Night Prowler

Chapter 1

Hi everyone! So officially, this is my first actual work of fiction I've written... well about werewolves and life surrounding werewolves. Whoever is reading this, it's probably that obvious that it is and that I don't generally read this genre myself... though I enjoy it? Yeah, doesn't make sense haha. This is also my first time at this style of writing, I don't even know if I can even class it as 'third person'? So it's probably confusing and I apologise profusely. I'm a first person kinda gal. Anyway, this is simply a book of my desires... probably cringey as hell. I wouldn't say it's your typical werewolf book, but then again??? Sorry if it's a bit slow and not as exciting. I do hope you give it a chance! Please like and comment if you wish, some feedback would be good 🥰
Sorry if you think it's shit! I've literally spent years writing versions of this book over and over again 🤣

Cheers big ears 😘

~

The morning was cool for a summer's day in Victoria, Australia. It was 15 degrees in Warragul and the sun was glistening down, but strangely it was not as hot as it normally would be at the start of January. It was a little nippy, but to the 'born and bred', or true Victorians, it was the starting to a perfect day with perfect weather in the perfect state. To Tracey, it was still too damn cold. For a young woman from the Northern Territory, it felt like she was living in the arctic: where one minute it was sunny and then in a matter of minutes, it was pouring down rain that felt cold enough to be hail stones. Yeah, that was what you called Victorian weather. People though, they knew she wasn't a local when they looked at what she was wearing, compared to their utterly thin and short summer-y clothes, Tracey looked like she was prepared for the starting of winter: in her warm jeans, a long sleeve top and a wooly cardigan that felt like an electric blanket - amazingly warm. But nevertheless, Tracey ignored the funny glances she would get from others who just happened to take a glimpse in her direction. If the way she dressed wasn't enough for others to figure it out, it was obvious with her Northern Territory registration plates, that she was not from around here. Did she care that other people noticed, not particularly. She was a proud Territorian and was not ashamed of where she came from or how different her accent was compared to others. It made her rather unique compared to everyone living in Warragul and she was okay with that.

As the traffic thickened on the busy Saturday morning, Tracey sat at the small wooden table just big enough to fit herself and another person. She was sitting in one of her favourite cafés, the Untitled café, which was a small dine-in just across the road from the local tafe. From where she was situated, Tracey had view of the entire place. She could see customers walking in through the entrance, staff behind the counter slaving away and other customers up the back. Unlike other cafés in Warragul, Untitled's seating area was in a back-to-front '7' shape, the floors were made from cheap wooden slabs, the tables were the typical black hard plastic tables with black metal chairs to match and the counter seemed to match the overall look of the café. Wooden with a black countertop. It was a very cosy place to say the least. Even though it was just after 9am, the café was chockerblocked. Families catching up over breakfast, couples on a breakfast date, people lining up just for a takeaway coffee, it was a typical weekend, and it would only get busier. Untitled was not known for fast service, but the café did make good quality food at a half decent price. So Tracey didn't mind waiting, especially not when she had her phone in her hands and her mind was elsewhere as the world around her turned.

In amongst the traffic travelling along Queen Street in Warragul, was a man. He was sitting at the lights, at an intersection about 100 metres down from Aldi. This man was not just sitting on anything, he was sitting on his 2010 black Harley Davidson, a beauty of a Softail. His motorcycle was the definition of a 'beast'. The chrome on it was polished and blinding in the sunlight, the black painted fuel tank sparkled at certain angles and the idling rumble that sounded from the bike, sent shivers down the spines of anyone in hearing range. Even though the Harley was just over ten years old, it looked like it had just been ridden off the showroom floor. It was kept in pristine condition and there was no secret as to why. The owner of the Harley was a biker; not just any weekend rider who called themselves a 'biker', but a true biker. From the colours that the man proudly wore over his shirt, people could see what club this biker belonged to. HOWLERS M.C. A clubhouse that was located in the Yarra Ranges. And although the club wasn't a common name known in most households, that didn't mean the club was small. Unlike most people knew, the club was all through Victoria, South Australia and New South Wales. They were no Hells Angels, but that didn't mean they didn't get themselves into strife, that included the biker currently stuck at a red light. Reece was his name and even though he was a biker, he was almost just like every other typical Australian bloke. He was charming and had the stereotypical laid back attitude to life, that was when he wasn't in biker mode and riding in rank. Contrast to what you might expect of the typical biker, being rugged - uneasy on the eyes and between the ages of 45 and 75, Reece was the opposite. He was months off turning 30, decently groomed and pleasant on the eyes.