Prologue: Rand
The Thirsty Dog is packed.
Not unusual for a Friday night in Maccon City.
Tourists are crawling through town for the summer.Locals are blowing off steam after work.The jukebox is playing classic rock, somebody's cheering at the baseball game on the TVs, and somewhere behind me a woman just laughed loud enough to make half the male population turn their heads.
My Wolf is annoyed.
Not because of the crowd.
Crowds don't bother me.
Hell, I've been living in Maccon City long enough to know half the people in this bar.
No, that’s not it.
The Beast inside me is just…itchy.
Restless.
Like he forgot something important.
Which is ridiculous.
I'm forty-two years old.
I've survived two Pack Alphas, countless full moons, and more blind dates arranged by well-meaning relatives than any man should legally be subjected to.
At this point, I'd accepted that fate apparently forgot I existed.
Not bitter.
Just realistic.
Besides, I have my work.
I own Jameson Customs, where I restore motorcycles and fabricate custom parts for riders from Jersey to Pennsylvania.
Keeps my hands busy and my Wolf occupied.
Usually.
Tonight I'd stopped by The Thirsty Dog to deliver a custom gas tank emblem to Mike, the owner.
The man was restoring a Harley older than I was and wanted everything period correct.
Two months of work and the damn thing had come out beautiful.
Mike had practically cried.
Which, considering the man was built like a linebacker and covered in ink and barroom sawdust, had been strangely touching.
“You're a damn artist, Rand,” he'd said.
“Tell my accountant that.”
Mike had laughed and shoved a beer into my hand.
