Page 49 of Strays
She’s right. So I decide to tell her one of the few things I actually never told my brothers. “Before my mom went missing, I wanted to be a cage fighter, not a cop.”
“What?” Jay and Shane say in unison.
“Nowthat’sa secret,” Jo points out.
“I know it’s stupid, but when I was like six, I think, I saw a fight my grandfathers had filmed, and I loved it. I used to play all the time, pretending I was a fighter. My dads were really angry. They even talked to my grandfathers and scolded them for putting those kinds of ideas in my head. They always said I’d be a cop like them. And I think that was part of the reason I never wanted to until my mother disappeared.”
“What about you?” I continue, wanting to change the subject. “It’s only fair you share a secret with us too.”
“I guess you’re right,” she says. “Let me think… Oh, when I was sixteen, I spent the night at a friend’s house. Suddenly, the police were all over the street, and we all went outside to see what had happened. It was the first time I saw a pack of aegis. They were hot. I mean, burning hot.”
I feel a sharp knot tighten in my stomach. I guess I just found out I’m the jealous type too.
“In the end, what happened was really sad, actually,” she continues. “A kid had found his father’s gun and shot his brother. But as ridiculous and cold as it sounds, what I remember most was the pack. All my friends were dating boys or girls from school, or at least interested in someone, and I just... wasn’t. I thought something was wrong with me, until I saw them.”
Shane clicks his tongue in annoyance, and Jay lets out a sharp breath. Guess it’s not just me, then.
But Jo doesn’t stop. “I hadn’t thought about that night in years, but then, when the Matching Center called me, I asked if the pack I’d be meeting was military or law enforcement. And when they said you were cops, well, I’m not gonna lie, I was excited. I remembered that pack immediately.”
“How did this pack look?” I ask, my voice a little clipped.
Jo chuckles before answering. “Do you really want me to describe them for you?”
The knot in my stomach tightens. “No. I’m just trying to figure out what your type is.”
“You guys are my type,” she replies. “You’re even more beautiful than they were. If sixteen-year-old me had known she’d end up bonded to three guys this hot, she would’ve passed out on the spot.”
The knot in my stomach loosens.
We all go quiet, and not long after, I feel sleep pulling at the edges of my mind.
The next morning, when I wake up, Jo’s not in her own bed. She’s curled up inside Shane’s sleeping bag, halfway sprawled on top of him. Her cheek rests on his chest, one hand tucked under her chin. Shane’s awake, staring up at the ceiling with the biggest, dumbest smile I’ve ever seen on his face.
It’s our second day living with her in her apartment. She makes us breakfast, and we spend most of the day looking at house listings, talking, and, much to our complete happiness and absolute desperation, making out.
Everywhere. All the time. Whenever one of us gets too close to her, we start kissing, and that always leads to hands on her body. Then we’re full-on making out again. By the afternoon, I’m pretty sure my cock’s gonna take permanent damage from being hard and strangled inside my pants all day.
At first, I try to hold back, keep my hands off her ass or her breasts, afraid she’ll pull away like she did last night. But eventually, my brain just blanks out, and I can’t help myself. The first time I cup her breast through her shirt, my lower abdomen tightens instantly. She kisses down my neck, and when she bites, my restraint slips and my hand moves on instinct, sliding under the fabric until I’m touching her, skin to skin, all that softness filling my hand.
Her nipple hardens against my palm, and all I can think about is dropping her to the floor right here in the middle of the living room and taking her.
But then she pulls back again, panting. That’s when Jay wraps his armsaround her, and she disappears against him, swallowed by his size as his mouth claims hers.
Between kisses, we learn more about her. Her favorite singer is some guy named Ryan Tedder. She was born in Boise, Idaho, but grew up in Portland. She’s never met anyone from her mother’s side of the family, so the only people she considers family are the humans from her adoptive father’s side. She talks about her job with an enthusiasm that makes us smile. She loves ice hockey, and back in Portland, she rooted for the Winterhawks, but since she got to Bridgeport, she’s been a loyal Bridgeport Islanders fan.
We start to pick up every nuance of her scent too. We learn fast: when she’s comfortable, her scent turns sweeter, and it makes every muscle in our bodies relax. Even packed into sleeping bags on the floor, we sleep better than we ever did in our old nest. No stiffness, no aches, just deep, easy rest.
When she’s worried or upset, though, her scent shifts, turning slightly sharp, like lemon over lily petals, and it makes our bodies tense like there’s an imminent fight.
Our own scents change too. The birch bark note that surfaces when we first meet her settles completely into us now, woven deep into the core of our natural scent. Just part of who we are now.
On the second night, after we’ve all gone quiet, and the apartment falls into stillness, she slips from her bed over to my sleeping bag without a word, unzips the side and climbs on top of me. No awkwardness, no second thoughts. She just settles in, face against my chest, legs on either side of my hips, like I’m a mattress made just for her.
I don’t move. I just lie there, stunned, holding her as gently as I can while her breath slows against my throat. She falls asleep like that, and I fall asleep smiling.
The next morning, my wish to find our house quickly ends up coming true. Jo finds the perfect place in the Historic District, just like she wanted. We manage to schedule a viewing for the afternoon, and I drive us there in the truck.
I’m already hooked before we even pull up. The house sits on a quiet, tree-lined street that looks straight out of a postcard. Out front, there’s a neat little lawn edged by a white wooden fence. The paint is chipped at the corners, but it still looks good. A narrow gravel driveway hugs one side of the house and leads to a detached garage in the back. A brick path runs from the sidewalk to the porch, and the deep navy front door has a worn brass knocker. A lantern-style light hangs above it, and bare flower beds line the base of the porch.
