Now Nick laughed. "Okay. Well, I think we can declare the fine art of phone pranks has officially died out. That makes no sense."
"Unless I had a puppy."
"Do you want a puppy?"
"No, but I'll take a drink."
He smiled. "I have a feeling that'll cheer you up better than a puppy. And that looks like a pub right there. Shall we?"
"Please."
Alpha of the American Pack. The only female werewolf in the world, ascending to arguably the highest position in our world. Sounds impressive. The truth? It's like getting elected town sheriff because no one else wants the damn job. And like taking it--not because you've always dreamed of being sheriff--but because, well, someone has to.
I like being Alpha. There are days--hell, even weeks sometimes--where I feel like I've found my place. Like I'm blessed with a damned-near perfect life. I'm forty-three, fit and healthy. I'm crazy about my mate, even when he drives me crazy. Same goes for my eight-year-old twins. I have great friends and an incredible Pack. And, of course. . . . Alpha.
I can say there were no other contenders, but the others would argue that they didn't want the job because they knew it was mine, that Jeremy had been grooming me since I got my shit together and recommitted to the Pack thirteen years ago. The only other possibility had been Clay, who really didn't want the job.
While he'd never admit it, I think Clay removed himself from the running so Jeremy didn't have to make a very tough choice. Clay is perfect twentieth-century Alpha material. He's the best fighter in the country--remorseless and relentless. Also brilliant. But that doesn't fly in the twenty-first century, when Alphahood is more about politics than pugilism. Jeremy says he'd have given me the position anyway, but I'm not sure he could have done that to his foster son. I suspect it would have been a joint ascension--an Alpha pair, like in a real wolf pack.
Sometimes I wish he'd actually done that. Made us both Alpha. Because to most of the world, I'm a figurehead, placed in a false position of power to appease those werewolves who'd freak out if "that American psycho" got the job. We've spent three years unsuccessfully trying to convince the world Clay isn't the real Alpha, and the situation has gone from damned annoying to downright dangerous.
We've made enemies of the Australian Pack, which is a lot scarier than one might expect. It started by us defending our own young Australian member--whose only crime seemed to be his very existence-- and had somehow escalated into warmongering. The Australians wanted our territory, and they used me to gain allies, saying that even pretending to have a woman in charge proved the American Pack was weak.
The Australians have amassed an army of allies from smaller Packs, mostly third-world and developing countries who'd love a piece of the American dream. On our side, we had the Russian Pack. That's it. Other Packs--French, German, Italian--support us in theory, but in practice, if we're invaded, their troops are staying home and cheering us on from the sidelines.
The biggest problem is the Brits. They're a big Pack and they're spoiling for a fight, and they haven't y
et decided whose side they'd take. Parker has said there is a way to secure his help. Just let him deal with the real Alpha: Clay. And if my leadership isn't a ruse, then I should make Clay the Alpha and step the hell down. I don't dare tell him what I think of that suggestion, so all I can do is show up here without Clay in tow and try to prove I'm the real deal. So far, I'm failing miserably.
Noon the next day. Back in a meeting with Parker and struggling to hold my temper.
"I want Marsten," Parker said. "Antonio Sorrentino has a better reputation as a fighter, but he's old." Beside me, Nick stiffened at the insult to his father. Parker smirked. Lord Asshole indeed.
"Karl Marsten has a wife and three-year-old daughter. He's not moving to California for the school year."
"Are you saying you can't make him? That you would allow a Pack member to claim family responsibilities and ignore a direct order?"
That barb hit home. Of all my Pack, Marsten was the only one not completely under my control. I can boss him around better than Jeremy could, but if I was to order him to California for eight months? I'd fail.
"I could send Morgan Walsh for a month, to help Kevin get settled in."
"Who?" Parker's face screwed up. "Oh, yes. The Canadian." He added a derisive twist to the word, knowing full well where my own passport came from. "He's a nobody. I want someone with a reputation."
"Reese, then."
Parker sputtered. "Send my son to school with the Aussie brat at the center of this whole crisis? Not unless I want him to major in rape."
I struggled to keep my tone steady. "Reese was seduced by the Alpha's mate when they were in college together, because she wanted to secure her position by handing over Reese's parents. Which she did. And the Australian Pack slaughtered them."
"So Reese says. You believe him because he's a confused young wolf and you're a mother. It makes you susceptible."
"Excuse me? If I had absolutely any doubt--"
Nick's hand tightened on my leg. I had to calm down, and what made that even harder was knowing that if Clay was here, he'd go for Parker's throat--figuratively and perhaps even literally. And Parker would respect him for that. If Clay snarled and raged, he was a proper werewolf. If I did, I was a hysterical woman.
"You can have Morgan or Reese for two months," I said. "Or you can have Karl for one. Your choice."
"Karl for the entire school year. September to May." He smiled, showing his teeth. "Of course, he'll get the holidays off, to visit his family."