Austin takes a step back. So does Wilde. Bo jumps up off the bench and gives me wide berth, too.
“Whoa, sorry. Good. I just wanted to be sure.” Austin has his hands up.
I turn away and yank my clothes on, still pissed.
“I’m sorry, dude. I definitely didn’t mean—” Austin tries.
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Yeah, okay. Fucking off. I’m still your best friend.”
I flip him the bird over my shoulder. I know, very mature.
But calling BFF when we’re seniors in high school is pretty juvenile, too. It’s true. Austin’s been my partner in crime since we were pups and our moms taught at the elementary school together. And really, what he’s saying is that he still has my back. No matter how dickish I get.
They all do. Because they know what’s going down at my house.
And that’s the only redeeming thing about pack living.
I grab my bag and head outside.
Casey’s waiting for me, even though her practice is over an hour before mine. As a sophomore, my little sister is already star of the volleyball team, leading the school to what will be another state championship.
No cheerleader whores in this family, my dad likes to say. Which is a dig at our mom, who was cheer captain back when he was Wolf Ridge’s defense star.
Casey climbs into the cab of the truck and slumps back, staring out the window. I start the truck and drive. We don’t speak. We hardly acknowledge each other. This is our routine.
Casey could have caught a ride with any one of her friends. She doesn’t have to wait for me to drive her home. But she does. And it’s not because she wants to spend extra time with her big bro. Or because she just really likes to hang out after practice.
It’s because she doesn’t want to go home without me there to protect her.
Chapter 3
Bailey
Getting a tattoo on the inside of my wrist hurts more than I expected. The artwork is exquisite: the iconic “Catrina” Day of the Dead skull is coming out exactly how I drew it, only better, because now it’s forever inked on my body. Catrina’s name is on a little banner below it.
But the pain. Holy crap. It’s all I can do not to tear up while the guy works over my wrist, and my whole body’s trembly and weak.
But it will be worth it. I needed to do something to memorialize her, and I hadn’t figured out what until I saw Rayne’s little paw print.
I sit in a chair in the front window of the little tattoo parlor. I guess they like to show their clients off to the world. Like I don’t already feel like I’m living in a fishbowl in Wolf Ridge. Rayne lounges in another chair beside me, looking up funny YouTube videos to show me.
“Check this one out, it’s the Google translated version of Billie Eilish’s Bad Guy.” She shoves her phone under my nose and I watch the parody, snorting at the badly interpreted lyrics like “I’m a baaaaad cat.”
I smile through a wince. “I think I need something funnier.”
“It really hurts you, huh?” Rayne eyes me with more curiosity than sympathy, which annoys me since I’m sweating from the pain.
“He’s puncturing my skin over and over again with an ink-filled needle. Yeah it hurts. Did it not hurt when you got yours?”
She shrugs. “I don’t remember.”
The tattoo artist, Eric, a lanky, pierced guy with close-cropped hair and full sleeves of tats on both arms, exchanges a glance with Rayne like they’re sharing some secret. Or agreeing I’m being a big wimp.
Maybe I am. I blow out my breath. I deserve this pain.
For Catrina.
“Uh oh.” Rayne spins her chair around so the back faces the window. “Don’t look now.”
“What? Oh.”
Fuck.
The WRH football team is jogging around the town square today. Lucky me.
“Excuse me?” I say to the tattoo artist. “Could we, um, face the other way?”
But it’s too late. They are running past, and I see the teammates’ heads swiveling from me to Cole, who is in the middle of the pack. He catches sight of me and does a quick reverse step, nearly pulling the handle off the door with his momentum. Two of his buddies stop with him.
As he opens the door, one of them says, “Dude, no. Coach Jamison will kill us all if you disappear.”
“I’ll be right behind you.” Cole’s grin is wicked.
Butterflies flap panicked wings in my belly, smacking into my ribs and sending my pulse skyrocketing.
Cole saunters over. His muscles stretch his white t-shirt. He’s hardly sweating, even though he was running in the afternoon sun. In Colorado it would be crispy fall by October, but apparently Arizona didn’t get the autumn memo.
“It smells like pain in here.” He saunters in my direction, gloating and glee radiating from every line of his athletic body. His brown eyes glitter. “Pain and”—he sniffs the air, then whirls suddenly to face Rayne—“fear.” He lunges at her, gripping the two arm rests of the captain’s chair and trapping her in it.