As I slam my second door of the night, everybody in the dark space turns. I stand with hands on my hips, a queen surveying my new kingdom, giving everyone a chance to take me in.
I’ve outdone myself with my outfit. I’m in a corset dress with a tiny tulle skirt, which showcases my fantastic bust and hips and hugs my waist. The lace of my stockings tops my knee-length New Rock boots. More punk than biker chick, but it works. I brought them with me on a wild hair, thinking that this trip away from my dad and pack might give me more chances to party. The boots are perfect for the fight club-steel-toed and satisfyingly heavy. No way am I breaking another heel in this pit.
I head straight to the bar, and everyone shifts out of my way. A harried-looking young man rushes around behind the polished wood, tossing my jacket onto a shelf beneath the counter. Without a word, I head to the sink and start washing glasses.
A few minutes later, the rushed bartender appears at my elbow. He’s dark and slender and smells faintly of fur. Jaguar, if I’m not mistaken. “Hey, I’m Luka. Can you pour?”
“Nice to meet you, Luka. Yep, I’m here to help.”
“Thank the fates. William Wolf, neat. Cheetah at the end of the bar.” He points out the whiskey bottle and the customer before rushing off.