AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Which packs?” I’m already whipping off my pants, sliding commando into the penguin suit. Anything to distract from the pheromones. Car smells like rotten peach and scorched salt, making my neck hair dance a fucking disco, wanting to help or soothe or some fucking thing to put my brothers back to normal.
“Kitagawa, Al Sharin, Salerno, and Bourg.”
“Bourg?” I jerk, almost zipping the tip of my dick. “The same ones your brother keeps paying to hit us?”
“Them.” Jin’s shoulders shake. “I should be the one going in.”
“How ‘bout no?” I safely button my fly and swallow a gut full of nerves. “I trained for this.”
“You weren’t supposed to,” he says sadly.
I smack his headrest. “Yeah, well, maybe after this, I switch careers. I’m better at spy shit than pitching.”
Forget playoffs lost and what could’ve been if Jericho Moon weren’t a life-ruining psychopath, and I’d been born to love, money, and promise instead of fetal alcohol and baby food ramen.
My pack brothers are the guys who put my name on the try-out list when I never believed I’d make the cut.
They’re the ones who worked their asses off to pay for my rehab. Made me do the work when my arm was toothpaste, and all I wanted to do was quit.
I’ve had their back as many times as they’ve had mine.
Bishop. Dutch. Jin.
Who needs dreams?
It’s enough if I can be what they need.
* * *
Jin pulls around the corner from the kind of mansion where he’d be invited for crumpets and polo, and I’d be working the stables shoveling shit.
I adjust my earpiece, adrenaline pumping.
“You good?” Bish asks, voice in stereo when the sound clicks.
“Good.” I know the plan. I know the stakes.
Find the girl.
Don’t get caught if I want to keep my fingers or my pulse.
Jin yanks my arm before I can roll out.
“You’ll feel it when you meet her.” His eyes swirl, so crazy intense that my gut kickflips. He’s fucking serious. “Just don’t get hurt.”
“We’re behind you the second anything goes sideways.” Bish grips his tie. “Tag her location inside. We’ll do the rest.”
“On it.” I stretch out my fist.
After a three-way fist-bump that we hold too long, I go ghost and hop the fence.
My brain flips into the zone where everything numbs out and my view tilts, almost going third person.
I used to think everyone could focus like this.
When I’m pitching, I feel when the guy on second twitches, even thinking about stealing. I see the lady in the stands rubbing nacho cheese off her kid’s jersey. I taste the wind and read every micro-expression on the guy stepping up to bat.
My Little League coach said I was born to play.
