Page 1 of What's Rogue Got To Do With It

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LARKIN

“Bobby, order up!”

The boss’s voice yelling at my co-worker barely registered as I studied the grease trap. It needed cleaning again.

I pressed my back against the metal prep counter and stared at the congealed mess floating in the industrial sink. Three weeks I'd been washing dishes at Chester’s Highway Diner, and in those twenty-one days, the grease trap had been my nemesis. The putrid smell roiled my belly and I pinched my nose and pictured running through the woods in my fur. Being a shifter with my super sonic senses made the stink worse than it would be for humans. Lucky me!

Despite the waves of nausea that rolled over me when I caught a whiff of the grease trap, the cash Chester slipped me every Friday kept me turning up for my daily shift. He was a star, paying me cash and keeping it off the books.

Crockery shattered and someone cursed followed by Chester yelling to clean up the mess, his gravelly voice cutting through the clatter of plates and sizzle from the griddle.

I grabbed the latest stack of plates. Gross. You’d think being a shifter and witnessing my beast take down his dinner would give me a strong stomach. But dealing with people’s leftovers had my breakfast rising up my throat. The remains of eggs over easy, hash browns, and bacon stuck on the white porcelain made my wolf whine saying he needed to hunt.

I plunged the crockery and into the sudsy water. The routine was mindless. First scrape, followed by rinse, wash, and lastly, stack. I could do this in my sleep. My hands did their thing while my mind wandered to the room I’d rented above the auto shop. Though I liked Chester and the people I worked with, I never stayed in one place very long. One month was about my limit and I was getting close to that.

I’d been following a pattern for a while now. Roll into town, find work that paid cash, keep my head down, and leave before anyone asked questions. And before local packs or dens picked up on an omega who wasn’t one of them on their land. A lone shifter was viewed with suspicion by my kind. I had to leave before I was pummeled with questions about my family and den and why I smelled wrong because I didn’t have the den’s protective scent markers.

The lunch rush died down around two, leaving me alone with the neverending pile of dishes. Through the service window, I watched the last trucker polish off his pie and coffee. The man's scent carried a hint of the forests and mountains I’d been dreaming about and my wolf stirred.

Are you done yet? My beast slept while I worked, unable to understand how humans ate such gods awful food and why I got paid for cleaning up after them.

I'd been born in a pack as most wolf shifters were. My folks weren’t betas or on the council. They weren’t pack elders and technically they were not part of the pack. But they were allowed to live in the land and they worked hard and respected the Alpha’s wishes. But the Alpha had a son my age and I was always top of the class even after the teachers massaged the grades. I beat him in athletics and was a better debater.

His anger simmered for years until my parents were killed in a car accident. Soon after, while I was grieving, he convinced his father I’d stolen his cash and I was cast out, before my first shift, never able to return to my parents’ graves.

Every instinct screamed at me to belong. I longed for shared scents, hunting with the pack, the routine of the seasons and the joy of finding a mate. But most wolf shifters belonged to their birth pack and though it wasn't unheard of for outsiders to join, there was a rigorous interview process before the council would consider admitting any newcomer. I had a past that shadowed my every move.

"You doing okay back there, Larkin?" Chester appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on his apron. He was human but had lived around here all his life and he knew enough to not ask questions when someone’s beast appeared in the forefront of their gaze or fur sprouted on a guy’s arm. I figured he’d seen a lot in his sixty plus years which was why he’d never pried into my background.

"Just fine." I plastered on a smile. "Getting through the last of them."

He glanced away and then at me. "My nephew's coming to visit next week. Nice guy, about your age. Works construction up in?—"

"That's kind of you," I interrupted. And it was. "But I'm here to do my job and don’t want to meet new people."

He nodded. "Well, the offer stands. You're good people. Don't let anyone convince you otherwise."

The bell above the front door jangled, and Chester disappeared to greet the new customer. I returned to my dishes, but it wasn’t just the remains of bacon I was smelling. The scent that drifted from the dining room made me go still.

It was an Alpha and in the three weeks I’d worked here, the man had not entered these doors. His scent would have lingered if he came when I wasn’t around. His scent tracked as strong and confident but that wasn’t news as he was an Alpha. My guess was he wasn’t here for Chester’s pie.

My hands stilled in the water and I considered tearing out the back entrance and forgoing my final wages.

"Coffee, black," the alpha said. No please or thank you and no greeting Chester and asking about his day.

I kept washing the dishes, not wanting to draw attention to myself. Maybe the Alpha wouldn't bother me and he’d finish his coffee and leave.

"Chester." The alpha's voice suggested he was used to being obeyed. "Do you mind if I have a word with your dishwasher?"

The blood in my veins turned to ice. My hands clenched around a plate, and the ceramic cracked.

"L-Larkin?" Chester’'s voice wobbled. "There's someone here who wants to talk to you."

There was no point in running. The Alpha would catch me before I made it to the back door, and running would only confirm whatever suspicions had brought him here. I dried my hands slowly, my mind whirring, and I walked into the dining room as if being commanded by a pack Alpha was an everyday occurrence.

The alpha sat in the corner booth, an elbow on the table but he radiated power. He was younger than his voice suggested, maybe in his early thirties. Most Alphas were a decade or more older and I wondered if he’d been thrust into the role or whether he’d done what my father’s killer had and overthrown the one who held the title before him. His flannel shirt and worn jeans marked him as a local, but his posture shouted pack leader.

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