Page 36 of Coco and the Misfits

Atticus Ford.

By the time I’m done with classes, showered and changed into clean clothes, it’s late. Later than I thought it would be.

But it’s a bar. Now is the perfect time to go. It feels strange to head that way in my jeans, T-shirt and sneakers. I’m not one for dressing up to go out, but usually I throw on a shirt, at least. The giant bouncer at the door won’t like this. He doesn’t like me, either, and tried to turn me away a few times in the past.

And indeed he doesn’t look pleased to see me. He gives me a long once-over and scowls. “Dress code,” he barks.

“Look, I need to talk to Atticus. That’s all. Then I’ll leave.”

“Try again,” he growls.

All my growing worry for Coco is turning into molten fury. I clench my fists. “Atticus Ford. It’s about Coco. Tell him Zach Ashford is here to talk. He knows me.”

At least I hope so. We’ve talked once or twice. It’s probable he doesn’t remember my name. I count on the mention of Coco’s name to get him to see me.

“Coco.” The bouncer rubs his chin. “What is she to you?”

“My friend.” My gut tells me to go for honesty. “Something happened and I want to help her.”

The bouncer glares at me for long minutes. Behind me, a line is forming. Finally, he sighs and nods, whipping out his phone. He presses a button. “Hey, boss? A Zach Ashford here to see you about Coco.”

Watching his face, I realize he knows Coco. And he’s worried, too. Mentioning her name, telling him the truth about my motivations was the right move. I nod at the giant alpha and for the first time, I get a grudging nod in return.

United over our concern for Coco. Who would have thought?

Wait, does that mean he wants her for himself? The stirrings of fondness for the man evaporate. Is he courting her?

I’m saved from picking a fight with him—which is so fucking weird, since I’ve never picked a fight over anyone in my entire life—when he opens the door behind him.

“Come inside,” he says, “wait by the entrance. He’s on his way.”

“Thanks, man.” I walk past him and into the dimness of the bar. The music beat makes the floor vibrate. The place is still half-empty. I’m not used to seeing all the way from here to the bar where a bartender is wiping down the counter.

I see him stride toward me, dressed in a dark suit and white shirt, looking immaculate and imposing.

Atticus.

He frowns at me from across the bar but doesn’t slow down. There is an aura of power about him that speaks to me. To my dick, at least. I’m not into men, but this man does it for me.

Which is not why I’m here, but hell, my dick always has its own agenda, perking up and hardening in my pants as he approaches and his deep scent gets added to the picture.

Damn, brain, focus.

“Zach,” he greets me, stuffing his hands into his pants pockets. His eyes glint over tanned cheekbones and a groomed beard. Silver hair, silver beard, pale eyes. Like a wolf, I think. A top wolf. “Erik says you wanted to talk to me about Coco.”

“That’s right.” I swallow down the importune flare of lust and dig into my anger. “I came to ask you what happened to Coco the other night.”

“What night?”

“Don’t fuck with me. You know exactly what I’m talking about. You took her home.”

“So I did. That a problem?” he asks mildly.

“Why? Why the interest in her?”

“Don’t you think she’s fascinating?”

“Of course I do! But why is she afraid? Is she afraid of me?”

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