Page 51 of Stealthy as a Wolf

The strip joint catered to fantasies, kinks that would normally be frowned upon outside these walls by some shifters.

Even with the men surrounding me, the crowd felt a little overwhelming. I avoided big groups and anywhere else that I might be recognized. Even if no one were watching, I still felt antsy and uncomfortable. My wolf was restless with the need to lash out, put everyone in their places, and show them who was in charge.

Seconds away from hyperventilating, I looked around the room, needing a distraction. A flock of chickens gathered around a nearby table caught my attention and stopped my panic attack dead. There were eight women in total, all clucking and cackling away.

That wasn’t why they drew my attention.

No, it was because they were all over the age of seventy.

As a male cheetah began a sinuous dance onstage that made him look like he didn’t have a bone in his body, the grannies cheered and waved their drinks in the air, the loose skin on the backs of their arms wobbling much like wings.

The grannies were wearing various mismatched leather pieces from corsets, assless chaps, vests, and biker boots, and I realized they must be the owners of the Vespas. While some leathers looked too large, others looked like the grannies had to be squeezed into them.

Then I finally got it—biker chicks!

I couldn’t help but crack a smile at the absurdity.

But the kicker was their shirts, each one printed with a saying quirkier than the last.

A tall but too skinny woman with shiny silver hair wore a bloodred corset, her boobs resting in the cups like slightly deflated tires. Writing was scrawled boldly across her chest—Nobody rides my Vespa but my old man.

The complete opposite of her was a tiny, dark-haired woman who was almost bursting out of her clothing, with boobs so massive that they could smother a man—If you can read this shirt, my old man couldn’t handle riding my Vespa.

Another woman had springy gray hair that stood up like she’d stuck her finger in a socket. She wore a shirt that totally matched the hard lines on her face—My Vespa isn’t the only thing that can take a bumpy ride.

An innocent old granny with blue hair wore a bright pink shirt with a Vespa on the front that said—If you think my Vespa is dirty, it doesn’t hold a candle to my mind.

Once I started reading the shirts, I couldn’t stop myself from reading the rest. I leaned around Grady to get a better view of the grandmother with a cigar dangling out of her mouth and curlers still in her hair.I might have a dirty mouth, but I can do amazing things with it.

She was chuckling with a woman who had so many wrinkles, she could pass for a Shar-Pei. Her shirt had just as much attitude.Fuck off. You wouldn’t be able to handle a ride on my Vespa.

One grandmother with too much Botox was plucking food off a huge appetizer platter like a…well, chicken. She wore a shirt with a picture of a slightly deranged rooster winking. It was so ugly that I was charmed. Beneath the rooster read one sentence—I ride more than just a Vespa.

With each shirt, my mood brightened, and I eagerly turned toward the last grandmother, reading her shirt.

If a tank of gas in my Vespa lasts longer than you, you’d need a bigger tank before I’d take you out for a spin.The gray-haired lady wearing the shirt caught me looking, shot me a wink, and I burst out laughing.

These ladies didn’t give a shit what anyone else thought. They dressed for themselves, comfortable in their own skin in a way that I envied. They’d earned the right to do whatever the fuck they wanted. They had spunk and panache, and I fucking loved it. The flock was like a pack, a deep friendship that spanned decades. They stuck together through the good times and bad and came out the other side like warriors.

They were strong and beautiful, survivors in a world that considered them weak. I glanced at the guys, realizing I wanted that with them, I just had to be brave enough to take it. No running. No hiding. I just needed to allow myself to fall for them and hope they would be there to catch me.

My ruminations were interrupted when Matty returned to our table and took his seat across from me. Right behind him was a waiter, and my breath caught in my throat when I saw his attention was riveted on me, completely ignoring the men.

I felt a little bashful at his attention, but there was something about the man that I found comforting, and I couldn’t turn away from his almost amber eyes. I didn’t even need an image from my wolf to know he was a cocky rooster—it was all in his strut and attitude. He was absolutely stunning, and he knew it. He wore only enough clothes to keep his pecker covered and obviously loved the attention. I blinked when it looked like he was sporting long, glorious…tail feathers.

And I didn’t find him even remotely sexy.

He shot me a big, flirty smile, ignoring when the rest of the men at the table growled. “What can I get you, darling?”

There was no real intent behind the smile, more like he sensed I needed to get my mind off things, and I couldn’t help but take him up on the offer, especially if it meant tweaking the guys a little. “What are you offering?”

With a flurry of movements, he bowed and presented me with a menu with a flirty wink. Grady shifted in his chair, blatantly placing a proprietary hand on my thigh.

I scanned the menu quickly, then bit my lip to contain my amusement and murmured distractedly, “Balls deep sounds delicious.”

The guys around the table snapped to attention, and my cheeks burned when their combined stares landed on me.

The rooster didn’t miss a beat and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Girls tell me that my One-Eyed Willy tastes wonderful.”

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