Page 10 of Pack Kasen: Part 1

“I had some things I have to deal with,” I lie.

Losing control implies weakness, and no Alpha is weak.

Finan raises his eyebrow. “Is that right?”

“It is. Let’s go. I’m starving.”

He picks up the newspaper.

I shake my head. “Leave it. I’m not finished with it yet. I want to know if there’s any other news we’ve missed. The only good feral is?—”

“A dead feral,” Finan says. “Yes, Alpha.”

4

KAT

Istarted working at Donnie’s in my freshman year of college.

During summer, I’d picked up temp jobs to save up as much money as I could before I arrived in a brand-new city. The cost of everything was eye-wateringly expensive, and unlike most of my college peers, I don’t have any family to rely on for help.

Even with scholarships, there was no way I could afford college without a job.

I timed things right, turning up at the busy student bar at 6 with a handful of resumes and a willingness to work hard. Donnie was understaffed, stressed, and pissed off because one of his deliveries hadn’t turned up. When I asked if he was hiring, he nearly bit my hand off.

Later, he admitted I was like his knight in black denim and ankle boots.

It’s been nearly four years now, and I’m practically running the bar when he’s not around. Unlike the other students who go home for the holidays, I stay on campus year-round. Even though it’s quieter without the students around, Donnie knows he always has someone who will work whenever he needs them.

As I push the double doors open, the scents of leather from the couches, varnish from the bar, and lemon cleaning products greet me the way it always has.

It’s a student bar with your typical pool table, plenty of big and small tables for students to gather in large or small groups, and a small dancefloor in the right-hand corner.

Donnie, the owner, takes pride in the place and he works hard to keep this place spotless. It’s one of the reasons I’ve worked here for as long as I have. My nose could not have handled working in a dump.

Donnie is in his usual uniform of a check long sleeve button down, black jeans, and he’ll be wearing brown cowboy boots because he says the ladies love it. At forty-nine, he thinks he needs all the help he can get to attract a woman, given he’s nearly fifty and is an unrepentant and rapidly graying workaholic.

“Have you got a life yet?” he yells across the empty bar.

I blow out a sigh as the door slams shut behind me. “I don’t know why I put up with this abuse.”

Grinning, he steps through the open bar hatch, crossing the room in a handful of steps. “You put up with it because you’re a damn good worker and I’m the best boss you’ve ever had.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Whatever happened to modesty?”

Wrapping an arm around my shoulder, smelling faintly of beer, liquor, and leather, he steers me to the back room where we have a small staff room, our own much-needed bathroom so we don’t have to use the customer ones, and lockers to store our stuff while we work.

He chuckles as he pushes open the backroom door and I jump when yells ring out.

“Surprise!” Wide grins stretch across my co-workers' faces.

There’s cake, a small stack of pizzas—pepperoni and green peppers, meat feast, and one vegetarian, from the scents drifting from them—and red plastic cups filled with soda.

“It’s not my birthday.” I frown.

Donnie pushes me inside. “But it’s your last week here. I wanted to say thanks for all your hard work over the years.”

“And to convince me to quit my accounting job and stay here?” I ask, raising my eyebrow.

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