Page 2 of Jack Rabbit (Dark Trails #1)

2

JACK

I diot left his tablet behind. I ponder what to do with it, my hands on my hips. The nature center has a lost-and-found, but I have a hunch he’ll be back to retrieve it tonight.

I’ve noticed him before. He’s usually here on weekdays when it’s not crowded because most people are at work. Judging from the oversized, fancy coffee he’s almost always holding, I assume he’s a rich snot whose parents are subsidizing his lifestyle.

His dark-blond hair just brushes the collar of his T-shirt. Emo-looking bangs flop into his eyes. Blue eyes. It pisses me off that my brain has cataloged that detail.

Because I’m just doing my job. Whenever I see his slender figure loping through the parking lot or studying the bulletin board by the main trailhead, cheeks hollowing when he sucks on the straw of his drink, I keep my eye on him.

People drop those damn plastic cups all over the place. Just because he carefully puts his in the trash every time I’ve seen him, I can’t be too careful. While I relish any opportunity to give litterbugs a rash of shit when I catch them, I know it would be especially satisfying to tear this punk a new one.

I inspect his device a little more closely. Yeah, this is a top-of-the-line tablet. Spoiled rich brat for sure. I don’t get along with guys like that, and I sure as shit don’t get close to them. The last time I did, it damn near cost me everything.

I sit on top of the picnic table to wait with a sigh of annoyance. After a few minutes, my curiosity gets the better of me. What was he watching that got him so wound up he couldn’t wait to get home to rub one out?

When I open it up, I’m surprised to see the app on the screen is for an e-reader. I figured it would be a porn feed. Jesus Christ — what the hell was this kid reading?

Skimming through the pages, I snicker as I realize I’m reading about a pack of gay werewolves who are apparently all hot for each other. And in a motorcycle gang together. Oh, and somehow in the mafia, too, I think? I can’t really tell how many of them there are because their names are all annoyingly alike: Janthony, Jario, Jorenzo… Seriously?

I roll my eyes. “You shitting me?” I mutter. The dumb bunny has painfully terrible taste in whack-off material. That thought makes me realize that I don’t know his name. I could probably find it in the settings. But I don’t really need to know, nor do I care.

My gaze lingers over some of the sex scenes — just because I can see where he highlighted phrases and passages. Lots and lots of descriptions of fucking with knotting — as in, I guess werewolves’ dicks retain that canid feature even when they’re in human form?

It’s a little confusing and I want to mock it, but as I scroll through his reading list and highlights, there’s one not-at-all-funny thing that stands out clear as day: The little perv with the pretty blue eyes, bratty smirk and lithe limbs apparently likes stories about getting plowed by big, hairy guys with thick cocks. I know that doesn’t necessarily mean anything, but still. It makes for a very interesting development in tonight’s entirely unexpected turn of events, given that I am one of those. And I have one of those, which chasing him riled up. I’m embarrassed that he felt my hard-on when he was trying to squirm away from me, but judging from the tent in his pants, the whole experience did something to him, too.

So I’m going to wait here for him. Assuming my hunch is right that he’ll come back for his electronic spank bank, I’ll let him decide how he wants this to go. He can have his stupid werewolf orgy stories back. But if the little shit runs again… I’m chasing him. And he’ll find out what really happens when a hungry predator catches prey in the dark.