Page 15 of Wolf.e

I take it, yet I question how much these people drink. I rarely drink, but I remind myself this is my weekend to let loose. I can be anyone I want to be here. They don’t know Brinley the girl who watches Friends alone in her fuzzy pajamas on Saturday nights. And this new Brinley wants to feel a little less nervous, so down the hatch the liquid cocaine goes.

I screw my eyes shut as the fire slides down my throat and the guitar intro to Guns N’ Roses’ “Sweet Child O’ Mine” fills the air at a deafening level. Layla gives a whoop as I smile and shake my head.

Before I even open my eyes, I can feel the air around me has shifted. When I do, I’m met with that hollow mercury gaze that pulls me in, and the air shifts again, turning downright electric. My knees weaken as Wolfe leans against the bar not ten feet away, watching me. Perfectly fitted jeans, motorcycle boots and a black and white flannel Carhartt under his cut. Wolfe doesn’t look away when my eyes meet his, he raises the glass in his inked hand up to his mouth. This close, I notice each finger has Roman numerals on them and vines weave through.

He draws a long sip from his glass of what looks like some sort of whiskey. His eyes stay on me over the rim, the same curious way they did the first time I saw him, slow, like he’s taking in every inch of me. I can’t tell whether it’s the intense way he’s staring or the liquid cocaine, but my body feels warm and dizzy under the weight. I place my shot glass on the tray at the bar without looking away from him.

“Wolfe, this is Brinley. I know you two haven’t been formally introduced but she’s my best friend from elementary school,” Layla says.

Wolfe nods at me. His face remains expressionless, but his gaze is like velvet and courses over me in a way I’ve never felt. I nervously fold my hands and let them hang in front of me.

“Uh… You two already know each other?” Shelly asks as Wolfe and I just stare at each other in silence.

“We saw each other once. We don’t know each other,” I answer her nervously, pulling my eyes away from Wolfe’s.

“We saw each other?” Wolfe asks in a deep timbre, the hint of a smirk playing at his lips, and I want to die. Of course, he didn’t notice me the way I noticed him that day. And why would he remember me? I fold my arms across my chest awkwardly. I feel everyone’s eyes remain on me, including his, when I do.

“Well, I saw you because… it’s kind of hard not to notice four tanks rolling down Main Street,” I bite out like I’m proving my point in debate class. “I would’ve been able to hear those bikes from the other side of town.” I tilt my head and looking down my nose at him like I’m judging my opponent.

Sean starts to laugh at my reaction.

“Well, it's pretty obvious she’s your friend,” he says, kissing Layla on the neck.

I grin at Sean, my eyes flit back to Wolfe’s. They’re still on me, less amused. I fight the feeling that tells me I like his attention, knowing I should not want it with everything in me.

“Let’s eat, ya bunch of fuckin’ hooligans!” someone yells out over a megaphone.

Wolfe stands to his full height. I internally shrink as he walks straight toward me, his eyes never waiver as he approaches. The smell of leather and spice fills my senses; it grows stronger the closer he gets. I stand frozen, waiting with bated breath for him to pass but he doesn’t. To my surprise, Wolfe stops dead in front of me. He towers over me looking down. The feel of his wide knuckles slinking down my forearm sends me into a sort of frenzy. My skin breaks out in goosebumps and my stomach somersaults. I know fear, I should feel fear now, but my body has other ideas. My pulse starts to race and heat creeps up my throat and over my cheeks.

Wolfe just looks down at me. Even in heels, I’m no match for his great height. He could swallow me whole. I suck in a breath, not knowing what to expect. I watch as his wide jaw ticks like he’s annoyed at my simple existence. He angles his head to watch my rapidly beating pulse in my neck, his lips popping open as if he may just swoop in and take a bite out of me.

“Brinley…” His low voice is clear in the noisy room, and the sound of it has me feeling like I’m hearing my own name for the first time. “The good girl with the smart mouth?” he asks low, his knuckles still grazing my arm in a static connection. “If you aren’t careful, little hummingbird, I may have to use that mouth to set you straight.” He leans in closer, and my knees go weak as his lips hover over my ear. “But maybe that’s exactly what you want… maybe you’re sick of being good, yeah?”

“Excuse me?” I ask, my voice another octave altogether as I realize he just threatened me, at least I think he did?

“When you figure it out, come and find me,” he adds as he backs away, giving me one last look and heads into the crowd.

It takes me a full ten seconds to blink and recover.

My stomach drops as I realize his threat doesn’t scare me nearly as much as it excites me.

Didn’t really give a fuck about attending this party. I’m here only out of duty as Sean’s lifelong friend. He’s like a brother to me. I hate weddings and everything about them. Two people lying to each other about loving one another for eternity is simple bullshit we make up to make our souls feel less empty. The world would be a much better place if people just accepted that and embraced that truth. We’d be less distracted.

Problem is, everyone is hoping their lives will be like the works of literature my mother read to me over and over as a boy.

Those books are an excellent escape, no doubt. But there’s a reason why they’re called fiction.

The word fiction comes from the Old French word ficcion—meaning ruse. And that’s what love is, a fucking ruse. Romantic love, at least.

Maybe I should be in a better mood, this is a party after all. I’m just too fucking tired to pretend I give a fuck that Ax has found his soulmate, when less than a year ago he was fucking his way through every sweetbutt who came into my clubhouse.

I focus on the necessary. That this wedding of his will prove useful to the club. It’s the perfect, secluded place to take the piece of shit we’ve been hunting and get some answers from him before we gut him from the inside out for fucking Mason’s underage sister. Brian “Gator” Freeland. We’ve been watching him at the safe house he’s staying in, owned by the Disciples of Sin. They’re our rival club and we've been keeping track of his movements there for over ten days, ever since we got word he was in Lakeshore—about thirty minutes from Harmony.

We’ve been learning his habits, who’s protecting him, how to get in, how to get out. The mission we’ve planned to get him out tomorrow afternoon and to Tybee Island rests fully on me. If anyone is hurt, it’s on my back as president. On the flip side, if we ruin Ax’s wedding… again, I’m to blame, and that would be worse because I’ll answer to Shelly on that one. No one wants to answer to Shelly, I’ve seen that woman shoot a man in the kneecap for accusing her son of stealing.

Ruin his wedding? I’m a fucking dead man.

Between nabbing our soon-to-be prisoner Gator without any of my men getting hurt, getting a new clinic supplied in Savannah by Saturday to make up for stolen product, and Kai and me finishing a custom paint job on a bike for a Braves player, all I want to do tonight is knock around the heavy bag, head to my shop to catch up on some work and maybe get some fucking peace and quiet.

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