Page 32 of Bad Wolf (Wild Men 4)

That shuts them up.

Smirking, I wander away. Maybe what I said made sense to them on some subconscious level. Yo, fuckers, I’m a bartender, so I can handle liquor. Hand it over.

Bottle in hand, I wander the glorious halls of the frat house. Maybe if I get shitfaced, it will start looking better. Right now it looks like a unicorn farted balloons and rainbows all over the place.

I pass by groups of boys and girls laughing and doing shots, dressed in glittery, expensive brand clothes. High-class college, this one, I’ll just bet. Not my kind of scene, especially not in the mood I’m in tonight.

Fucking entitled twats.

To think there was a time I’d dreamed of going to college, of living on campus, of learning stuff and meeting people…

Taking a swig from the bottle, I wander deeper into the building. My fucked-up mood is not all from the party, I know, or even on Sebastian and the gang business.

I just can’t fucking stop thinking about Gigi. It’s consuming my thoughts, my dreams—those that don’t turn into nightmares, but then sometimes those, too. Talking to me, looking at me, smiling at me—dressed in her mini skirt.

Naked, covered in sweat, writhing in pleasure.

Or covered in blood.

Sexy. Moaning my name.

Or dead—and I’m the one holding the damn gun.

That’s what happens when you’re running on little to no sleep, I decide and drink up to chase the images away. All of them. Better lose the hot fantasies together with the nightmares, or I’m just gonna find a quiet corner and curl up. The thought of anything happening to Gigi…

Fuck, no way.

She’s safe in her little world. As long as her stupid little friend doesn’t get her into trouble, she’ll be fine. Finish her studies, find a good job, a good guy, settle down, have kids.

I rub at my chest and take my bottle into another room, trying to escape my mind, escape the pounding beat coming from the speakers and the shouts and laughter.

But no such luck. More people, more noise. Booze, heavy-lidded eyes, painted lips, it all spins around me in dizzying circles.

A smiling girl lays her hand on my arm, mouth opening to tell me something, and I shrug her off. A guy gets in my path, and I shove him away.

God, just a moment of silence, is that too much to ask?

I find a door and throw it open. Then there is another, an

d I cross a storeroom to open it, too, and I’m outside.

Cold. Quiet. A clear sky overhead, full of stars.

I lift the bottle to my lips and salute the universe.

“Fuck you,” I whisper. “Hail the merciful dead.”

I stop cold. My adopted father used to say that, Connor, the one who came long before the Lowes. The one who’s gone. On most days, I try not to think about him, but sometimes it doesn’t work.

Like now.

“To Connor,” I whisper. “If you’re listening, I fucked up, man. I fucked up… your legacy. What you taught me.” I drink up long and deep, feel the vodka burn in my stomach. “It’s all for nothing. You’re gone, and I just…”

Raised voices shatter the peace, jerking me out of the memories and fucking self-pity. What the hell is going on?

Two guys and a girl stomp into the garden, coming in from the back street. I don’t recognize the guys, which is a good thing. Not from my gang, or any of the gangs we deal with.

But when they stop and turn, still arguing with the girl, I hiss through my teeth.

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