Ryder
The party was in full swing when we arrived.
Just like the year before, Mrs Cole—a pretentious socialite with a stick up her ass, had transformed her garden into something almost obscene in its extravagance.
The sculpted trees, white linen covered tables and servers moving between guests were par for the course.
I’d have been impressed if not for the fact that, aside from the hors d’oeuvres she’d replaced with ravioli, her party was a replica of every pack function I’d ever attended.
I stood on the patio, watching as Father’s attention was being demanded by preening guests, who bent themselves backward in exaggerated flattery.
He handled it gracefully as usual; a handshake here, a practiced smile there and I could see why he was such a successful and charismatic leader.
“Ryder,” someone called in a cheery voice I vaguely recognized.
She was a redhead who had been in my bed frequently at the beginning of the year, and her name might have been Jocelyne or Jolene.
She was also the wife of the town sheriff, Goodman—twenty years her senior—and from the smile she was giving me, she was either too drunk to remember that he was in the crowd or couldn’t bring herself to care.
“This doesn’t exactly look like your scene,” she said with a smile, her hand lifting to pat my shoulders.
“And you know what my scene is?” My grin was almost polite, “enlighten me.”
She laughed flirtatiously.
“You didn’t strike me as the type that cared about pack politicking and social games.”
“Now that’s very stereotypical,” I teased and because I couldn’t resist, I lowered my voice and added, “so a man that likes eating ass cannot also be an avid networker?”
“Ryder,” she choked out as her cheeks that were already flushed from alcohol instantly pinkened.
It wasn’t as cute as Isla’s reddened cheeks.
The thought was unbidden and made me rub my neck uncomfortably.
“Besides,” I said evenly, trying to recover, “I thought we were only here because we genuinely cared about cultural preservation and refinement,”
No, I wasn’t being sarcastic.
The proceeds of this fundraiser was truly going into cultural preservation and refinement.
She snorted, “Last year’s fundraiser was for wildlife conservation,” she leaned slightly into me, her voice dropping conspiratorially, “You think Mrs.
Cole, our hostess who owns three mink coat gives a fuck about wildlife?”
“So, being a hypocrite is a necessity if I want to belong in this scene,” I replied evenly, my eyes flicking past her to look at the crowd.
“Noted.
I’d practice.”
Mr.
Goodman was seated around the impossibly long table and glaring at me.
Our eyes met and with how close his wife was standing next to me, I knew what it must look like.
I didn’t look away.
I’ve never been good at being conflict avoidant after all.
Instead, I grabbed a champagne flute from a passing waiter and lifted it slightly in his direction, my head tilted mockingly.
A beat passed but aside from the fact that he was about to burst a blood vessel, he wasn’t taking my bait.
I took a sip anyway and then stalked away from the patio after offering his wife a polite enough smile.
It was just a few minutes…
I could handle a few minutes without creating a scene.
***
Drama almost seems to follow me wherever I go.
Most times, I loved my superior senses, like when I could see Isla’s glistening pussy even in the dark.
On a few occasions, though, I hated them, because they meant I stumbled on conversations that weren’t meant for my ears far more often than normal.
I was taking a stroll through the garden path while waiting for my father to be done socializing when I heard the argument.
“Stop right there immediately, you stupid pup,” It was Mrs.
Cole, standing near a bend in the path.
It was easy to recognize her.
There was not a flyway of hair in sight in the tight bun she had put her blonde hair in, her pantsuit was cream colored and contrasted brilliantly with her red face.
She was beyond furious.
I couldn’t see the stupid pup, but I knew familial disappointment when I heard it.
I’ve been at the receiving end of it for almost my entire life so I knew Mrs.
Cole must be talking to her son.
“You cannot command me to love someone, Mum,” his voice was clipped and arrogant.
“If you enjoy having her around, cleaning up after you, how about you marry her?”
Typical.
Of course the argument was about marriage.
Bitter and unwilling to let go of the fact that she was no longer involved in pack politics, Diane Coleman must have decided to sacrifice her only son for a foothold on a higher rung of the political ladder.
“Don’t you dare talk to me like that,” She spat out.
“Who do you think I’m doing this for after all?”