Chapter I
Kamra
Okay, so maybe agreeing to a gig at a dive biker bar in the middle of nowhere wasn’t one of the band’s brightest moves. But the gig pays a hell of a lot of money and hey, a gig is a gig. The amount offered astonished all of us in the band, until we actually step on stage. The place is small, but packed, worn down, well past its better days, but clean.
It’s the crowd that gives me the first prickling of warning. We’ve dealt with biker types, frat boy douche bags—every idiot crowd you can imagine. I am not prepared for wolves disguised as bikers. They stand about expectantly, all in jeans and leather. Long hair abounds, and each and every face looks like they could kill a man without blinking. But that’s where any familiarity to any biker I’ve ever seen stopped.
These wolves are HAWT ! Like male supermodel hot. Which is weird for werewolves. In my experience, werewolves are a mangy bunch, and generally monotonous. These guys come in every color of the human rainbow, which makes very little sense. Due to their cliquish nature, wolves tend to be one thing or another as a whole. Not saying they’re all prejudiced, just more likely to hang with their own kind. Not so here. As a great admirer of smokin ’ hot members of the opposite sex, I like the view. Tremendously. I just don’t trust it. For one thing, they’re way too clean. I know it’s a gross stereotype, and I of all people eschew stereotypes. However, if the shoe fits. Werewolves generally don’t look better than movie stars who are only pretending to be from the wrong side of the tracks.
Our band has been on the road since I was seventeen, ten long years ago. It’s just been me, Bear on drums, Chas on guitar, Chucky the bass player, BB, who is an organ/keyboard genius, and Ross, our one and only roadie for so long we have become family, not just band members. Really, we became family first, deciding to capitalize on our “gifts and abilities” to keep us financially stable. We’ve played every kind of venue imaginable, from opening for big-time groups to county fairs, clubs, and dive bars a lot like this one, only a hell of a lot dirtier and rowdier.
Never once have I come across an audience like this one. They haven’t moved since we stepped on stage. Really strange for werewolves. The place has grown eerily quiet, some twenty-plus pairs of eyes trained on the stage. It’s all kinds of creepy. I’ve got a really bad feeling about this group. Especially seeing as how I seem to be the only female around.
Okaaaaaay . Best get this over with.
“‘Long Hard Road,’” I mutter to the guys, signaling what will be our opening song.
I usually wait to check out the crowd before I choose a song. In this case I decided on the slow, bluesy, Southern rock song seeing as how the crowd is being all solemn and shit. This particular song I usually save for the end of the third and final set of the night, but there is no way in hell there will be even a second set tonight. These guys are giving me a beyond-funky vibe. It’s too late to bag out at this point, but I’ll be damned if I am going to stick around after the first ten songs. Most of the guys will have to stay behind to pack up our gear, which sucks. I’m probably condemning everyone not going with me to a major beat down when I sneak out, but every member of this band knows the deal. We have a sacred pack; if I, the only female member of the band, am ever in danger, most of them will stall, and one will help me get ghost.
Well-washed werewolves who are currently staring at me as if I’m something between a choice piece of steak and a deity of some sort signals all kinds of danger. I’m not the kind of girl into wolf bites—these guys look hungry. The only reason I’m staying on the stage is because to run outright from a wolf is inviting a chase. I may be fast, but not fast enough to outrun mangy dogs. Well, in this case, not-so-mangy dogs.
Such is life on the
Kamra
Okay, so maybe agreeing to a gig at a dive biker bar in the middle of nowhere wasn’t one of the band’s brightest moves. But the gig pays a hell of a lot of money and hey, a gig is a gig. The amount offered astonished all of us in the band, until we actually step on stage. The place is small, but packed, worn down, well past its better days, but clean.
It’s the crowd that gives me the first prickling of warning. We’ve dealt with biker types, frat boy douche bags—every idiot crowd you can imagine. I am not prepared for wolves disguised as bikers. They stand about expectantly, all in jeans and leather. Long hair abounds, and each and every face looks like they could kill a man without blinking. But that’s where any familiarity to any biker I’ve ever seen stopped.
These wolves are HAWT ! Like male supermodel hot. Which is weird for werewolves. In my experience, werewolves are a mangy bunch, and generally monotonous. These guys come in every color of the human rainbow, which makes very little sense. Due to their cliquish nature, wolves tend to be one thing or another as a whole. Not saying they’re all prejudiced, just more likely to hang with their own kind. Not so here. As a great admirer of smokin ’ hot members of the opposite sex, I like the view. Tremendously. I just don’t trust it. For one thing, they’re way too clean. I know it’s a gross stereotype, and I of all people eschew stereotypes. However, if the shoe fits. Werewolves generally don’t look better than movie stars who are only pretending to be from the wrong side of the tracks.
Our band has been on the road since I was seventeen, ten long years ago. It’s just been me, Bear on drums, Chas on guitar, Chucky the bass player, BB, who is an organ/keyboard genius, and Ross, our one and only roadie for so long we have become family, not just band members. Really, we became family first, deciding to capitalize on our “gifts and abilities” to keep us financially stable. We’ve played every kind of venue imaginable, from opening for big-time groups to county fairs, clubs, and dive bars a lot like this one, only a hell of a lot dirtier and rowdier.
Never once have I come across an audience like this one. They haven’t moved since we stepped on stage. Really strange for werewolves. The place has grown eerily quiet, some twenty-plus pairs of eyes trained on the stage. It’s all kinds of creepy. I’ve got a really bad feeling about this group. Especially seeing as how I seem to be the only female around.
Okaaaaaay . Best get this over with.
“‘Long Hard Road,’” I mutter to the guys, signaling what will be our opening song.
I usually wait to check out the crowd before I choose a song. In this case I decided on the slow, bluesy, Southern rock song seeing as how the crowd is being all solemn and shit. This particular song I usually save for the end of the third and final set of the night, but there is no way in hell there will be even a second set tonight. These guys are giving me a beyond-funky vibe. It’s too late to bag out at this point, but I’ll be damned if I am going to stick around after the first ten songs. Most of the guys will have to stay behind to pack up our gear, which sucks. I’m probably condemning everyone not going with me to a major beat down when I sneak out, but every member of this band knows the deal. We have a sacred pack; if I, the only female member of the band, am ever in danger, most of them will stall, and one will help me get ghost.
Well-washed werewolves who are currently staring at me as if I’m something between a choice piece of steak and a deity of some sort signals all kinds of danger. I’m not the kind of girl into wolf bites—these guys look hungry. The only reason I’m staying on the stage is because to run outright from a wolf is inviting a chase. I may be fast, but not fast enough to outrun mangy dogs. Well, in this case, not-so-mangy dogs.
Such is life on the
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