Page 42 of Return to the Pack

The woman looks like she’ll faint. Warrick chuckles and pulls me in, palming my breast and squeezing.

“I’m not sure if we’re the right place for you,” Miss Tight Ass says.

I swear, even the skin on her face doesn’t move when she talks.

“Really,” says Warrick, pulling a fat roll of cash from his pocket. “That’s a shame because I want her to look pretty. It ain’t every day you get hitched, you know.”

Miss Tight Ass’s eyes glitter as she looks at the wad of green bills in Warrick’s hand. “Maybe I can find you something,” she says at last.

“But not white,” I say with a frown. “These dresses are all too bright. The wedding guests will need sunglasses if I wear one of these.”

The shopkeeper’s lips form a tight sphincter.

“What about this one, doll?” Warrick says, lifting a short, puffy dress from the rack closest to him. “Ethan will like this.”

“Oh, no,” Miss Tight Ass says, rushing toward him. “That’s for a child, for the flower girl. You need something becoming. Something that will cover your derriere.”

She grabs the dress from Warrick and hangs it back on the metal bar.

The hanger makes a slight clink as it lands.

“I love that dress,” I say.

“And she wouldn’t need to push it aside when all the bikers make their move on her,” Warrick says with a wink.

“Oh, my,” Miss Tight Ass says. “Dear, you shouldn’t let men treat you that way. And shame on this man for condoning such a thing.”

“It’s how it’s done in our club,” he says with a shrug. He doesn’t budge when Miss Tight Ass tries to scoot around him, so she has to maneuver through a wall of satin fabric.

“Come with me, dear,” she says, taking my hand in her cool, papery one. As she ushers me along, she seems to be protecting me.

I can barely keep from laughing. “I really like that little dress over there,” I say, pouting. “It won’t get in the way of moving. How am I supposed to move my legs in these long things?”

“This dress will be lovely,” she says, taking what looks like miles of glossy fabric on a hanger from a rack. She holds the sleeveless dress up to my body and eyes it, whispering, “This one is perfect.”

I look down and agree it’s a lovely dress, even if it is the color of a bleached gator skull. “Can it be dyed a different color?” I ask.

“Different than white?” The woman looks shocked. “It’s traditional to wear white.”

“Do we look traditional?” Warrick calls from across the floor, where he’s rolling a cigarette between his fingers. “Luna’s been fucked every which way. She don’t need any of that white bullshit.”

The tinkling bells sound as another customer enters.

“Oh, no,” Miss Tight Ass says, dropping the dress to scurry toward Warrick. “There’s no smoking in here. You’ll ruin these dresses. Ruin them!”

“What kind of a place is this?” he says, placing the smoke between his lips.

“Jacksonville’s finest,” she says, attempting to push him toward the door.

Of course, he doesn’t budge. It’s like a fly trying to shove an elephant. He strides toward me, pushing her out of the way.

She falls back into a rack of dresses.

The new customer stares at us. When her friend enters, they huddle together, pointing and whispering.

“This dress is so pretty,” I moan, lifting the dress into the air.

“Is that the one you want, baby girl?” Warrick says as he stands before me.