Page 225 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"Well, shit, wildcat," I say breathlessly. "Night's still young."

Chapter 47

Ivy

The adrenaline from demolishing the rage room is still blasting through me as Whiskey drives us to what he calls "the spot."

It's an empty field about twenty minutes outside the city, past the industrial strip and the last gas station with a working light, down a dirt road that Hogzilla takes like a champ despite the ruts. The grass is knee-high and silver with dew in the moonlight, surrounded by dark trees on three sides and absolutely nothing on the fourth.

Just open starry sky.

"This is where you bring women?" I ask, pulling off my helmet.

"This is where I bring fireworks," he corrects, already dismounting and crossing to the saddlebag. "Women are new. Well. Woman. Singular. You."

He starts unpacking the panniers and drops a bag into the grass with a heavy thud. The zipper's already partially open and I catch a flash of colorful cardboard tubes.

"Whiskey."

"Yeah?"

"Are those legal?"

"Uhhhhh. In Texas?"

"We're not in freaking Texas."

He grins at me, already unzipping the bag. Inside, there's a truly alarming collection of bottle rockets, Roman candles, what might be an actual bomb called MEGA THUNDER ALPHA 9000 in a box the size of a toaster.

He takes a brown paper bag out of the pannier cooler next, followed by a worn plaid blanket that matches his endless supply of flannels.

"This one's food," he tells me, spreading the blanket in the grass with a flourish, smoothing the corners like he's setting a table at a five-star restaurant. Then he bows. "Milady."

He's adorable.

Clinically insane, but adorable.

I sit cross-legged in the middle of the blanket, and he wraps a plush fleece team throw around my shoulders before heading back to Hogzilla and digging deeper into the pannier.

Out comes a dented one-burner camp stove.

Then a cast-iron skillet.

"You hauled cast iron out here," I say. "On a motorcycle."

“Hey. Hogzilla’s a motherfuckin’ beast. She can support an alpha like me, she can support some camp gear.” He thunks the skillet onto the burner and fishes a beat-up lighter out of his pocket. The flame catches with a soft whump.

“Fair,” I say, watching him unpack. A brick of butter, another brick of sharp cheddar, the thickest cut sourdough I’ve ever seen, and a little deli container he cracks open under my nose.

Caramelized onions.

"Made those at two in the morning," he says. "Low and slow, forty-five minutes. You can't rush an onion, wildcat. Everything else in life, sure. Not an onion."

Okay. That’s why I smelled onions last night. I was wondering what the hell was going on in the kitchen, but I know better than to ask.

I stare at him. "Who are you?"

"Tonight?" Butter hits the iron and sizzles. "Your personal chef, wildcat.”