Page 5 of Ruffled Feathers

Inside the garage, people were packed almost wall to wall, standing around the pit. I knew what was happening in there;I just couldn’t look. I tried to tune out the sounds of people cheering, the smell of cigarettes, weed, and cheap whiskey.

And blood.

Moving slowly, I hung back in the shadows. I knew exactly what I needed, and I knew where I’d find them. I just hoped I wasn’t too late.

Spotting the cages on the other side of the pit, I worked my way around slowly. Slow and steady, that’s what dad had taught me. He’d been talking about escaping mountain lions, but it probably worked for these kinds of predators too.

There was another roar from the crowd, followed by some people muttering curses and others boasting their achievements as two men climbed into the pit and returned with two roosters—one alive and one dead.

My stomach turned. Cockfighting. Barbaric and cruel. I wanted to cry over being too late for those poor creatures.

I’d done the responsible thing. I’d called the cops and told them what was happening. They’d thanked me for the report and then donenothing.Another cockfight had happened the following weekend—still nothing.

Now, I was taking it into my own hands. I couldn’t save them all, but I could save a couple. Maybe more. I had five sacks tucked into the pocket of my cargo pants. Five lives I could potentially save tonight.

They kept most of the cocks drugged, then strapped long knives to their feet, so they’d inflict maximum damage. Despite what people would argue, most roosters didn’t want to fight; they just wanted to wander around a farm, pecking at worms and living their best life.

As people collected their winnings, or placed new bets, two more birds were plucked from their cages and carried to the pit. I silently apologized to those birds, that their lives would be the distraction I needed to save their competitors.

Silently, I waited until everyone was hovering over the pit, watching the current fight, before I made a break for it. Most of the birds were banging against the bars of the tiny cages, or moving their heads up and down, trying to find a way out. All except the dead bird that lay beside its empty cage like discarded trash, and the victor of the last fight, who didn’t look much better. He was bleeding from all sorts of places, and looked dazed. He definitely needed medical attention.

Opening the cage, he didn’t even struggle as I picked him up. I slipped the barbed gauntlets from his feet, his claws still bloody.

“Poor baby,” I whispered. “You didn’t want to fight, did you?” Carefully, I tucked him inside one of the sacks I’d pulled from the pocket of my cargo pants.

That’s when the front doors of the garage flew open, and the night turned to chaos.

“FREEZE! POLICE! NOBODY MOVE!”

Oh, so now they decide to do something?

I threw an apologetic look to the still-caged birds, knowing they’d be okay now. Animal control would take them to some kind of rescue for fighting birds. They had them for dogs rescued from dogfights, so surely there’d be one for fighting birds? But I knew the bird in my arms would just be put down, his wounds too severe.

So I tied a knot in the bag, stuffed it up my hoodie, and crept to the back of the garage. Icouldn’tgo back to jail again; Dad would murder me. Hiding behind a beat-up car, I waited until they started cuffing people before I edged around the back, toward the manhole-sized door I’d originally come through. The rooster I was holding hadn’t even stirred, and I started to worry this had all been for nothing. That he was already dead.

I made it three steps before a torch illuminated my face. “FREEZE! Rock Hill PD!”

Fuck.I reached under my hoodie to grab the rooster in the bag, and shit escalated quickly.

“Do not move.Put your hands up!” the cop shouted, clearly not caring that his request was impossible. I couldn’t not moveandput my hands up.

“There’s a chicken in my sweatshirt. If I put my hands up, it’ll fall and get hurt. I promise I’m not reaching for a weapon.”

“Do notmove!” he repeated, edging closer.

I had one hand in the air, with the other cupping the bottom of my hoodie, and as the cop drew closer, I groaned internally.

“Juice?” Francis Gunner exclaimed.

Fuck me. Of course it had to be Francis.

“Hey, Frankie. I heard you became a cop. Congrats.” My voice was a little wobbly, but at least he wouldn’t shoot me. “I also heard you and Sarah got married. Well done.” That one, I meant a little less. Sarah Copeland—now Gunner, I guess—was a beautiful, picture-perfect Omega, who’d bullied the absolute hell out of me for the final two years of my education.

Frankie was okay, though, for an Alpha. He’d been on the varsity football team with my stepbrother Edison, and Truett, his best friend. Those two had been the ones to give me the dumb nickname of Juice, which had stuck all through my school years.

“Do you really have a cock in your sweatshirt?” he asked, and I nodded.

“Yep. I’d appreciate it if I could get it out, though, before your partner shoots me.” The older man beside him looked like he was searching for a reason to stun me with his taser, and I didn’t relish the idea.

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