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"Tell me, Phe. I won't go in all guns blazing. I just… I need to know she's okay. We didn't leave things great the other day, and I'm…" Worried about her. Missing her. "I just need to see her."
She softens, tilting her head sympathetically. "Red… I don't think it's a good idea. Girl code and all."
"I'm your brother," I growl.
"No, you're not," she smirks, like a petulant child.
I growl. "Phe… for fuck's sake." I swallow my pride. "I'm begging you."
She sighs. "Okay, look. I'll tell you where she is, but you cannot go before seven pm. That's the only way I'll tell you."
"Seven. Sure, fine."
She grumbles, "Arggh… I don't know if this is the right thing to do. But she did tell me she was going to talk to you tonight. Just give her till seven, that's when she told me she'd be leaving. You can catch her on her way out."
She texts an address for some country club in the Hills. "You can say thank you!" she yells after me while I'm already out the door.
I get in my beat-up red truck and haul ass down their long driveway, nearly clipping the gate. For some reason, Constantine Pack chose to settle away from the High Hills neighborhood, where the rest of the wealthy and elite high-society members of Arrow Cove reside. Breaking the mold has its perks, but not when I need to be on the other side of town.
Getting to the country club takes way too long, and I barely register the time on my drive. I'll just sit in my truck and wait since I'm too early. My alpha is impatient and desperate, the clawing need pushing me further, faster; he's pissed that we have to wait. I don't know what's come over me. I've never been like this before, but I just need to see her. To apologize. To beg her to give us a chance.
When I pull into the parking lot, past the tennis courts and fancy cars, I'm relieved and surprised there's no gate. No way anyone would let me in otherwise.
I park toward the back of the parking lot with a clear view of the entrance. Two hours pass of anxious waiting, checking my phone for no reason at all, listening to music, then deciding it all sounds shitty, and turning it off. I should have gotten her phone number. I text Ophelia asking for it but she never replies.
Then it dawns on me, and I'm such a fucking dumbass, I can get her number from the club. I dial the number from memory, and Zach picks up on the third ring.
"Queenie's Strip Club. You wear 'em, we tear 'em."
"Wait. What?"
Zach chuckles loudly into the receiver. That isn't how we answer the phone, but I don't give him shit for it because there's Imogen, walking gracefully beside four men who look like fucking carbon copies of each other. She's so beautiful. In feathered angel wings, dancing like she's got something to prove, or like this, in her nice clothes and perfect posture. She's always so beautiful.
"Yo! Red? You need somethi—" I hang up on Zach. I told Ophelia I'd wait till seven, but there's no way I can.
I need her to give me a chance. Maybe I can catch her before she's seated with those assholes. I'll take her somewhere nice and feed her. She'll realize she's into us, too, and wants to give us a chance. Even if we don't have a lot of money. Even if we're not as fancy as these dicks. Maybe she'll still want us.
Right. That's a good plan. Phe will forgive me. Climbing out of the truck, I duck and weave through the cars, hoping I don't get clocked by security. Shit, I should have worn something nicer. I'm wearing black jeans, a black t-shirt with rips near the collar, and my leather jacket Imogen stole from me for her nest.
She stole our clothes, I remind myself proudly. Not theirs. She doesn't even want them. She shared her heat with us.
I'm about to pull open the door and plow through the place, but spot some rent-a-cops hovering near the front desk. They're discussing something with the receptionist. I steal glances, losing time, but eventually, they all point to something down the hall, and the receptionist leads the two guards away.
Taking my chance, I slip inside, then try to act like I belong, even though I clearly don't, ignoring the judgemental looks from club members, all clad in some variation of a tucked-in collared shirt, expensive watch, and khaki pants.
Following the signs for the restaurant, assuming that's where they're headed, I pause at the entrance and lean back against the wall, trying to be less obvious. What the hell am I doing?
She might see me, compare me to all of this, and decide we aren't enough. But she works at Queenie's, stripping. There's more to her than the trappings of this high-society shit. I've gotta believe she'll give us a chance.
I just realized how odd it is that she works at Queenie's, despite having all of this. It makes me want to know her secrets and dark, hidden parts.
She's easy to spot. Her shoulders are tense and stiff. She's not wearing her red lipstick, no dark makeup at all. She's got a bow in her hair, which is pulled back in a perfect bun, no stray hairs out of place. So different from the Imogen I've watched at the club, that I spent days with during her heat.
Still, I can't tear my eyes away, and she must feel me looking at her because her small, serene smile purses slightly, eyes widening when she notices me. Even from here, I can see the slight flare of her nostrils. She seems mad. Shit.
The mayor and his cronies don't seem to be paying her any attention, which is a crime in itself. Still, I watch her carefully lift herself from her seat, making some excuse, likely to use the bathroom or something, and slip toward the edge of the room. I turn back and head down the hall to wait.
A few moments later, impatiently waiting, I catch the faintest scent of cherries. It's small, growing stronger. My mouth waters. My teeth burn.
