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My fingers grip the clutch as I rev the engine, cutting out on the highway, letting loose on the long strip before taking the exit, crossing under the bridge, then turning around to do it all over again. I've got an itch under my skin, and there are only three ways to alleviate it: ride my motorcycle fast and hard, get into a fistfight, or… well, the third has and never will be an option.
Fucking an omega would take the edge off, for sure, but I'm not about to take a beta when I'm in a mood like this. I don't want to hurt her, whoever she might end up being—some nameless, faceless girl I end up fucking in the bathroom stall of some club downtown because I was too impatient to be polite. That's fine for any day that ends in Y, but right now, it's seething, it needs to be fed. My cock has been hard all night, and I've been irrationally angry, like a hormonal fucking teenager.
I asked Red to punch me in the face when I got home from Queenie's earlier. He cocked his head to the side, shook his head, then wandered off to bed. It's almost five am, I can't sleep, my dick is uncomfortable steel in my pants, and since I'm not about to beat the shit out of strangers for no reason… I rev the engine faster, this time crossing across three lanes on the highway before slowing again, taking the final exit, cutting through the streets. I swing past Queenie's one last time after driving in aimless circles for three hours, then make my way home.
I didn't burn off enough energy to sleep, but eventually, I'll pass out. I have two modes when it comes to sleep: insufferable insomniac and dead-to-the-world. There's no in-between, no healthy balance.
South Loop isn't that big. Downtown is the biggest part of Arrow Cove, the largest in terms of population and geography. The Hills is probably a close second geographically speaking, but we trail downtown in population. Our streets are packed high and tall with affordable housing, alive and busy with hustlers, families, and down-and-outs just trying to get by.
Gangs congregate in South Loop, dealing drugs, getting fucked up, fucking shit up. We don't meddle, but the streets have rules. No dealing to kids, no hurting omegas, elderly, women or children. And, in general, just don't be a fucking asshole. If folks wanna stir chaos and throw down, vandalize, fight, cheat, and steal, as long as they keep it to themselves, my brothers and I stay out of it.
So when I'm in zombie sleep mode, and I finally drag my ass out of bed from a day's coma, I roll through the streets and check in with people, neighbors, friends. At the club, I check in with the bouncers, who let me know of any customers acting up toward the dancers or any batshit stories they overhear from drunk idiots spilling tea like they're at their momma's house.
But when I'm in insomniac mode? My hours are filled with endless loops through the streets. Red thinks it's why when I crash, I crash hard because I'm catching up. Who knows, doesn't really matter. If my boys need me, I'm there, no matter what. Meanwhile, on most days when I don’t sleep, I prowl the streets, looking for a fight or, if I'm in the mood, which is often, a fuck.
But I can't think about sex right now. My alpha's on edge, and the last thing I'm gonna do is manhandle a date, but ever since that fucking woman started working at the club, it's all I can think about.
Wrapping my hand around her throat, watching her eyes go wide at the lack of oxygen so she can feel everything else more intensely while I fuck life into her. I'm a sick fuck and the image of her on all fours while I pound into her from behind, bruised knees and that perfect red lipstick she wears smeared across her face has me jerking off in the bathroom every goddamn hour.
When I was still in sleep mode, both Red and I didn't care all that much that Cass was suddenly at the club so much, giving us a break. Usually, he gripes about all the busy work.
I'm the muscle—my appearance does some heavy lifting as far as intimidation goes—and people don't want to fuck with a dead-eyed, scrappy, punk rock-looking motherfucker, covered in tattoos, scars, and conversational skills best described as detached. I'll take my role at Queenie's any day, though.
Cass is admin, and I'd rather shoot myself in the leg than work on a computer all day. Red is the ideas man, and I give him props for all the good he does, working with vendors, meeting with locals, helping people get their small businesses off the ground by stocking their homemade wine or start-up micro-brews, even hooking up local pastry shops. He's constantly connecting with our neighbors, trying to make sure everyone has a helping hand. But I'm just not that fucking personable, and I don't envy his ass with all the small talk.
We do switch roles up at Queenie's, even though we all have our strengths, to give each other breaks.
So when Cass let us off the hook, considering he constantly grumbles about all his admin work, it was suspicious, but Red and I were perfectly fine not dealing with the dancer's schedules and bills, so neither of us called him on it. But then Red needed Cass for some meeting with a vendor, and I went in for a shift.
During breakfast a few days ago, after Red asked Cass for his help, Cass seemed kinda anxious, like he didn't want me taking his place at the club. It was weird, and I hadn't been to the club in a while, so I was a little suspicious that my brother was hiding something.
We still haven't talked about it, but that night when I got home from Queenie's, he sat at the kitchen table waiting for me and gave me that same look. Expectant. Curious. Jealous.
Maybe there's something else that's got him hooked. I suppose if there were trouble, he'd have told us. Or Roxy or one of her mates would have spoken up. Nah, it was more subtle than that. I'm thinking it was the Angel of Death, as I've been thinking of her in my head.
The graceful omega with painted red lips, golden skin, honey blonde hair, black feathers, and the type of hip-swaying dance moves that had even me—a self-proclaimed bachelor, as far as any omega was concerned—imagining getting on my own fucking knees, her six-inch heels planted wide while I gazed up at her perfect pussy, waiting for permission to let me into heaven.
Yeah, that was probably it.
Imogen.
Nearing the warehouse, our home, I slow before getting off the bike, lifting the garage bay and wheeling my bike in before closing up for the night. No one would fuck with it, but I don't want my bike to get caught in any potential rain, so I always tuck it away in our garage.
Running up the steps to the apartment on the second floor, taking the stairs two at a time, I let myself into the kitchen, unsurprised when I found the room empty and dark, save for the glow of the light under the stove and a lamp in the living room. The clock on the microwave reads 5:25.
It's still dark out, so I kick off my boots and make my way upstairs to the third floor, letting myself into my bedroom. The walls are painted black, which my pack mates thought was way too on the nose for someone who looks like me, but I didn't paint them to be macabre or edgy. I did it 'cause if I can manage even an hour of sleep, the darkness helps.
Blackout curtains already pulled shut, I strip down and lie in bed, one arm behind my head, the other draped over my eyes. Glancing down my body, even in the pitch dark, my dick is comically hard, the metal piercings glinting off whatever light the shadows haven't swallowed.
Don't think about swallowing, Iggy.
Fuck.
I toss and turn, debate for an hour about taking sleeping pills, but sometime around eight, when I hear my brothers moving around the house, I get dressed in yesterday's clothes and wander downstairs, the harsh brightness of the day making my eyes burn, after leaving my cave-like bedroom.
"You sleep at all?" Red asks, shaking cereal into a bowl.
I shrug. "Sure."
