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I would have watered it.
To break him out of whatever trance he’s wandered into, I force a cough. His head snaps up, revealing a serious face and dark blue eyes. “Yes?”
“Got a victim there?”
He nods absently, staring at the plastic pot like he can’t remember how it got in his hand. “It was in my office.”
He drops the carcass on the counter and blinks the sheen of exhaustion out of his eyes.
Shit.
The guy needs to sleep, but I know he won’t. Just like Avery won’t eat any more greens, and Spence won’t do any breathing exercises to lower his blood pressure.
These idiots will be the death of me long before any football bullshit.
“Here,” I say, pointing to the stove top built into the island and the plates on it. “Dinner.”
Spence finally wanders in, his sharper features an odd mix of light and dark. Without glancing up from his papers, he makes his way to the counter, grabs his plate, and sits between Avery and me. The second his butt hits the stool, the papers go down, and his attention shifts wholly to his food.
“Thank you, Jonah,” he offers, crisp. “Looks excellent.”
He eats three bites, then notices our pack alpha is still lingering and shoots him a patented Spencer Scowl. All disapproval, no empathy.
“Tristan, it’s rude to hover.”
When he doesn’t get a response, I laugh, “Tris. Food. Eat.”
Our pack alpha shakes himself out of his own thoughts and cuts us an annoyed look. “Beg your pardon,” he mumbles sarcastically, “But I have to run out.”
It’s nothing new. Neither is the way he can’t tell us exactly what he’s up to. He has feelers in place all over the city, scouting for all sorts of bullshit. Sometimes, he’ll catch wind of a situation and swoop in to intervene.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Tristan’s long-lost focus snaps into place as he reaches for the suit jacket hanging over our fifth barstool.
It’s basically a coat-rack at this point. My Orlando Ospreys jacket, Avery’s ever-present black hoodie, Spencer’s embarrassing elbow-patch blazer. I stare at the empty seat for a long beat before shaking my head and shoving another forkful into my mouth.
Tris sighs at his dinner and casts me a look. “Put it in the fridge for me?”
I feel for him. He’s always running off to put out fires. And I know he hates missing time with the pack. “You got it, Tris. Movie night this weekend? It’s your turn to pick.”
He offers a hearty nod, his WASP-y version of gratitude. “This shouldn’t take long.”
chapter
three
“Let me get this straight.”
The woman sitting across from me clearly has opinions about my clothes.
I really can’t say I blame her. I’m in a thong leotard and fishnet stockings, for Christ’s sake.
Silly little slut.
Silencing the hiss looping through my memory, I blink at the police officer glowering back at me. She’s annoyed. And probably disgusted.
Why am I surprised?
I ran thirteen blocks in platforms and almost took out a family holding ice cream cones who gaped at me like I was an escaped zoo animal. Something poisonous.
