Page 100 of Pack Me Up

We collapse, tangled, shaking, and breathless.

For a long time, there’s only the sound of our hearts racing as she nuzzles into my side.

I kiss her forehead, the bridge of her nose, the little cut on her lip from when she bit down too hard. “Mine,” I say, and she smiles.

“Yours,” she agrees, “but only if you’re mine, too.”

“Deal.”

We drift again, the world outside the bus irrelevant, and the future so bright it hurts to look at.

Saint

PHOENIX PACK SECURITY BRIEF #132

BUS SECURITY PROTOCOLS

May 19th

I’m pacing the perimeter with Fox and Hunter, eyes peeled, every muscle thrumming.

Fox is quiet, tapping at his phone, communicating with the other teams. Hunter is wound tight, lips pressed to a line with no jokes, no spring-loaded energy, just cold, predatory focus. He’s rarely like this, but there’s something in the air tonight.

We make a pass around the stage as Brittney and Tommy finish their last song.

A voice comes over my earpiece, drawing my attention away from the hauntingly beautiful voice of my mate. “Phoenix team, we have an interesting request at the doors.”

“Saint here. What is it?” I ask.

The voice is uncertain, like he wishes he weren’t in this position. “The same man has been coming to the last three shows, claiming he needs to talk to Brittney Ryan. We sent him away every time, but we thought we should tell you this time.”

My heart stops cold before picking up at double the rate. “Hold him there.”

I switch over to the private frequency between just my pack. “It’s her father. He’s back.”

“What’s the plan?” Fox asks.

“Colton and Cody, you take Brittney off the stage and back to the bus. Fox and Hunter, you’re with me.”

All four of them respond with, “Copy.”

I switch my frequency one more time to all the security under my direction. “Team Hart and Turner, you’re taking over. We are being pulled away.”

Fox, Hunter, and I all converge at the exit, but don’t leave yet.

“This could be a trap,” I tell them. “Let’s split up and come at him from different angles.”

I go out the front while they use other exits.

Someone is surrounded by three venue staff members, just standing there waiting.

I signal with a closed fist, then two fingers forward. Fox melts sideways, shadowing along the edge of a wall. Hunter breaks off, looping wide, hands in his pockets, but eyes locked on the target. The man clocks me, but he doesn’t flinch.

I don’t bother with stealth now. I move fast, cutting the distance, boots echoing like gunshots. The service tunnel is a straight shot, lined with cement and metal conduit. At the end, the man is waiting, hands at his sides, eyes flat.

“You three can leave now,” I tell the venue staff.

Fox stays three paces behind me. I don’t have to look to know Hunter is already blocking the far exit, arms folded, smile gone mean.