Pack or Prey (Wolfblooded book 1)

Chapter 5, Part 2

August 20th 2010 7:49 p.m.

"You gotta be fucking kidding me. This is a joke, right?" I said as I stared at the man behind the counter.

He didn't so much as look up from his tabloid. His face remained unmoved at my outburst; that bored indifference that said he'd heard this all before and often. Ten dollars for two packs of Pall Mall Red 100s. It was highway robbery.

I grudgingly shoved my hand into my hip pocket. With the price of cigs getting steadily higher, I was almost ready to quit. Just not yet. I drank, but it wasn't an everyday thing. I've neverdone drugs. Hell, I didn’t even play the lottery. My vice was tobacco. Someday I'd quit, but not today. Today, I'd shell out more of my hard-won money for something that would eventually kill me.

My fingers pinched the bill and started to pull the money out when the sudden growl of an engine erupted outside. I jumped, spilling change all over the floor. Damn him. As if I wasn't nervous enough about tonight, and what he was going to show me, he had to go and be a dick.

I glanced over to the large wall of windows and watched as Frank threw his arms out in a gesture of his impatience. I replied with a gesture of my own before slamming the twenty on the counter. Okay, it wasn't the most mature response. So sue me. My tolerance for him and his bullshit attitude was wearing thin. Normally, riding was something to lift my spirits and put me at ease, but tonight I couldn't lose myself in the ride. There was just too much to escape from.

I turned to look at the clerk, leaving Frank to stew in his irritation, and drummed my nails across the counter. He was, of course, taking his sweet time counting from the cash drawer. A slew of insults built up inside of me, bubbling and boiling, ready to erupt out of my mouth like a volcano, but I managed to keep it semi-civil.

"Do you know how to count American money, or what? Give me my fucking change already." Okay, not so civil.

At least I hadn't called him a towel head, or spit out some random jumble of make-shift Arabian, or some other repulsive behavior some of the guys we rode with would do. Not that it had made what I said any better. I felt like shit, and hated that my mood had turned me into the worst type of bitch.

It made it worse when I thought about my family. While I could pull off being just another white-bred female, I knew there was something more ethnic in my blood. Something native and darker-skinned peeked out in ghostly traces on my features, hidden behind more prominent white attributes. High cheekbones disguised by extra full cheeks, a slight slant of eyes overshadowed by gunmetal blue irises. Unlike my sister, Lorelei, who was graced with the statuesque beauty of our Shoshone blood, I looked like just another white girl.

I wasn't being a bitch to this guy because he was different than me. He just happened to be convenient. He was there, and for that fact alone, he bore the brunt of my irritation at Frank.

The clerk handed me back my change, and the look in his eyes showed me every bit of contempt he was feeling towards me. I could pretend it was because I was a woman, or because I was a westerner, but I knew it was simply because I had been rude to him. Simple as that. I didn't blame him, really. Did my bad mood excuse me from being an ass to a total stranger? It didn't, and I knew it. If only that had been enough to stop my mouth.

I snatched the cigarettes up and bolted towards the door, beckoned by another roar of the Softail outside. The night greeted me with an assault of stale, hot air. Texas in August. Gotta love it. Even the nights made me want to grab a cold glass of lemonade or a chilled beer in a nice frosty mug. I liked the heat and all—it was better than snow and ice—but there was a point where there really was too much of a good thing. Add in Frank's heater-like body temperature pressing against my skin when we touched, and the Texas summer heat could kiss my ass.