Post-show glow still radiated off the pack like low-level static, but the buzz was shifting from onstage electricity to where the hell are we drinking tonight.

Jonah, still slightly damp from his Gatorade shower, leaned over and grinned.

“I got a place,” he said. “Super local. Real grimy. Sawdust-on-the-floor kinda deal. Probably plays country. Probably full of cowboys who think werewolves are a metaphor.”

Gabriel raised a brow. “You sayin’ we’ll blend in?”

“I’m sayin’ they’ll either ignore us… or we’ll be on the news by morning.”

“Sold,” Thane muttered.

They rolled into a battered-looking bar on the outskirts of Tucson — “The Broken Spur.”
The neon sign flickered. There was a taxidermy coyote nailed above the door. Inside: country music, low ceilings, cheap beer smell, and a whole lotta cowboys.

Real ones.
Hats. Boots. Belt buckles that could double as riot shields.

Most patrons just looked up briefly as the pack entered — then went back to drinking. A few narrowed their eyes. One guy leaned over and muttered something to his buddy while clearly sizing up Gabriel.

Jonah headed for the pool table. Cassie snagged a table near the jukebox. Gabriel and Thane took the bar.

Then the tension started.

A group of three broad-shouldered locals stood up, slowly making their way over.
The biggest one pointed at Gabriel’s tail.

“Don’t much like you folks struttin’ around like you own the place,” he muttered.

Gabriel straightened up. “Good news, man — I’m not strutting. This is just how I walk.”

The guy stepped closer. “You got a smart mouth. Might be someone needs to fix that.”

Jonah appeared on Gabriel’s other side, casually sipping from a mug. “That’s adorable. You got a dentist lined up for after?”

The cowboy shoved his chest forward — and that’s when Thane stood up.

Everything in the room changed.

Six foot two, all claws, calm fury radiating from every inch. His ice-blue stare cut across the distance like a laser. If he’d taken one more step, someone was going to need stitches, minimum.

And then —

“DARRELL JAMES RIGSBY, YOU SIT YOUR SORRY ASS BACK DOWN RIGHT NOW!”

A voice rang out like thunder in a whiskey glass.

Everyone turned as Granny stomped in from the far side of the bar, hands on her hips, wearing a Feral Eclipse shirt bedazzled within an inch of its life.
Her purse looked like it could double as a weapon.
Her eyes sparkled with fire and absolute command.

“Shut your damn mouth and leave my wolves alone.”

He blinked hard. “…Aunt Dolly?”

She marched up, grabbed his beer, took a sip, then shoved him onto the stool.

“That’s Granny, to the wolves. And don’t make me tell your mother how close you just got to being a barstool pancake.”

“These boys are mine. They brought a better show than this place has seen since Garth Brooks had a mullet. Now drink your beer, Darrell, and shut up.”

He did. Instantly. Everyone did.

The pack stood frozen. In awe. Slightly afraid.

“…Did she just alpha the whole bar?” Maya whispered.

What followed was pure legendary status.

Granny pulled a barstool up to the center of the crew’s table and proceeded to regale them with stories of her firefighter days —
the time she rappelled off a burning hardware store to save a parrot
the night she stole an engine to beat her chief to a call
how she once kicked down a door in heels because it was her birthday and “hell if I’m changing shoes”

She drank like a machine. Shot after shot. Beer chaser. Shot again.

Gabriel? Slumped sideways in a booth, one arm around Jonah, muttering something about wanting to marry her liquor tolerance.
Cassie? Gone. Laying under the table, arm over her eyes.
Maya and Rico? Propped against each other on a bench seat, laughing at nothing.
Thane? One elbow on the table, holding his drink, eyes glazed. A quiet “…how…?” was the most he could get out.

Only Mark remained upright. Silent. Impressed.

Even Diesel, who showed up late and took one look at the chaos, simply nodded.

“Damn. She really did it.”

At the end of the night, Granny stood proudly in the doorway, waving her empty glass like a war banner.

“Any time you pups are back in Tucson — you call Granny. I’ll bring the whiskey. And the bail money.”

Then she turned, slapped Darrell on the shoulder, and barked, “You’re drivin’. Let’s go, slug.”

He didn’t even argue.

As the door shut behind her, silence settled in the wrecked little booth.

Gabriel finally mumbled:

“…we were just bested by a seventy-year-old.”

Thane muttered, “Next tour shirt: Granny is my alpha now.”

No one disagreed.