Page 5 of Bad Blood Panther

Chapter 3

Jenny pulled the car into the parking lot and shut off the ignition.

Yep, this was the place. The Wildcat Whiskey Saloon. A long, low wooden building, neon beer signs in the windows, and the faint sound of honkey-tonk country that got louder every time the door opened for someone to come in or out.

Exactly the last place she wanted to be after a day and a half of driving, and an entire life in which she did pretty much anything to avoid talking to strangers. Especially scary shifter strangers.

But it was one of only two shifter bars in this part of Tennessee, and the other one was where the Nashville wolf pack hung out. Not only did she not want to be a female panther walking alone into a bar full of drunk wolves on a Saturday night, but she’d heard that the Nashville pack and the Bad Blood Crew were sworn enemies.

Which would make them drunk and hostile wolves, as soon as she told them who she was looking for. Definitely not doing that, so this place became basically her only shot at getting information about the Bad Bloods—about Xander.

She felt the familiar panic rearing up, and she closed her eyes, taking deep, even breaths. Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. You can do this.

She had to do this. It’s for Brandon, she reminded herself. He needed protection, and the Bad Blood Crew already had a reputation of being—well, super-bad. The problem was, they were also reclusive, and hostile to outside shifters. She hadn’t been able to pinpoint exactly where their territory was—just that it was on the outskirts of the Nashville pack’s land, out in the middle of freakin’ nowhere.

Somebody here must know where it was, though. If only she didn’t have to actually talk to them to find out.

She checked her makeup in the rearview mirror, smoothing concealer over the scar on her cheek. Despite the advertising hype, it didn’t totally conceal it, but it made it look less obvious.

Making her look less damaged. She ran a comb through her hair and pulled the left side forward, out of habit.

Maybe the Bad Bloods wouldn’t care about a scar. They were brawlers, weren’t they? They were probably all scarred.

You just want Alex to think you’re pretty.

No, no she didn’t. She didn’t want Alex—Xander—to think anything about her. Except that he was willing to take her and Brandon under his protection. She was definitely not falling into that old trap, following him around, hoping he would see her as more than a friend.

Desperate for him to love her.

He’d broken her heart once, and she wasn’t going to let him do it again. This was about her son’s safety. Nothing else.

She took one more deep breath and got out of the car. Brandon, she told herself. Just think of Brandon.

The minute she stepped inside the bar, she was assaulted by heat and noise. It was a warm early-summer evening, and the bar’s rickety AC couldn’t keep up.

Run away! her panther said.

Excellent idea. Except they couldn’t. We can’t we can’t we can’t.

She pushed her way through the crowd, trying to get her bearings. In one corner, a DJ presided over the tiny dance floor, where people wiggled and gyrated and occasionally bumped into the surrounding crowd, spilling their beers. The mixed scent of shifters and sweat and sex, alcohol and burgers was overwhelming.

There were a few tables around the perimeter, filled with happy, raucous groups. A loud burst of laughter came from a big group in the darkest corner, followed by shouts of, “Drink!” A petite dark-haired girl chugged the rest of her beer, and then proceeded to make out with her giant-sized boyfriend.

Jenny looked away, a pang of envy coursing through her.

Stay focused. You’re here for a reason.

She maneuvered through the crowd towards the bar, collecting a few butt gropes and some splashes of beer on her shirt. Hate this hate this hate this, her panther muttered.

Me, too.

Someone vacated a barstool right when she got to the bar, and Jenny lunged for it, just beating out a bleach-blonde in a push-up bra. “Hey, that was mine!” the blonde whined. Jenny, avoiding eye contact, pretended she didn’t hear her.

The blond turned away, and Jenny breathed a sigh of relief. Catfight averted.

It took almost ten minutes for the bartender, a lean fox shifter, to get around to her end of the bar. By that time, Jenny’s stomach was growling. She realized she hadn’t eaten since lunch.

“Um, a Coke,” she said. “And—”