“Juno, I have to get off the phone. My dad has lost his mind.”
“Okay, call me back when you’re done. I want to hear what he says.”
“Pest.”
“I love you love you love you love—”
Remington hung up and typed out a response to her father. Dad, you know your opinion means the world to me, but this isn’t what I should do. I just need some time. Send.
You need your roots. You do what you want. You always did. I was always proud. You are tough. My tough girl. Always my tough girl. But you need to breathe. Baby Bear. Go there. Find air. Just breathe.
Remington’s eyes filled with tears. He was right. She hadn’t been able to draw a deep breath since she moved to Sacramento, and her father was a seer. He saw things beyond this world.
So…okay.
If Beaston Novak was telling her she needed to do something…
She had no choice but to listen.
Chapter Two
Kamp was going to kill him. That’s all there was to it. He was going to kill his crewmate, Rhett, and be done with his miserable carcass.
He grabbed the tools out from under the seat of the firewood processing machine and hopped out of the cab where his old work boots sunk an inch into the mud.
He was going to kill Rhett, and then he was going to kill his good-for-nothing Alpha and be a free man to just live out his days in the mountains, not talking to anyone.
Everyone was awful. He hated everything.
Why? Because it was forty freakin’ degrees outside, and he’d asked Rhett to do one thing—change out the splitter on the firewood processing machine because the blades were dull. And what had he done? Nothing! As usual.
So he was going to take this splitter and shove it up Rhett’s ass. God, he hoped he Changed. He truly hoped he did. He’d wanted to fight that sniveling little weasel shit since he’d come out here three months ago.
His radio was blaring “Eye of the Tiger,” but he hadn’t bothered to turn it off. He could use the soundtrack for his building rage. He’d had it! Had. It. Three freaking months he’d been asking Rhett to do simple tasks that he could manage way faster than Kamp could. Kamp had the older machine, and lucky fuckin’ dog Rhett had the new machine that never needed work. But Kamp was doing the job of three people. Why? Because his damn Alpha sucked at managing a Crew.
And speak of the devil himself… As Kamp stomped toward the temporary trailer park they’d set up, who other than Grim should be there with his chainsaw, ripping the cord?
He looked over at him with narrowed eyes and snarled up his lip. Why? Who the fuck knew! And since he didn’t bother to ask what was wrong because he didn’t care, Kamp yelled out, “Rhett can’t do one fuckin’ thing I ask him!” and held up the dull splitter.
Without a word, Grim slid his attention back to the massive tree he was about to chainsaw down and went to work. Typical. Grim was hands down the worst Alpha in existence, and here Kamp was, stuck with the worst Crew, none of whom he could stand.
“Way to care!” he yelled over the roaring of the chainsaw.
He’d handle Rhett his damn self, just like he always did. Maybe he should’ve been Alpha of this stupid Crew. But nope, nope, that sounded like Hell. He didn’t want to lead a Crew, which is why this stuff pissed him off so bad. Grim should’ve put Rhett in his place and brought him into line immediately, but the Alpha of this Crew was totally checked out. Kamp freaking hated both of them. Hated being here, hated everything.
“Hey, asshole!” Kamp yelled at Rhett’s trailer where he was probably still asleep. “You’re fired!”
And then he chucked the huge blade through the wall of Rhett’s mobile home.
Chapter Three
“Oh, good gravy,” Remi said as she kicked off a bramble bush that had clutched onto her ankle like it was trying to escape quicksand.
So far, she was horrifically unimpressed with the set-up of this place. First off, GPS hadn’t even been able to find the dang address for the trailer park and with the declaration of “You have arrived” had dumped her in a field that apparently doubled as a parking lot.
Arrived where? The wilderness? She was way up in the mountains, and town was a good fifteen minutes away. Though it reminded her of where she’d grown up in Damon’s Mountains, the dilapidated sign with an arrow pointing at the ground that said Thisa way was about as helpful as a broom with no bristles. After relieving herself of the desperate bramble, she stumbled and tromped up to that sign, pointed straight down at the toes of her shoes. She wiggled the sign to see if it settled easy to direct her to the left trail leading up or the right trail leading down the mountain, but it didn’t budge. Apparently, she was supposed to disappear into the ground like she was freaking Alice, and this was mother-freaking Wonderland.
Okay, she could figure this out. There were two trucks parked in the field and a Bronco parked by the trees as far away from the other two as possible. They looked well taken care of, not rusted out, so these were probably the Crews’ rigs. Inhaling deeply, Remington searched for any fresh shifter scent, but found none. Just pine and sap and earth. Which meant these boys were homebodies and probably hadn’t went to town in a while.
She couldn’t find a place more opposite of the city if she tried. A wave of homesickness took her. Not for her apartment, but for Kagan. Weak, weak, weak. He didn’t want her, and she was still pining over him.
Gah, she wished her brother, Weston, was here. He would have the trailer park figured out in no time. He was an amazing tracker.
“Eeny meeny, miney, mo,” she murmured, pointing between the two trails. Both were overgrown but worn. “Up it is.” Talking to herself made her feel a little better. She wasn’t used to the quiet of the woods yet. It was familiar, like the mountains she grew up in, but she’d been in the city for years. Inside her, the animal was quiet. The restlessness had seeped from her bones with every mile she’d driven into these woods. She still couldn’t draw a deep breath, but her neck and shoulders didn’t ache as much from the constant tension she carried in them.
But if she was honest with herself, she still wouldn’t be here lurking around some strange and unfamiliar woods if Dad hadn’t told her to.
Five minutes of hiking uphill later, and she came to a level clearing. Four singlewide mobile homes were lined up. They were small, but looked newer, each with a front porch off the front doors that she faced. The porches had just enough room for a rocking chair. Or a cheap bag chair, like the closest one to her had. There were three discarded blue Bud Light beer cans on that one, too. Slob.
The camp was quiet, but in the distance, she could hear the rumble of a chainsaw and some big machine. A log cutter of some sort, and whoever was driving was playing “Eye of the Tiger” on full volume. She couldn’t help the smile that crept to her face. This place sort of felt like Damon’s Mountains, with the evergreens and rivers and mountains and rowdy boys. She could tell they’d be rowdy from the pair of four-wheelers parked under an awning with a bunch of tools scattered about, as though someone was refurbishing them. By the empty whiskey bottles by the front wheel of the big charcoal-colored one. By the game of Cornhole and horseshoes set up off to the side. Again with discarded booze bottles. Slobs and drunks from the looks of it.
“Juno, what have you gotten me into?” she murmured under her breath as she approached the first trailer, feeling a bit like Goldilocks and the Three Bears. This trailer had new pink rose bushes in front and a white plastic lawn chair right in the middle of the landscaping. Weird, but okay. As she passed the porch with the discarded beer cans, the house number next was 1007. Remi frowned and dragged her attention to the next house number. 1008.
Couldn’t be.
Chills rippled up her arms, and the hair on the back of her neck lifted.
Couldn’t.
Be.
Breath shallow, she made her way past the pristine white trailer next. There was no chair on the front porch, no landscaping, but there was a garden gnome wearing sunglasses with his middle finger up and a welcome mat that read Fuck Off. Quaint.
The next mobile home appeared to be empty. The single front window was open, and there was nothing on the porch, not even a mat to scrape off muddy boots. There was no skirt around this trailer so she could see the cinderblocks it rested on, as if it had just been brought in recently. 1009.
