By then, he’d already formed a new band, and they’d made a name for themselves at local clubs who were eager to book them. The success wasn’t on the same level as he’d experienced years ago, but he liked the pace.
The Cole brothers had recently moved to a new house and were a tighter family than ever before. Austin might have been the youngest brother, but an alpha was born to lead and maturity came naturally to them. He made an exceptional Packmaster, and Jericho respected his ability to not only make sound decisions, but to be humble enough to take advice from his brothers. Austin believed in tough love, but sometimes that’s what it took to set someone straight. He looked after his pack above all else.
So things had been good. Real good.
But all Jericho could think about lately was Isabelle. She’d always had amazing legs, but it was that sexy hair he loved the most. Her faded freckles reminded him of long summers in California. Man, he loved the way they mirrored her innocent heart. Most girls who were born with those wholesome looks skanked it up, but Isabelle kept it classy. More than that, she’d grown to become a tempting balance of two halves. Confident and timid; angelic with the tongue of the devil; fierce and fragile—a woman who made him feel unworthy of her affection.
She was his past and present—his heaven and hell.
After letting his wolf out for a long afternoon run in the woods, Jericho put on his work clothes: jeans shredded above the knee, a studded belt, dark lace-up boots, and a black jacket. No shirt meant a kick-ass, unforgettable show. He slipped on a few thick rings and grabbed his necklace with a pendant in the shape of a razorblade. Jericho put his guitar in its case and swiped the keys from the nail in the wall above the letter J. He stuffed his gear in the back seat of the blue pickup truck. He didn’t have his own car, so he’d claimed the family truck that had once belonged to Austin.
It was after midnight, and Howlers was packed. He smirked when he saw that Jake had used two orange cones to reserve a spot for him up front.
Jericho ran over the cones and parked.
“Hey, man. Where ya been?”
He glanced at his bass player—a scrawny guy named Chaz with a black goatee and a bad reputation.#p#分页标题#e#
“Had to go for a run. You know how it is.”
“I hear that. You wanna do a few lines before the show?”
Jericho lifted his guitar and slammed the door. “You know I don’t touch that stuff.”
“Don’t act like a virgin to the white lady. I heard about your past.”
Jericho turned his sharp eyes to Chaz. “Who the hell told you that?”
Chaz sneered and picked up a small pebble, rolling it around in his hand. “Denver talks a lot when he’s drunk. Come on, I won’t tell anyone. It’ll take the edge off.”
Words Jericho had heard more times in his life than he cared to remember. Words that tantalized him in a way he hadn’t expected. He thought about how good it would feel to dull the pain and enjoy the show without having to watch Isabelle move around the bar while men leered at her.
God, how close he’d come earlier to kissing her at the house. Just being in close proximity and smelling her sweet skin, touching the smooth nape of her neck and watching her pupils dilate roused something primal in him. A feeling that had been dead since he’d last seen her.
Two men stumbled out the front door of Howlers, laughing and singing as they made their way across the parking lot.
“No thanks, man. Not my scene anymore. Take that shit somewhere else.”
Chaz leaned against the truck and stroked his goatee. “I forgot—you only do the pussy shit. You think you’re a real rock star, don’t you? Walkin’ around with your little dime bag of weed.”
Jericho tightened his fist, tempted to turn around and knock the shit out of him. Chaz always acted up before a show and then disappeared. The drugs tapered down his attitude and made it easier to work with him—that man had some serious issues he hadn’t learned to cope with.
“How about you get your ass onstage in five minutes?” Jericho bit out as he stormed up the steps and yanked open the main door.
The rock music blared, and on his way to the back of the room, he pointed at Denver. “We’re talking later,” he yelled, watching Denver wipe down the bar with a bewildered expression.
One of his groupies sauntered up in a white, strapless dress. Most wore the skintight ones, but not Trix. She liked easy access when he’d take her in the back room, or even behind the building. Trix was the kind of girl who had her sights on Jericho because of the slice of fame it gave her. The problem with a girl like Trix was that she had a tendency to crowd his space.