Hunger

Chapter Two

The last thing Jackson Colt wanted to do was sit in a hot and steamy VIP section at a club.

No, he wanted to be back at home. Drinking and laying in the fetal position while his television played static in the background. No, he just wanted to be home in mourning with his brothers, with Mary-Beth.

Instead, for some unholy fucking reason, he was sitting in a club with Aaron, who was currently trying to coax him into drinking something other than bourbon on the rocks. Not that he was going to get anywhere with that considering Jackson just wanted to get fucking wasted. He didn't want to think. He didn't want to think ever again. He wanted to pretend the world didn't exist and he was just some kind of floating entity without purpose or thought.

It was better than facing the fact that his mother was dead.

Yeah, no, that was putting it lightly.

She'd been fucking murdered.

Fucking accident my ass, Jackson thought bitterly as he thumbed the rim of his glass. What had happened to his mother, what had been done to her, was not a fucking accident. It had been a goddamn slaughter and to think for one second the police were calling it an accident made his blood boil to unfathomable levels.

At five fifty-three in the evening, Aurora Colt had been found dead in a parking lot by the interstate. Her car had been dumped on its side, half of it smashed in by what was clearly a t-bone by a fucking semi-truck. According to the bullshit autopsy report, the crash had thrown Aurora's body across the parking lot, the asphalt basically peeling off her face, and half the skin off her body.

Except Jackson wasn't a fucking moron. Jesus Christ, he worked surgery for a living.

Those injuries didn't come from any accident.

But convincing the Sterling police otherwise had been impossible. A tragic accident, they insisted, one that he couldn't see clearly through the lens of grief.

Curling his lip, he tossed back another shot of bourbon and snapped his fingers for the omega bartender to rush in and give him more. She flashed him a shy, flirty smile, one that he ignored blatantly because A, he honestly preferred men, and B, his fucking mother had just died, so honestly, fuck fucking right now.

"Listen, man, drink all you want," Aaron said, "Just try and find something a little less... you know. Depressed."

"I am depressed."

"Okay, but you don't have to look it."

"Fuck off. It's only been four days," Jackson muttered. Aaron grimaced, then ruffled his blonde hair nervously at something that probably sounded a bit cold hearted. He sighed and dropped his hands to the bar.

"You're right. My bad," he said, then paused to glance over Jackson's shoulder, "Actually, listen, I can get us into the Black Room if you want." Jackson scowled at the beta, ignoring the omega who poured his drink.

"The what room?"

"It's this fancy VIP room. Apparently they sell some pretty good shit in here. I'm talking vintage wines, whiskeys. Hell, I've heard they even do some art sales."

"A black market auction. You want me. To go with you. To a black market auction," Jackson deadpanned, wondering when Aaron had hit his head hard enough to think a black market auction was a totally acceptable thing to attend. Not that he hadn't done some dealings online. If you called downloading sketchy shit that wasn't in theaters yet or experimental rut suppressants black market anyway. It was the lighter side of a very dark practice.

"It's not what you're thinking," Aaron assured quickly, sliding a fifty across the bar to get the omega's attention, "Trust me. It's set up to be totally... mostly legal." Jackson grimaced.