And with Trey's history-after what his dad did-he'd be out of the pack in the blink of an eye if the cops ever pulled him in for anything at all.
Because I'm not one to just roll over, I call him on it.
Me: Why don't you tell me what's really up?
Trey: …
He doesn't answer for five minutes. Then:
Trey: Meet me at our table.
I know what table he means. The picnic table where we first made love. I grab my purse and head out, my heart thudding. I imagine all kinds of bad scenarios-Trey's already been caught by the cops and no one knows, they're being hunted by a dealer, someone's hurt.
I drive straight to our picnic table and find Trey already there. He's looking over the side of the mountain toward the city. The sunset casts pink and orange hues over the earth, reflects off the Saguaro needles, making them glow.
Trey doesn't turn around, which shoots another spike of fear through my chest.
I walk to stand beside him. "What's up?"
"Hey." He doesn't turn to look at me.
Goosebumps stand up on my arms. What in the hell could be so wrong?
"Trey, what's going on?" I demand.
His throat bobs in a swallow. "I think we should see other people."
Air comes out of my lungs in a choked laugh. Not that I think he's joking. Not at all. It's just so far from what I expected that my body chooses the wrong reaction.
"What are you talking about?" My voice cracks. I ball my hands up because they're shaking so hard I don't know what to do with them. I want to punch him, to push him down the hill. To make him take it back.
"Yeah. You're leaving at the end of the summer, so I just figure we should cut our losses early. I'm ready to play the field again."
"Play the field?" My brain can hardly compute his words-they are so out of character. Trey never was a play the field kind of guy to begin with. This makes no sense.
"Are you trying to make sure I go to Stanford?" I croak.
He turns, finally looking at me, and I swear I see nothing but pure agony in his gaze, but just like that, it disappears and his expression hardens. He shrugs. "You're going. I'm seeing other people. That's how this works."
I stumble back.
This isn't Trey talking.
Not the Trey I know.
Trey would never be so callous, so cruel.
"It's for the best, Sheridan."
I shove him. "Just tell me what this is about, Trey. Tell me."
Pain flickers over his expression. His lips tighten before he opens them to speak. "I'm letting you go." He flips his keys around his finger and walks to his motorcycle.
I run at him, shove him from behind. "You're fucking everything up!" Tears choke my voice, spill hot down my cheek.
He bows his head, barely turning his face toward me. "I know." His voice is so quiet, a human ear wouldn't hear the words. Before I can answer, he's on the bike and moving, away from me.
Away from us.
Away from everything I thought had meaning.
Present
SHERIDAN
"YOU OKAY?" Luka asks.
I set down the bottle with exaggerated gentleness even though I want to yell and scream and cry. It's amateur night at the club, and a bunch of biker cats surround the cage, yelling for or at one of their friends. Trey's nowhere to be seen. Since our meeting in the office, he's avoided me.
And even though I've spent the night peering into dark corners, looking for evidence of vampire/drug activity, I've seen nothing. Not even a flash of fang. I'm busting my hump pouring drinks and laughing at lame pickup lines, and I won't even have something to report to my pack. I need a t-shirt: I visited Shifter Fight Club and all I got was beer spilled on my corset dress.
"Fine." I smile a little when he pours me a shot. Luka's not a bad shifter bartender-a job that requires finesse and speed and a sense of shifter politics, particularly when dealing with drunken, fight-ready big cat bikers. But he really can't make change. He's desperate to keep me.
I usually don't drink on the job, but tonight's kicked me in the teeth, and this isn't my real job. I lift the glass to my lips and savor the burn.
Then I see who's standing at the bar and almost choke.
Nero, the leech, leans on the polished wood, silky blond hair falling in his face. "Hello again."
I slam the shot glass down, not worrying about whether it will break. I'm a she-wolf, and I feel safer showing strength.
"What's your poison?" I ask. "We don't have a ton of arsenic back here, but for you…"
"So impolite." The vamp shows his teeth. I stare at a point on his forehead, feigning boredom. Even I know not to look a leech in the eye. "And here I was going to give you a big tip."
"Save it," I mutter and start to turn away.
He pulls out a few bills and waves them in my direction. All of them Benjamins. Why would a vamp carry so much cash? He's in a nicely tailored suit and looks like he just came from a job downtown where the plaque on his office door reads 'Analyst,' but I doubt he got that stack shorting stocks. Is he here to deal?
I stop to ponder this, and he smirks, thinking he caught my attention with some green. "Hennessy Paradis."
I fight the urge to laugh. Who comes to a rundown shifter club and orders cognac? Only a vampire.
Instead I hand him a bottle of Wolf Ridge. A new IPA my company is calling 'Luna-tic.'