Werewolf



Kenny's POV

 

 

"Are you even paying attention, O'Rourke?"



I was—honest, hand to Goddess—but I was also still repeating the accounts of last night in my head like a skipped record. My mind kept looping back to the barrel of the gun before it slipped past my lips, and Gordon's Cheshire cat grin promising me a world of sadistic madness at his hands.



And then I had to sneak back in—hours later—to heal the horrible fuck while his son ate my ass to keep the awful rut away. By the time I came home, it was another round of minutes with the sandman, before Jaybird screeched at me and I rose, a total cadaver with all the fixings, to do another six hours of school.

All because Gordon's son wouldn't leave my ass alone, and I was too chicken shit to take the bus out of the city and go find an anonymous John to spend my ruts with.



David blackmailing me over Jojo's botched robbery and o



Ash's POV

 

I hated hospitals, but I tried not to (they're wonderful advancements for wellness and they provide a much-needed purpose for the community). I still hated them though.



It's hard to love hospitals when you've spent two-thirds of your life in them. Ma assured me that I have the numbers wrong, that it was more like a quarter—maybe even less—but that felt wrong. Like we were underestimating here. The data points didn't match up, like the scars on the inside of my arm that let the nurse know where to draw blood.



"Ashford, you're early." Mom put down her sandwich, patting her lips with a napkin, before coming over to greet me. "I was expecting you to come a bit—honey, what happened?"



"I fell in PE." I put my messenger bag in the little cubby assigned to Ma, mindful of her purse. She goes to touch my lip, tilting my head to and fro for any more damage, her hands cardin



Kenny's POV

 



The 1950 Ford Custom Deluxe was a beautiful car in the same way Rita Hayworth was an absolute bombshell of a woman. If, you know, gals had overdrive capabilities on four-speed manual transmission with a full-range V-8 engine that purred like a kitten full of cream when the pedal was laid. Maybe less Rita and more Marlene Dietrich in her coat and tails. Now that was an Alpha woman I wouldn't mind being kept by. Woof.



I wasn't a fan of black vinyl seats, the rub of them seemed to cheapen the spread of the cruiser, but I'd be lying if I wasn't absorbing everything in the back seat, eyes eager to categorize, chop, and build anew.



Mechanic hands, my sister and Rocco had said with pride, hands of a goddamn savant.



Hands that weren't doing jack shit as the sheriff drove us to the very outskirts of the city limits. No one around for miles.



No witnesses.



Jo Stafford's "You Belong To Me" played lullaby soft on the radio as shadows stretched like dark fingers against the desert. I couldn't tell if they were reaching out to help or pushing me away farther into the parts unknown. It seemed in poor taste to ask…



"I got a call today, son. Any guesses on what it was about?"



The worst thing about Gordon Hurt Jr. was how he deceived you into thinking he was a man like any other. Sure he blinked at the right times, gave you a firm handshake upon meetin', maybe even called you pal at the cookout—but it never made up for how he wasn't all there. The inhumanly long time he could stare, how he never flinched during surprise parties, how he consistently smelled like day-old blood…



I looked straight ahead, making myself as small of a target as possible, hands flexing against the handcuffs behind my back. I didn't want to make him angry, and it was safer to assume the question rhetorically.



"What? No comment, son? Are we pleadin' the fifth already?" He laughed in a way that didn't make his chest move like the sound was being broadcast by an off-stage ventriloquist. He adjusted his grip on the wheel, no claws yet. That was a good thing. "That's all right, we're almost there anyway."



"There" was the old Lonton Silver Mine that had closed a little after the war. The grounds were still toxic to werewolves—Lycans—such as ourselves, and my skin felt itchy just looking at the gray-tinted soil.



Nobody in their right mind would come out here this late in the day unless they were planning on doing something unsavory—not even local legends could entice kids to do the stupid kid thing of exploring in places they shouldn't. The mine felt like a mistake—an offense to the natural order of the world—and Lonton was all too happy to forget its existence as decayed.



Figure Gordon would flock to the site, the creep.



Gordon killed the engine but left the battery on, the glow from his headlights glaring down a caved-in mine shaft that had caution tape plastered all over it. I didn't believe in ghosts, but I'd have to be a complete moron not to think that shit was haunted. I hoped we weren't goin' in there; there were some things man wasn't meant to know, y'know?



Gordon cracked his neck, a sharp jerk to the side that looked more like what a soldier might have done to a man than relievin' an ache, and rumbled pleasure into the dead air around us. The radio was static, too far outside the city to even pick up the waves.



"Answer me this one thing, O'Rourke." The older Alpha took off his sunglasses, hooking them over a breast pocket. Gordon's eyes were a black darker than the pits of the valley our fair city looked over.



"Are you stupid or just got a love of being a worse pain in the ass than your father? Is being a POS a family cure? That O'Rourkes have to mess up everything they touch? Or kill? Because—let's face it—your mother is married in, wasn't she? Was—was married in."



I crashed into the stupid chicken wire barrier between us, silver cutting hexagons into my fur, headless of the pain while Gordon chortled like some demented department store Santa.



"Don't you EVER talk about my mother—"



"Did I touch a nerve there, son? I'm only statin' a fact… Why, how long has it been since Eileen's been in the ground? Three years? Four? Oh, wait—"



Cattle prod, I should have seen it coming, zapping the metal links between us. I seized, jaw clenching shut as my body rode out the electricity—more effective thanks to the silver. I slumped back against the vinyl, droolin' like a circus geek. Gordon saluted me with his toy before he set it to the side, opening the driver's door.



The droning whine of the car's beeping covered the crunch of his cowboy boots, giving him enough cover to scare me when my car door opened.



"Oh good, no accidents. You should be proud, boy, Jacobs didn't nearly have as much mettle." He adjusted his belt, the holster of his revolver catching stray light from his headlights. "All right, boy, let's go for a walk!"



He grabbed me by both ankles, dragging me out. Without my hands, my head hit the asphalt—hard. Thankfully we hadn't hit the dust yet, and as much as that would've been the nicer of the two landings, I didn't need to become weaker thanks to more silver.



Thank the Goddess above I'd been able to meet Suzy for a refill on suppresses before Lewis caroled me into that meeting with Wells. I didn't want to think of what Gordon might do to me if he knew I was an Omega.



Nothing good I'm sure…



"What? No fight? You're awfully quiet tonight, Kenny." He left me sprawled out in the middle of the road, knowing full well that no out-of-towner would drive through this abandoned exit thanks to the new highway. Confident he wouldn't be caught, Gordon took his sweet time looking for a new toy to select from the arsenal he always had in his trunk. "I don't like 'em quiet."



"What's there to talk about?" I'm sure half of what I was sayin' was slurred; my mouth felt like it had swelled up three sizes too big for my mouth, the taste of copper everywhere. But I didn't want to make the sadist unhappy. From what I'd heard on the street, as horrible as a happy Gordon was, an angry Gordon was infinitely worse. "There's nothin' to talk about."



"Oh, sure there is," Gordon said mildly as if we'd met in the grocery store outside Tom's Liquors off Elm. The trunk slammed shut. In his hands was a shotgun. "There are always so many things to talk about. Like how you thought it would be a good idea to lay your grubby hands on my son."

Shit!



"I didn't—"



"But you did, O'Rourke. You did." I watched him load the slugs in, one at a time, the red-tipped shells sliding home. "Unless you're callin' Mrs. Lewis a liar? And—forgive me, son—that woman doesn't strike me as the type to fib."



"It's not what it looks like!" Back peddling was stupid, but I had no idea what this nut was plannin' on doing to me. Was he just going to shoot me point-blank? Bury my body in the mines? Make it seem like a robbery gone wrong—or—or—

He clicked his tongue, giving the gun a pump to load the shots properly in the chamber. He aimed the barrel at me, and I cried out, tears blurring the two holes about to rain hell upon me. "Goddess! The fuck do you want?"



"You're just like your daddy, boy," Gordon pulled out a tin of tobacco from his back pocket, pinching a bit to pack it into his mouth. He churned quid in his mouth, muffling his words. "A lyin' little weasel until your back is against the wall. Then you go plum canary, signin', and yellow and belly up, like some Omega bitch." 



He pressed the barrel of the shotgun against my temple, smiling as he chewed. "A bunch of bitches the whole lot of you. Except for that fine sister of yours. Now if that ain't a proper breeder—Oh ho ho, now that's a look!" He ground the gun into my skin, splitting the flesh there. "There we go! Now that's the look of an Alpha! Found your balls, did you? Good, good. I was startin' to think this was too easy."



"You leave Jay out of it. She's got nothin' to do—"



"She'll have somethin' to do with it if I say so." Gordon spit out the quid, hitting my ear as it hit the asphalt. He tapped his badge victoriously. "Because this right here—this here says my word is law, pup. And I think somewhere along the way you forgot that."



I opened my mouth to snark back, tell him my memory was fine but his old ass seemed to be forgettin' a lot these days—like maybe how to lay off the sweets—but he took the opportunity to shove the barrel in my mouth.



My eyes widened.



Goddess above—



"You look good like that, pup. You sure you ain't a 'Mega in disguise? But no, I suppose not. They don't make big bitches like you. Must be a dirty knot-breaker, huh? A filthy heathen. Wouldn't be surprised given your pedigree, who your sire is. To think, bastards like him walked away scot-free durin' the war, and good, Goddess-fearing men like myself or, that poor Arthur Wells, we got—"



He coughed, setting off a chain reaction that had the gun slapping against my teeth as he hacked into his shirt sleeve. Dots of red dotted the crook of his arm, dripping down his chin as he wheezed.



The silver shrapnel in his war wounds must be actin' up with all this excitement. The fucker needed to be on bed rest, retired, but no. He'd much rather spend the last of his days terrorizing the community, laying down a foundation of lies and fears as he vied for the mayoral candidacy.



"Well, it would seem the Goddess would rather me not say what I was wantin' to, as truthful as it is. Seems she wants me to speed this up. Get to the good part, as folks say. Now I've told you time and time again to leave my son alone. I've given you warnings, broken some bones, even arrested that raggedy Alpha you heathen lot flock to—that Rocky or somethin'. I've been kind, but I don't have to be. And I'm no longer going to be."



His beady eyes glared down at me, blood on his lips, finger slipping to the trigger. He had no idea that the only reason he was still alive was thanks to me spendin' the last year and a half healin' him in secret because his son was blackmailing me into it. And I to him, but that's a different story, honest.



"Any last words, boy?"



I thought of my gang the Dropouts, of Rocco and my sister, of Cal who was probably strugglin' to stay up so I could read him a bedtime story like I'd promised earlier in the week. I even thought about that dick Cinderella—Ashford Wells—being upset that I'd ruined his chances to get into big boy school like he wasn't goin' to get his ass kicked the moment he went to college.

I thought of them all—all the nice or snarky shit I could say—and all of it fell to the wayside of the one thought that had been rattlin' in my mind once Gordon had roped me into his cruiser: I can't believe I missed American Bandstand featuring The King for this shit.



Call me shallow if you want, but nobody beat The King.



I'd never heard a gunshot up close before.



A shotgun from ground zero sounded like a fuckin' canon.



For a moment there, I thought maybe I had died so quickly that I'd passed over the pain and the tunnel and gone straight for purgatory. I'm not gunna lie, I was a little miffed I hadn't gone to the Elysian Fields—I thought I'd been a pretty decent fella. Maybe no Mother Teresa, but still…



Gordon's laughing was what clued me in that I'd shut my eyes fearing the 

worst.



That and the way he pressed the hot barrel into my ribs.



"Stay away from David, O'Rourke. You hear?" He cocked the gun, empty shell rejecting, and pumped the barrel. "I want a response outta you, pup."



"I'll stay away." God, I wish I meant it. I'd love nothing more than to get out of this clusterfuck, but I couldn't. If I did Jojo would be— "I promise. I'll stay away! Please put the gun down!"



"Good boy!" The barrel of the gun was smoking as Sheriff Hurt laid it over his right shoulder, giving my hair a ruffle with his unoccupied hand. "That's a good dog!"



It was humiliating to treat a wolf like a dog—fighting words. I let Gordon do it because I feared what else he could do to me.



"Now, I'm just famished, boy," he whistled as he hit me a couple of times with the butt of his gun to drive the point home. I couldn't do much but lie there and take it. Thankful that I was still breathing air. "After we wrap this up, we'll get some Marty's on the way home. My treat!"



And we did get Marty's, and he did pay for the burger (even the fries) and he even talked about the final football game of the season coming up. Laughed like we were friends.



But I waited, scared, as his hands came up in my direction.



Unsure if it would be the carrot or the stick.














Kenny's POV
 
 
"Are you even paying attention, O'Rourke?"

I was—honest, hand to Goddess—but I was also still repeating the accounts of last night in my head like a skipped record. My mind kept looping back to the barrel of the gun before it slipped past my lips, and Gordon's Cheshire cat grin promising me a world of sadistic madness at his hands.

And then I had to sneak back in—hours later—to heal the horrible fuck while his son ate my ass to keep the awful rut away. By the time I came home, it was another round of minutes with the sandman, before Jaybird screeched at me and I rose, a total cadaver with all the fixings, to do another six hours of school.
All because Gordon's son wouldn't leave my ass alone, and I was too chicken shit to take the bus out of the city and go find an anonymous John to spend my ruts with.

David blackmailing me over Jojo's botched robbery and outing me paled to the ammo I had on him for being a knot-beater (the Sheriff's kid, into Alp

Chapter 10 : A Date with Cinderella