Page 41 of Return to the Pack

“Why can’t Warrick and I stay home? Who says I need a new dress?” I ask breathlessly.

Callan marches onto the porch and tugs me from Warrick’s lap. “Because you do. It’s part of the ritual. We’ll be wearing tuxedos, so you’re going to get glammed up, too.”

“Ohhh,” I say, laughing. “Because you’re getting dressed up, I have to get dressed up, too.”

“Exactly,” Callan says. “Now, go.”

I turn to Warrick, and he tries to look grumpy, but a slight smile tugs the corners of his mouth. “Let’s go then,” I say. “We can make it fun. Remember how much fun we had when you bought me all those things like tampons and clothes?”

“Don’t remind me,” he grumbles. “I still bear the scars from that outing.”

With a grunt, he pushes to his feet and takes my hand. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”

Out on the open road, sitting on the back of Warrick’s motorcycle, I feel elated. I love riding on Warrick’s Harley.

Warrick drives like the badass he is—fast and hard. We cruise along the dirt road heading away from the house until we get to the paved roads. Then he opens up the throttle, and we take off.

I’ve got one arm wrapped around his midline and the other one keeping a firm grasp on his hair, so it doesn’t pummel the shield of my helmet. I’d rather not wear a helmet, since none of them do, but they’ve made it clear that I have to wear one. So, to keep the peace, I let them put it on me each time. At least it prevents me from getting slapped in the face by whirling hair.

We get to Jacksonville’s largest mall in record time, thanks to Warrick’s refusal to adhere to speed limits. Ethan explained it like this. He knows if the cops pull him over, he’ll mess up their faces with his fists or grease their pockets with fat cash. They never know which. So they turn a blind eye to his speeding, hoping for the latter but fearing the former.

The mall is the very one we went to where Warrick had to buy me tampons, shampoo, and such. But this time we head for a different store.

“This is the one you want, Luna,” he says, directing me across the blazing hot parking lot toward a store called, Your Special Day.

“That’s a strange name for a store,” I say.

“Yeah, well, girls get all goofy about weddings. But thank fuck, you’re not one of those kinds of girls, or we definitely wouldn’t be here,” he says, reaching for the front door.

Tiny bells tinkle against the frame as he holds it open for me to enter.

I sashay past him and enter a world of white everything—long white dresses, white lacy headdress-looking things, white shoes, and white purses with beads all over them. Instantly I want to turn around and leave. It’s like the cleanness inside shines a bright light on how grubby we are.

“Why, hello,” a crisp-sounding voice says to me from across the room.

I look up to find a woman who looks like she sat on a stick. Everything about her is rigid, from her tight blond hairdo to the rose-colored dress clinging to rolls of flesh to the pale pink shoes her feet are jammed into.

At least she brings some color to this environment, as bleached out as everything looks, like bones laid out in the sun until they’re pure, moon-white.

“Someone needs to remove that stick from her ass,” Warrick mutters.

I giggle. “I was just thinking that!”

“How can I help you?” the woman says, barely moving her lips as she speaks. She eyes Warrick fearfully like he might lunge for her at any moment.

Knowing Warrick, he might, just to get a rise out of her.

A wicked grin spreads across his face. “My girl and I are getting hitched. We’re having a biker’s wedding. Ever been to one?”

“Why no, I haven’t.” Miss Tight Ass sidles behind a rack of shimmering cream-colored dresses, probably to keep something solid between her and Warrick. “But I’m sure we can find just the right dress for the occasion.”

She nervously fingers a cloud-colored satin number in front of her.

“It needs to have easy access to this place,” he says, palming his crotch and grinning. “Me and the boys all take a turn with her as part of the ceremony. There’s a good number of us in the club, so it’s a long night of fun.”

Miss Tight Ass backs away, her eyes on me. “Do you consent to such behavior, dear?”

“I don’t mind when they take turns or all go at once,” I admit. “Both are fun in different ways.”