Page 77 of Pack Rivals, Part One

"Mr. Boston. I thought you'd want to know she's gone out to a bar with her cousin and some friends. The place looks pretty sketchy. There's a load of bikers inside."

"Are you there?"

"Yeah, I'm outside."

I consider this for a minute, meeting Hardy's eye through the perspex partition. Trent is perfectly capable of watching the omega for me, but more and more I find I want to do it myself, especially when she's wound up in some biker haunt. "Where's this bar and what's it called?"

"It's called Curfew, over on West Side."

"West Side." I pull a face. I don't like the idea of the omega living in that part of the city. I like the idea of her going out drinking in that part of the city even less. "Stay there, Trent. I'm coming down."

"Yes, Sir."

I hang up and grab my jacket from the hook. "Fancy a beer?" I ask Hardy.

"Now? We only just got started."

"The omega's gone out for a drink in some dive bar."

"Right," Hardy says, flicking the safety back on his gun. "Let's go then." We're halfway across the parking lot when he asks me, "Have you got a change of clothes in your car?"

"My running gear," I say. We've been taking it in turns to accompany the omega running for a week now. Same time every night. But I have a spare set of sports clothes in the car on the off chance she calls wanting to run at some other time. "Why?" I ask Hardy.

He snorts. "You can't go dressed to the bar like that."

I look down at my suit, then up at Hardy in his jeans and t-shirt. He may have a point. "I'm not wasting time heading home to change."

"At least lose the jacket," Hardy says, "and the tie."

I tug them both off as we reach the car and fling them in the back. Then I race us across the city, ignoring several red lights and the speed limit. Trent is waiting for us outside the bar. The front has a sign with several letters missing, the paint is peeling from the walls and the door has cracked panes of glass.

Hardy frowns as he takes in the place. "What the hell is she doing in a dive like this?"

"Two for one on pitchers of cocktails for ladies on a Wednesday night," Trent says, pointing to a sign on the door.

"Jesus Christ," Hardy mutters. "That woman does not need to be drinking pitchers of cocktails."

I nod at Trent. "Thanks. We'll take it from here."

"She's in the corner," he says. "Good night, Sir."

Hardy peers through the dirty glass. "Game of pool?"

"If you want your ass whipped twice in one night."

"No chance, shithead." He leans his shoulder against the door and paces inside. We both pretend to ignore the omega, although we're both watching her from the corner of our eyes, as we reach the bar and lean casually against it. Bea's perched on a stool, sitting around a table with her cousin, the friend who accompanied her home that night from the Skipton Gala, and three other women. No men. I can't decide if this makes her little adventure more or less stupid.

"Four bottles of Bud," Hardy tells the barman.

"I'm driving, remember?" I say.

"I know," he says, taking all four bottles in one of his hands, and striding towards the pool tables. They're all in use but as we draw closer, two skinny dudes who look like they probably still live at her home with their moms, drop their cues and scram.

Hardy balances the beer bottles along the table, then lines up the colored balls as I rub chalk onto the end of both cues.

Hardy's just finished forming his triangle of balls when we sense the omega walking our way, her scent all sweet and sugary as usual.

I blow across the end of my cue, sending a puff of chalk into the air.

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