Five Weeks (Seven Series #3)(15)

“You mean Izzy, right? The name of your band. The name of the girl who left you overdosing in a hotel. You almost died,” Denver yelled, shoving Jericho in the chest. “You were lucky I only lived an hour away and they called me on time. It took me for-fucking-ever to get you to shift. You said some shit—”
“What shit?” Jericho demanded, shoving at Denver’s chest. “I don’t remember saying a damn thing.”
“No, because you’re Mr. Fucking Rockstar who can shoot up heroin and doesn’t need anyone. You were crying, Jericho. I went back to the hotel to find out what had happened. A maid said she went in to do housecleaning and found you facedown in your own vomit. That little redhead was digging in your back pocket and stealing money out of your wallet. She didn’t care if the maid saw her. She cleaned you out, stole your guitar, and left you there to die.”
Jericho shook his head. “You’re full of it. That’s not what happened.”
“You don’t even remember what happened. You’ve been living a lie. That girl is toxic, and I don’t want that poison seeping back into your life. Let her go. You’ll be lucky if Jake still wants you to come back after what you pulled tonight, but he’s not firing Izzy just because you two had a thing. So get your act together. I don’t like being the serious one around here. Life shouldn’t be that damn complicated,” he muttered, kicking up a clump of dirt and heading back to the bar.
Denver was about as laid-back as they came. Jericho loved a good party, but Denver was the life of the party. It’s why he excelled at bartending; he was a born people person and knew how to make anyone smile. So Jericho didn’t like the serious turn this topic had taken. He respected his pack and didn’t want to break that bond. Family wasn’t about blood but who had your back. His brothers always had his back and vice versa. So they had learned to get over the petty shit and stay tight. He decided this wasn’t worth fighting over.
Jericho lit up a cigarette and pinched it between his thumb and index finger, watching the smoke haze across his view of the quarter moon. He decided to shake it off and get his ass back onstage. Jericho had never been a quitter.
But for the first time in his life, he felt like quitting something.
Isabelle.
No woman had ever made him feel so alive and capable of doing anything. She had seen the potential in him and pushed him into singing. Then one night she disappeared without a trace. All these years later, he thought some terrible fate had befallen Isabelle. Had he known she’d picked his pockets, stolen his guitar, and left him overdosing, he would have buried those sentimental feelings about her years ago.
It was time to get out the proverbial shovel and bury those feelings once and for all.
 

Chapter 4
Waking up in a strange bed is disorienting enough, but nothing quite tops waking up naked in a vegetable garden.
I bolted upright and wiped the dirt from my face, alert and soaking in my surroundings. I was lying in a tomato patch on the side of a house near an open gate. My wolf had dug up the dirt so that it made a soft bed to sleep on. Even worse was that I’d been snuggling with a rubber snake, no doubt placed there to scare away the birds.
“Oh hell’s bells, Izzy,” I muttered under my breath, staring at the tall wooden fence beside me.
The last thing I remembered was playing carnival ride on Handlebars. Now I had dirt in places that would require a carwash to get clean. My wolf was a dirt roller and would take a patch of Texas clay over a roll in the grass anytime. I hated her for it, and after this fiasco, we weren’t going to be on good terms.
It was predawn and I needed to get my rear in gear before the lawn-mowing husbands came out in their black socks and sandals. I scurried to a small shed and peered inside. Unfortunately I didn’t find a full wardrobe, or at the very least, gardening attire.
I used my long hair to cover my breasts, flattening it out strategically. Beside the shed door sat a large paper sack overflowing with empty plant containers. I turned it upside down, tore a hole in the bottom, stepped inside, and slowly shimmied the bag up my legs.
“Please God, I’ll never eat another donut again,” I whispered, praying it would fit. Once I had the bag in place, I ran.
Ran like a bride to the altar.
“Oh my God, oh my God,” I sang, hurrying up the sidewalk. My hair blew away from my shoulders and I stopped, concealing my breasts again. It was the only time I’d ever been thankful for a modest cup size. I glanced at a familiar street sign and headed north. The bag made ripping noises that scared me enough to shorten my steps. Sunrise continued to push its way to the horizon, ready to give birth to a new day.