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Got nothing to offer a girl like her.
Calves burning by the time I hit the street, I jump into Jin’s car. He hits the gas when I’m half inside. I grab the handle, off-balance without another big body to slow my lean in the back seat. “No dice on Dutch?”
Bish snorts, glued to his phone. “He hung up. Said to call back when we weren’t day-drinking.”
Yeeeaaah…
I would’ve said the same if I couldn’t feel my brothers’ wild vibes. They’re more like street alphas than the slick sons of bitches who taught me how to smoke cigars and earn respect.
Dutch is always pining for our little buddy.
So am I, but we’ve been looking for the kid for years.
Solomon was too much like me.
All bones, running alone in a neighborhood with clockwork gunfire. Never mentioned parents. Hated anyone coming too close.
Dutch and his mom adopted me after my parents died or disappeared who-the-fuck-cares where.
I tried to adopt Solly, but he was skittish. Always tucked under his hat, hovering at the edges of the group we knew was gonna be our pack someday.
When we got railroaded into military college, we were dumb-ass kids. Even though we had no idea how to take care of ourselves, it eats me every day that we didn’t take better care of him.
Now Solomon’s disappeared.
I can’t fucking fathom what twisted, still-on-the-clock god thought it would be fun to swap our sweetheart for a pedigreed gangster.
A spoiled princess doesn’t fit our pack.
Bishop always runs his own game, and Jin can hang with anyone, but we need someone real. An omega who’ll call the hustlers on their bullshit, snuggle Dutch when he goes cling-mode, and sit through double-headers wearing my jersey.
Serafina’s not the type.
I’d call bullshit out loud, but Jin is driving it like a fucking go-kart, white knuckled with the need to get his girl.
We’ll see if she’s my girl.
I have a tenner and my heart set on this entire mission being a bad trip.
We turn hard, and a garment bag slides off the back seat. The penguin suit that falls out puckers my ass. “What’s the plan?”
“You’re undercover,” Jin answers.
I finger the frilly-ass waistcoat. “As a butler?”
“Cocktail waiter.”
I hate taking orders from rich pricks.
Especially fucking gangsters who make bank flooding the Meadows with cut drugs.
But it has to be me.
Dutch can’t lie or blend for shit. Bish and Jin are too recognizable on the dirty rich kid circuit, and they already paraded their criminally smooth faces in front of a whole squad of Redfang soldiers.
Least I’m good for something. “We have a guest list?”
“It’s bad.” Bad enough that Jin spares a glance from the road, conscience screaming in his dark eyes.
