Paul growled deep in his throat, letting his eyes go from dark blue to wolf gold to add to the threat.
“You wouldn’t. You don’t hurt girls.” But the look in her poison-green eyes was uneasy and she finally removed her hand.
I don’t fuck them either. Of course, that wasn’t because he didn’t like females. He was just…picky. Very damn picky. “Run find Chulo to play with,” he told her. “I hear he doesn’t mind fucking you. Must have lower standards than me.” Chulo Chavez was under him in the pack structure—a beta who wanted to be alpha but couldn’t quite manage it. Still, he was Angel’s first cousin, which made his status higher than it would have been otherwise. Mercedes made an angry hissing noise almost like a cat. “Go ask Angel yourself why you’re leading the pack tonight. While you’re at it, ask him why he let a fucking faggot into the Locas in the first place.”
He should have slapped her for such an insult but she was right—he didn’t hit females no matter how much they deserved it. His stepmother, Lucia, had raised him with too much respect. “Go fuck yourself, Mercedes. Or have Chulo do it, if he’s not afraid you’ll chew off his pinga with your fucking pussy.”
Her eyes glowed in the moonlight. “Chinga tu madre, puto!”
“Yeah, I’d rather fuck my mom than you.” Paul gave her a snarl of disgust and some of the other wolves who had wandered over laughed. Mercedes looked like she was about to say something else but Paul had had enough of her shit for one night. He went looking for Angel himself.
After ten minutes of searching he found the leader of the Locas taking a piss against a palm tree. “Yo, mi hermano. ” He clapped the other man on the back. Angel’s arms and chest bulged with muscle just like Paul’s but his skin was much darker, making it harder to see the pack tats.
“Paul the Skull.” Angel took his time shaking off before tucking his uncut cock back into the baggy denim shorts he wore. If he noticed Paul’s eyes lingering on his crotch, he didn’t show it. When he finished he turned to bump chests and gave Paul a one-armed hug.
“What’s doing? That little bitch Mercedes came and told me you want me to take point tonight.”
“Yeah, sorry about that.” Angel shrugged apologetically. Keeping one arm around Paul’s shoulders, he dug in his pocket and pulled out a joint. “Want some?”
“Sure.” Paul let himself lean into the one-armed embrace just a little. Angel’s skin was warm against his side and he smelled of smoke and clean sweat. “So what are you doing that’s so fucking important you can’t run with the pack?”
The packleader stuck the joint between his lips and flipped open a heavy gold lighter. He fired it up and took a long drag before answering. “Family business—you know. My uncle Rafael is in town and wants to do a sit-down with me and my dad. So I have to run with the old farts tonight.” He made a face, the sweet-smelling smoke curling from his nostrils.
“Bad luck, man. You sure you don’t want me there to get your back? Could be trouble.” Angel’s uncle was the most powerful wolf in Cuba, which meant he trumped any were in South Florida status-wise as well.
“Nah, no trouble. Just the older generation trying to keep us crazy young lobos in line. But thanks anyway, man.” Angel gave his shoulder an affectionate squeeze and offered him the joint.
“As long as you’re sure.” Paul took a drag, feeling the warmth of the drug creep over him. Regular cannabis didn’t do much for weres but Angel had a supplier who had crossed it with some other plants to make a much stronger smoke. The hybrid would have been lethal to humans but it only gave wolves a pleasant buzz.
“Hey.” Angel looked at him seriously. “You know I’d tell you if there was trouble in the wind. How long have we been together, huh?”
Paul grinned. “Since fifth grade when Jimmy Rodriguez tried to take you down in gym class and I helped you kick his ass.”
Fifth grade had been the year when his father had decided his motorcycle business, the Chop Shop, would do better in Miami than Chicago. He’d moved them right into the middle of Little Havana where even the street signs were in Spanish and it had been sink or swim for Paul.
Back then he’d just been plain old Paul Kraskowski and he’d been drowning before he met Angel—before he helped him win the fight against the class bully. After that, Angel had taken him under his wing, taught him Spanish, helped him adjust. When they both came of age, he’d even wanted to sponsor Paul into the Locas. The other wolves wouldn’t stand for that though—not with Paul’s lack of Hispanic heritage. He’d been jumped-in instead—six of the toughest wolves beating the shit out of him until he was bloody and bruised and it had been worth it. Every cracked rib and black eye—he would have done it all again if he had to. For the Locas. For Angel.