Page 3 of Jesse
I glanced around the square, taking in the bustling food trucks. Most were run by shifters, their pack logos or subtle signs of territory stamped on the sides.
The crowd was no different. Shifters were everywhere.
Many wore the marks of our world: scars like maps across their arms, tattoos curling up their necks or peeking from under sleeves.
Was that what Jackson meant? I scoffed quietly. Just a bunch of shifters with scars and tattoos. It was common around here, and it didn’t mean much.
Scars didn’t automatically spell trouble, and tattoos didn’t make someone dangerous. I’d seen plenty of tough-looking shifters who were softer than marshmallows inside.
Still, a flicker of unease crept in, but I pushed it aside. I could refuse service to any of these “rough” types, but then how would I run my food truck at the festival?
How could I win the competition coming up in a few days? No way was I letting pack politics or appearances get in my way. This was my chance to prove I could handle it all.
I looked at the next few customers waiting in line. They wore their scars and tattoos openly. Nothing unusual.
The man at the counter, a shifter with a neck tattoo, looked like any other customer. He studied the menu with a thoughtful expression.
“Need any help?” I asked, leaning forward a little. “Our brisket with fries is pretty popular.”
The man with the neck tattoo looked up, his polite smile never faltering.
“You know what? That sounds great. I’ll take one of those.” His words came out slow and deliberate, each syllable carefully measured.
“Actually, hold on.” He paused, his gaze lingering on the menu again.
See?He seemed polite. Nice. Maybe too nice.
Before I could think much about it, a low, rich laugh caught my attention. It was magnetic, like the first notes of a favorite song, drawing me in before I could stop myself.
My focus slipped from the man at the counter as I scanned the crowd, searching for the source. There it was again, softer this time but unmistakable.
My gaze landed on a guy standing with a small group, his posture easy, his head tilted back as he laughed at something one of them had said.
His smile was wide and unguarded, a single dimple cutting into his cheek. For a moment, I couldn’t look away, my attention narrowing on him.
"I hear Briggs’ BBQ Delight is better," he said, pointing across the square toward another food truck. His words shattered the moment, sharp and cold, snapping me back to reality.
My chest tightened. Was he serious? Did he really just say that? I forced myself to turn back to the customer at the counter.
"Sorry, sir," I said, realizing I’d completely blanked on his order. "Could you repeat that?"
The man’s polite smile returned, but something about it made my stomach twist.
"Of course," he said lightly. "One brisket with fries and a lemonade."
I nodded, masking my unease as best I could. Was it him? Or was it the guy out there trying to draw my customers away?
Either way, something felt off, and I couldn’t shake it.
Behind me, Preston tapped the counter, drawing my attention. A few baskets were already lined up, ready for pick-up.
"Brisket with fries for Jay," I called out, scanning the crowd.
Dimples. Of course, it had to be him. He stepped forward, that same easy grin on his face. I handed over the basket, my smile tight.
"Enjoy," I said, keeping my tone neutral despite the irritation bubbling under the surface.
Jay took the basket with a quick nod, but I caught him throwing a glance over his shoulder, already half-engaged with his group again.
