1. Rambo- Wings & Warnings
Rambo
~September 4th
I’d rolled into Gatesville under Alpha Jack’s orders, still smelling like the highway and half a bottle of gas station cologne. I was supposed to “feel him out,” see if this Alpha leading Hunter’s Moon had potential—or if Jack needed to worry. I was informed that he needed a beta, so this was Jack’s opportunity to get a peek into the larger pack.
I wasn’t expecting much when I walked into Rocco’s. It was the kind of small-town restaurant with sticky tables, flickering lights, and a fryer that never stopped humming. It smelled like grease and hot sauce—my kind of place.
I scanned the booths as I walked in, cataloging exits out of habit—one by the kitchen. One near the back hallway marked restrooms in faded red letters. Old instinct from rogue hunting—never sit with your back to a room full of strangers. Especially when half of them might smell like pack wolves.
The tile under my boots stuck a little with each step, years of spilled soda and fryer oil giving the floor that signature dive-diner tack. The kind of place you didn’t go for ambiance—you went for food and to be left alone.
There were only four other tables occupied. A couple of families, a lone guy with a ball cap low over his eyes, and a waitress who looked like she could win a bar fight with just her stare. This wasn’t neutral territory, but it wasn’t pack property either. It was the kind of liminal zone where wolves from different places could cross paths without a challenge being thrown their way.
I stepped in line behind a guy about my age—tall, broad-shouldered, hair a little messy like he didn’t have time to care. He looked over his shoulder, gave me a once-over like he was sizing me up… then grinned.
“Sweet chili tenders,” he said, pointing at the board. “Have you ever had ’em here?”
“First time,” I answered. “But they sound worth it.”
“They are.” He stuck out his hand to me and said, “Clayton Shanks.”
I took it, firm and steady, while introducing myself, “Rambo.”
His brow quirked. “Like the movie?”
“Like the movie,” I confirmed with a smirk.
He didn’t laugh—but his grin deepened. “That tracks.”
And in that moment, something in his expression shifted—like he was already testing me without a single word of warning. Not in a hostile way. More like… checking for weight.
We placed our orders and ended up at the same table—two strangers with matching baskets and no clue what came next.
Clayton took a long sip of his drink and grinned. “So, is it your real name, or did you just lose a bet?”
I laughed. “Rambo Renard. Real as it gets. My dad was a military nut, and my mom liked alliteration.”
Clayton winced. “That’s brutal. You must’ve been born with a knife between your teeth.”
“Nah,” I said, grinning. “But I was crawling before I was walking. Running before I was crawling.”
We talked while we ate, not like new acquaintances, but like we’d known each other in another life. About fights we’d walked away from. Alphas, we didn’t respect, and wolves, we did.
“So what’s your style?” Clayton asked, tearing a tender in half with his teeth. “You more of a fists-first or figure-it-out-later kind of fighter?”
I snorted. “Tactical. Fast, quiet, decisive. I don’t like wasted energy.”
He nodded slowly like he was filing that away. “Smart. We’ve got a few bruisers who forget their brain is a weapon, too.”
Somewhere between the second tender and the last fry, I forgot I was here on assignment. We weren’t measuring each other up anymore. We were already locking in like brothers.
“So Jack sent you?” he asked toward the end, licking sauce from his fingers.
“Yeah,” I admitted. “I didn’t come to stir the pot. Just wanted to see what you’re made of.”
He shrugged. “Hope I didn’t disappoint.”
I chuckled. “You didn’t. I could see myself working with you.”
We chewed our food a little more and kept talking.
“Have you ever thought about walking away?” I asked, tapping the rim of my drink. “From all of it. Pack life, Alpha pressure, and the titles.”
He nodded once. “Every time I think about quitting… I remember who I’m doing this for. This place deserves someone who stays. Someone who gives a damn.”
That hit harder than it should’ve.
“You remind me of Jack,” I said, leaning back in my seat.
Clayton raised an eyebrow. “That’s a compliment?”
“It is,” I told him. “But you’re… steadier. Jack leads with force. You lead with weight. Like people don’t just listen because they have to—they listen because they want to.”
He didn’t smile, but the air between us shifted—like that landed deeper than he expected. He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at me with a sort of measured stillness I hadn’t seen in many Alphas—especially not young ones.
It reminded me of something Jack once said about true leadership: “The ones who make the biggest noise aren’t always the ones who get followed. Watch who speaks softly and still gets obeyed.”
Clayton had that quality. And yeah, I was already starting to buy into it.
After we polished off the last of the fries and wiped our fingers clean, Clayton nodded toward the parking lot.
“Truck’s out back. You got time to sit for a bit?”
“Yeah,” I said, pushing back from the table. “Let’s do it.”
The evening was settling in, the sky bleeding pink over the rooftops. Clayton’s truck—a beat-up, mud-speckled Chevy that looked like it had been through some shit—was parked near the edge of the lot. He unlocked it, and we climbed in without a word. The cab smelled like leather, pine, and the faintest trace of a wolf.
We sat in silence for a minute, windows cracked just enough to let the breeze in.
“Damn good wings,” I said eventually.
Clayton huffed a laugh. “Told you.”
I glanced over at him. “You know, I wasn’t expecting to like you.”
He snorted. “You and me both.”
We shared a grin.
I wasn’t looking for a new home. Hell, I wasn’t even looking for a new title. But this guy had something… steady and solid. And if I were honest with myself, I was tired. Tired of couch-surfing through outposts and neutral zones, tired of rogue sweeps and solo assignments. I’d spent too long on the road with only my wolf and a burner phone for company.
For a moment, it was just two guys vibing. But that was the thing about wolves—you could feel the shift coming. It always got real, eventually.
“I’m not just here for the wings,” I said. “You figured that out, right?”
Clayton nodded, calm and unbothered. “Jack sent you to sniff around. See if I’m leading like I should.”
“Not in those exact words, but yeah.”
His fingers drummed against the steering wheel. “Did you figure out what you needed to?”
“Yeah, and he trusts me to make the call.” I paused, then added, “You already passed the gut check. But I won’t lie—Jack does have me running quiet checks on the packs around here.”
Clayton’s expression didn’t shift. “You’re one of Jack’s spies.”
“Yeah,” I said, not hiding it. “I figured you should hear it from me.”
He nodded once. No anger. No posturing.
“I already suspected it,” he said. “Doesn’t bother me. But if you’re thinking about staying here—being part of Hunter’s Moon—that loyalty’s gotta shift. This pack comes first. Then me. Then Jack.”
I studied him for a beat. The way he said it wasn’t meant to be a challenge. It was a standard—a line in the sand.
“I can respect that,” I said honestly. “Jack trusts me to call it how I see it. And what I see right now is a pack that could use someone like me.”
Clayton gave me a sidelong glance. “Are you thinking about the beta position?”
“Maybe.” I let the word hang in the air. “What would you expect from me if I took it?”
Clayton tilted his head. “How long have you been on the road?”
“Feels like years,” I said with a huff. “Gas station jerky and motel pillows will kill a man faster than a silver blade.”
Clayton gave a knowing look. “You travel light?”
“Always,” I said. “But light starts to feel empty after a while.”
He didn’t respond directly to that, but I saw something tighten in his jaw. Like maybe he knew what that felt like, too.
He grinned. “We’ve got a packhouse kitchen. The staff cooks lunch and dinner. You stick around, you’ll eat like a king.”
“Don’t tempt me,” I muttered, cracking a grin. “Those tenders were the closest thing to a home-cooked meal I’ve had in weeks.”
His answer to my previous question came quickly, with no hesitation.
“Warrior training. Scheduling guard duties. Assisting with integration when rogues or transfers arrive. But mostly—being yourself. I don’t need a yes-man. I need a partner.”
I nodded slowly. That was the kind of leadership I could get behind.
“I’ll think about it,” I said. “But… I already feel like this place could be home.”
Clayton reached over, offering his fist.
“Then we’ll call this your first real step toward it.”
I bumped his knuckles with mine. Yeah. This felt like the start of something.
Cur stirred under my skin, tail thumping once like approval. Cur didn’t speak in words, but I could feel it in the way my spine loosened. He liked this place and Clayton. That didn’t happen often. My wolf wasn’t known for making fast friends.
Clayton dropped his hand back to the wheel, but he didn’t start the truck.
I reached for the door handle. “I’ll be at the gates tomorrow.”
He nodded once. “I’ll have someone meet you.”
“I’d rather it be you.”
That got a slight smirk out of him. “Then I’ll be there.”
I didn’t realize how hard I’d been gripping my knees until I released them. The tension I carried from Jack’s briefing, from the uncertainty of what I’d find here—it all started to bleed out of me.
This no longer felt like an assignment. It felt like a beginning.
I hopped out of the cab, boots crunching gravel, and shut the door with a solid thunk. The wind had cooled just enough to remind me it was time to move on—time to stop wandering.
Clayton pulled out of the parking lot slowly, tires kicking up a bit of dust as he turned toward the main road. I watched his taillights disappear into the dusk, the night wrapping around me like a clean slate. Then I turned, slid my hands into my pockets, and made my way back to the hotel to start packing.
Tomorrow, I wasn’t just reporting in. I might be calling a new place home.
