Howl 3

2. Business Now, Spanking Later

Who needs an alarm clock when you have a Stiles?

"You know how many vehicle collisions last year involved deer? 247,000." Stiles sits at the foot of my bed with his laptop on his lap, seemingly researching last night's event where the deer crashed through Lydia's car's windshield.

I'm still half-asleep, hardly even prepared for the info-vomit he so early dumps on me. I groan loudly at the interruption and call at the top of my lungs, "Daaaaad! Stiles is Stiles-ing again. Please, make him stop!"

A pair of footsteps thump down the hall before dad pokes his head into my room, audibly sighing at the sight of Stiles with his laptop seated at the foot of my bed. "Stiles, please, go to school."

My brother, however, hardly pays attention and just keeps word-vomits on, "But that's crossing the road. This one last night came right down the middle."

"I'm not gonna beg you," Dad says again.

"Okay, good. I'm impervious to your influence anyway."

"But not to the force of my left foot." With that, I raise my leg and deliver a firm kick to his upper back, successfully sending him falling off the bed with the laptop dropping on his head. The only thing I hear is a muffled groan before sending a smile to dad, who can only shake his head.

"Have kids, they said," he mutters as he leaves the room, "It will be fun, they said."

At least my kick was the push that Stiles needed to kickstart our first day of junior year. We arrived at school in time to see Scott park his new bike just a few parking spots away – next to two identical super bikes that left me almost drooling.

Damn, I want a bike. Or Derek's car. There's no in between for me.

The topic of discussion that morning was Scott's tattoo – or former tattoo as it healed right away after he got it last night. Stiles couldn't shup up about it on our way to school this morning. I can now officially say he 'hated it' in seven different languages. Apparently, it was only two bands our werewolf friend wanted tattooed on his left bicep, something that was supposed to be permanent.

I doubt I'd ever get a tattoo though. But it made me wonder if I had to get one, what would it be of.

"You wanna ask Derek for help?" Stiles frowns after Scott just blurted out his next genius plan to get a tattoo. "Why? Why?"

"He's got the triskele tattooed on his back. So there has to be a way to do it without healing, right?" Scott shrugs, sounding hopeful.

"Okay, yeah, but still, doesn't he have his hands a little full?" My brother looks toward me, "Doesn't he?"

It takes me a full two seconds to realize he's actually asking me a question. "Oh, you want an update on Derek's schedule? Hmm, let's see...search party for Boyd and Erica on Tuesday. Pack meeting with me and Isaac on Wednesday. Sparring lessons on Thursday. And taking his mate out on a date on Friday – a long overdue date might I add."

"And today?" Scott asks, still hinting about the tattoo.

I groan loudly. "Ask him yourself. I'm his mate, not his PA. Later, boys."

Both open their mouths to speak, but I'm already strutting down the hall toward Allison and Lydia, passing the principal's office and hearing Principal Thomas rage on about unsorted applications and whatever tragedy hit the library. Someone will need to fill him in about what has happened while Gerard sat in his chair.

Out of the corner of my eye, I even catch Principal Thomas lifting a silver sword from behind his desk and exclaiming, "And what the hell is this?!"

Suppressing a grin, I finally join the two girls at their lockers and catch Lydia in the act of ogling the new freshmen. Now, there are two ways one can cope with a breakup that involved Jackson Whittemore. One, swear off boys for at least a year. And two...jump right in on the rebound train and just rail every male being that smells of expensive cologne.