Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 91622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Time stretched, and he made sure to leave lots of food for Trev, especially of the beige paste served with bread, but eating alone wasn’t what he’d come here for.
For a moment, he’d considered following his future mate to the restroom to check if he was all right, but Shane appeared by his table, stunning Jag into a stupor.
“What happened? I just saw him leave the parking lot,” Shane said, pointing his thumb over the shoulder.
Jag’s heart stopped beating, but then pounded with a newfound fury. “What?” He got to his feet so fast his chair fell over with a loud clatter. “Fuck! He went to the restroom—No. Have I missed a cue? Should I have followed him?”
Shane exhaled and sat in Trev’s chair. “No. Maybe he just… just decided it wasn’t meant to be and all that. Fuck do I know?” he muttered, picking up a piece of bread and dipping it into the thick paste.
Jag saw red. He grabbed the edge of the table and toppled it to the side with a roar. “It’s not for you! This was for my mate!”
Dishes broke with a clatter and all the food spilled to the floor like a visual representation of Jag’s crushed hopes. The cutlery still vibrated against the tiles when several people in aprons approached him with angry expressions.
“Sir, you need to leave,” the oldest of the group said in a stern voice.
But they weren’t the only ones staring. Dozens of gazes poked at Jag from the other tables, as if he’d just thrown away a good piece of meat. Sweat beaded under the uncomfortable clothes, prompting the need to reach for his weapon, in case one of the staff decided to attack him. But Shane rose from the chair, all wet at the front where water spilled over him, and he pulled out his wallet.
“I’m sorry. He’s drunk.”
Jag huffed and walked off, because he had no reason to fight these people, especially not on their turf where they knew all the exits and any quirks of the furniture. He burst into the street, back into the endless stream of bodies.
But even the fresh air couldn’t help with the pressure in his chest. Shane came out right after him and squeezed his hand on Jag’s arm, as if he felt restraints were needed.
Jag screamed out before Shane could have started to berate him. “I did nothing wrong! I would have been good to him!”
“Get a grip! Look what you did to my new shirt,” Shane growled, peeling the damp fabric from his chest. “It’s a gift from Ros. And why waste all that food over some guy? Most dates don’t work out, and you have to be ready for it,” he said, dragging Jag into the parking lot.
“It makes no sense! This isn’t how you find a mate. I’m a hunter, not some peacock. This place offered no way for me to impress him!” Jag waved in the general direction of the restaurant, fueled by frustration.
Shane growled but let him go, storming toward the car. “Well, then look for men on your own. I wonder how that’s gonna work for you!”
“Surely better than what happened with Trev! I barely touched him. I don’t even know if he got to smell me! Where’s the chase in all this?”
Shane shook his head. “Go chase random men in the street. I’m giving it a week till you end up in jail.”
Jag growled helplessly and entered the car. “Just take me home.”
Shane had the mercy not to continue this conversation and just started the car while Jag sat on the floor between the back and front seats, struggling to control the emotions buzzing inside him like a storm. Trav didn’t even have the decency of rejecting Jag to his face and had instead fled like a coward! Still, being rejected by such an unworthy man hurt so much he wished he hadn’t gotten his hopes up in the first place.
***
Shane made several attempts to discuss the disastrous evening, but when it became clear that he’d continue blaming Jag and his lack of social adjustment, Jag stopped responding to him altogether.
Someone with hands as soft as Trav’s couldn’t hunt down his own meal. The guy probably wouldn’t have survived a single night outside come winter, so who was the ill-adjusted one?
Jag only stayed in the car until they reached Frank’s house in the middle of the junkyard, because that was where he’d left his normal clothes.
When they arrived, Frank was lazily smoking a cigarette on his porch. He was a brawny silhouette in the light from the house, but Jag could sense something was off in the stiff way he approached them as soon as Shane parked.
Out of all his friends, Jag respected Frank most. He was the oldest, the biggest, and the owner of the land, but most of all, he’d saved Jag’s life. Jag barely remembered the day Frank had found him in the woods four years back, because he’d been injured and dehydrated. And even though Frank could have considered him an intruder and put him down, instead, he’d nursed Jag to health and let him stay. Jag would never forget Frank’s kindness and vowed to help him out in whatever capacity was needed.