Sugar Coated

1

Three Months Ago

Delaney Linwood

'Manufacturing Knowledge Needed' was all the craigslist ad said. Nothing else. There wasn't even an address. I'd had to message the creator of the ad to get that. Short, sweet, and to the point. They'd sent me an address and a time. Tuesday. Today. Specifically at 2 PM. 

Nothing quite like a creepy Craigslist ad as a front for a serial killer. 

It was a good thing I never quite had common sense.

At the very least I would have missed out on a trip to my favorite place in the whole damn city.

Sugar Coated sat in sugary pastels on Beach Drive down near the Vinoy. It served ice cream, pastries, and above all else looks. 

It was run by the Sinclair Pack and you could always catch at least one of them manning the parlor. If you were lucky you could spot two. If you were extremely lucky, maybe all three. 

I cut my eyes to Jackson, where he leaned against the counter, all golden angel curls in a halo around the sweetest face the gods could have dreamt of for man. He passed some kind of float to the woman in front of him, spinning it with only the tips of his fingers until the straw faced her. In the pastels of the ice cream parlor, I'd have told you he had RBF —resting babyface. His lips always turned up slightly at the corners, flirting with a playful temptation.

The pack beta, Andres, stood behind him, cleaning a tall milkshake glass. I'd have told you he looked like a tall glass if he didn't look so much like a snake —in the most flattering way, with sharp devious angles and eyes that always hinted at some secret joke only he was in on. He had a jaw sharp enough to bleed a woman dry and a half-smile that rarely made an appearance at all, but when it did, it was the knife you'd carve yourself apart with.

I searched the nearby booths through the glass front of the restaurant as I walked to the door, looking for bubbly Emil, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Only lucky tonight, not extremely.

***

Jackson Sinclair

Darla dragged the milkshake closer to where she leaned heavily against the bartop counter. "I've said it once and I'll say it again, Jackson. You make the best milkshakes here. I just can't suck them down fast enough," she batted her long eyelashes at me and I smiled at the compliment and glimpse of her tongue that shot out to wet her lips. 

I could feel Andres' amusement through our bond and I only just stopped myself from glancing his way, to where he stood taking orders from a group of tittering young girls, too shy to come up to the counter. We'd amassed a reputation here in my humble territory.

And it brought amazing business. 

"Only the best for my favorite customers," I winked just as the bell above the shop door chimed, drawing my attention away before Darla could pull me into a deeper conversation. 

A pack of girls came in; fresh smiles and bright eyes. They clustered in a group a few steps back from the counter, which told me they'd probably never been here before. Tourists most likely, come to check out the shop. I watched their attention flicker first to me --not the menu written in chalk above my head-- and next to Andres, before searching the rest of the shop. 

No Em today. He was up in his nest about ready to send us all into an absolute frenzy with the way he smelled. He tweaked the bond between us, one hint annoyance and the other desperation. He wanted attention, something to take his mind off the oncoming heat that was probably only a week away. For the sake of the whole pack's sanity, he'd been put on closing shift duty with Andres when there were fewer customers to cause a problem.