Page 1 of Pack Coffey

Chapter One

"And that's going to wrap up yet another brewing murder story. Remember, even in the face of an angel, there's still the mind of a killer. Oh, and always check the back seat. Until next time..."

I click the ‘end record’ button and sit back with a satisfied sigh, placing my hands on top of my head. I'll have a little bit of editing to do, but another podcast is done and in the books. Smiling to myself, I close my laptop with a click before sliding it into my messenger bag.

When I stand, I quickly bend at the waist, flipping my long, auburn-brown hair over and working it into a messy bun on the top of my head. Satisfied that it'll stay where I need it to for at least most of the day, I gather the rest of my things and slide my feet into my black flats before heading out.

Another day of being graciously grateful for my beautiful tiny house rental. The privacy it provides is unmatched compared to living in the dorms. I've heard that some omegas are granted special privileges like having a dorm room all to themselves while others, I believe the ones on scholarships or the school teams, have to share. I couldn't imagine having someone in my space like that all the time.

Thankfully, there are bigandsmall perks to having a father high up on the university food chain. He doesn't work for North U, but is the dean of another big college that's about half a day's ride away. Pulling some strings with some acquaintances, he managed to get me into the tiny house from an old colleague that she normally rents out to temporary professors.

The building sits on the back right of the property and has its own driveway that leads straight to the street. Not like I have a car. Not like I need one. It's only a ten-minute walk to campus and thirteen to my favorite coffee shop right across the road from it. Which is where I'm currently heading.

I've only got thirty minutes or so to get to class, so that's just enough to grab a cup of joe to go and make it there. Hopefully, the shop isn't too terribly busy this morning. I pick up my pace a bit, just in case.

My first year attending North U, and I can fully confess that I absolutely love it here. From the tight-knit smaller-ish community that makes everyone feel like they belong to the college life atmosphere. Personally, my favorite is the weather. Classes started weeks ago and had come on the dog days of summer, but it's started getting cooler, especially at night. The leaves have started to change color, making campus and the entire town look like a painting. A few have started to fall, but I think the majority of them are holding off for the first big cold snap. Something I'm supremely looking forward to.

As I make it to the coffee shop, I'm glad that I put a little extra pep in my step since the line is to the door. Thankfully, it seems to be moving, so it shouldn't take long. Instead of pulling out my phone, like everyone else in line, I choose to take in my surroundings and people watch. A lot don't realize, that is one of the main reasons people end up in awful situations like being kidnapped and such. We're all too busy looking down at our screens and don't take notice of what's going on around us. All of my murder research and other factors have left me with more than a small case of paranoia.

Just as the door comes within touching distance, it swings open, and a man in a hat walks out. His tattooed, heavily muscled arms speak of someone who spends some time at the gym. They're really testing the stretch limits on sleeves of the t-shirt. He holds the door open for me with a small smile. I get an up close and personal look at his face. His brown-colored beard runs from one jaw, down his chin, and to the other side, with a full mustache. So dark that they're almost black, his eyes surprisingly soften his expression.

"Thanks," I tell him, returning his polite smile and getting my first good inhale of his scent. Though, I can't be sure whether it's him or the soft cinnamon-crumb cakes they sell inside. Either way, it makes my mouth water.

He nods, and, without giving me any opportunity to figure out the truth, walks away. Unabashedly, I watch his swagger down the sidewalk, loving the way his tight jeans flex around his thick thighs, until someone behind me clears their throat. I bite my lips gently as I move up in line and try to keep my face from turning red.

I've never been on blockers or suppressants, much to my parents’ dismay. Especially now that I'm off at college on my own. The way I've always thought about it is that when it's my time to meet my pack then it'll happen. I'm very open to the idea. Not that I'm looking to settle down right this second, but I wouldn't be opposed if it happened. My very alpha parents seem to think that I'm carelessly putting myself in danger by leaving myself open to every horny alpha in the area. I've fought them on this for years. Now that I'm older, we've compromised. I track my heats, normally dead-on schedule, and will reach out to the Omega Center for help when I'm due in another couple months.

Leaving myself open means I'm more affected by scents and touches. Fortunately, I keep my distance as much as possible from people so neither have been an issue my entire life.

Maybe that's because you haven't met the right people,that sneaky little voice inside my head says while I flick my gaze outside toward the sidewalk where the stranger disappeared.

That's about as far as I get to think before it's my turn at the counter.

"Good morning, Darci," the skinny, dark-haired guy behind the counter says. "Having the norm?"

"Hi, Morton. Yes, please," I reply. Taking out my phone, I touch pay before shooting him a smile of gratitude. I'm in hereat least once, sometimes twice, a day, and I feel like Morton has been here every single day working. He's a nice enough guy, but not close to being my type, no matter how much he's flirted with me and tried.

I step away to let others order, and after a few minutes, he's calling my name. When I move back to the counter, I slip a few dollars into their tip jar before taking my vanilla latte with extra shots of espresso and thanking him. I've tried not to be overly friendly, because I don't want him to get any of the wrong ideas. But I do always tip them.

Booking it out of the cafe, I'm power walking as fast as my short legs will carry me without spilling my hot coffee. I'm passing the tables out front when I'm slammed in the face with the cinnamon-crumb cake scent again. Glancing over, I see the guy with the hat sitting at one of them, coffee cup in one hand and his phone in the other. Whatever he's watching has him fully intrigued. Call it the natural tick of human curiosity, but my eyes drop to his screen for a moment. A fleeting second is all I need for my breath to still in my chest and my face to go as hot as my coffee.

This guy looking and smelling good enough to eat is watching one of my videos. My talking face is plastered across his screen. Putting my other hand beside my cheek, I duck around someone walking the same direction I'm going. Not that I'm ashamed or anything. I make the podcast and videos so that people will watch them and remember the victims. I'm sure that some of those viewers are right here in this town. It's just come as a surprise to actually see someone doing it.

Racing across the street at the crosswalk, I rush through campus, making it to my music appreciation class just barely in the nick of time. No one pays me any attention as I take my normal seat towards the back of the room. I feel a little sweaty, not just from the pace getting here, but also the adrenaline highstill riding me. I haven't even taken a drink of my coffee yet.

I do a couple of quiet breathing exercises to bring my pulse down as our professor gets set up for class. He's a visual teacher, so it usually takes him a few minutes of getting everything where he wants it to be.

"Okay, friends," he starts, coming around the front of his desk and leaning back on it. "Before we get started today, I wanted to inform you of some good news I got today. Our friend Lawrence, here, was instructed to offer our class an intern position at the radio station he currently works for. I'm sure some of you might be fans of the campus station. They normally try to keep the internship open for us, but we weren't sure it was going to happen this semester. I sent all of you the application in an email. I'll give you the next fifteen minutes to get it submitted if you're interested."

"How long will it take for us to find out who got it?" one of the guys across the room asks.

The professor isn't the one to answer. It comes from the guy sitting a few seats back. Lawrence.

"A decision will be made tonight, so an email should go out before lunch time tomorrow," he replies. His voice is deep and makes my stomach do these funny little flips. It almost doesn't match his appearance. He's tall and on the skinnier side with long, blond hair that hangs down a bit past his shoulders. Not that I would admit to noticing him before this moment, but it's kind of hard not to. I might be somewhat of a loner, but that doesn't mean that I don't appreciate a good-looking dude when I see one...or hear one.

I'm still looking at him when he must feel my stare and glances my way. Another wave of embarrassment washes over me, and I quickly look down to my bag where I've started digging out my laptop. Jeez, this day just keeps getting better and better.

Opening it and finding my email, I begin the applicationprocess. For as long as I can remember, and much to my parents' dismay, I've wanted to work as a disc jockey after college. If I could get this internship, it'd be perfect to add to my resume, which is why I'm assuming they offer it to begin with. The form takes the entire fifteen minutes that we're given to complete it since we're tasked at the end to make a mock playlist for a whole shift of six hours of working. I almost want to say it's to weed the choices down. Not just music tastes, but in fifteen minutes, you have to be pretty good to make an entire hours-long spontaneous playlist. I typically listen to the station, so I know what kind of music they play. However, according to the application, they're wanting someone to fill the Friday and Saturday night slots with something that might bring in more listeners. I go with my gut and put down the first songs that come to mind. I'm approximately five songs or so short of a full playlist when our professor calls time and tells us to hit submit. I hope the missing time there at the end doesn't affect me getting the job, but at least it's not as bad as the poor sap in front of me who's arguing saying that he only had time to write down two and needs more time.

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