#isaacappreciationweek

Isaac didn’t hate clubs, per se—but the list of ways he’d rather be spending his Saturday night was longer than the list of reasons why he had PTSD, which was really saying a lot more than it should have for a twenty-two year old. Unfortunately, when his roommate had proposed the idea of going to a popular club during their three day trip to London, Isaac couldn’t come up with a decent enough reason to say no. Apparently drunk, sweaty people being there was not a valid reason. He didn’t really see the hype, considering the best part of the place was the bar—which was infuriatingly useless to a werewolf, who couldn’t get drunk. Though, that didn’t deter him from trying.

He was halfway through his sixth whiskey of the night, when someone behind him suggested, “Thirty-two shots of tequila within an hour, then fifteen each hour after that to keep it going. At least, that usually does the trick for me.”

If Isaac weren’t a werewolf, he probably would’ve broken his neck by how quickly it swiveled to look over his shoulder at the familiar voice. His breath hitched in his chest as his wolf suddenly stirred, instinctually recognizing the only other one of Derek’s remaining betas, who he hadn’t seen in years. Jackson’s cocky smirk was unmistakably the same, but he’d definitely changed. He was still rather lean, though he’d filled out a bit— in all the right places—and grown his hair a few inches longer. It was messily sticking out in all directions, as if someone had gotten their hands in it at some point during the night, and preserved their work in glitter hairspray.

“Jackson?” Isaac asked dumbly, his mind not quite wrapping around the fact that he was actually seeing someone from his hometown for the first time since moving to France five years prior.

“Obviously,” Jackson snarked, but his tone didn’t hold as much bite as Isaac remembered from high school. “What are you doing here, Lahey?”

“Just visiting for a few days,” Isaac responded, his eyes roaming over Jackson’s face, almost mesmerized. His skin appeared to be glowing a bright cyan under the club lights, and the sparkles shimmering on his defined cheekbones and nose reflected the multicolored beams flashing around the room—creating an enticing aura of color that Isaac couldn’t bring himself to look away from.

Jackson nodded as he leaned against the bar counter, his arm just barely brushing against Isaac’s own. The proximity drew Isaac’s attention down to the shine on Jackson’s full lips, and Isaac realized he was wearing lip gloss. He’d never thought much about guys wearing makeup, since it wasn’t his thing and he didn’t know anyone who did, but damn did it look nice on Jackson.

Isaac probably should’ve been more taken aback by his attraction to Jackson Whittemore of all people, but he’d be a liar if he said he’d never noticed the asshole’s good looks before. Jackson had always been unfairly pretty, but Isaac didn’t have much time or energy to even contemplate doing anything about it back then. He was busy trying to survive Beacon Hills, and Jackson was even more insufferable than Isaac was.

“Your Insta’s been silent for like a year,” Jackson commented. “I kinda thought you were dead or something.”

Isaac nearly questioned why he was creeping on his social media, but instead said, “Not yet.”

“Looks like that makes two of us.”

The last two. Who would’ve thought? Isaac toasted his glass towards him, then brought it back to his lips to down the rest of his drink.

“Do you wanna dance?” Jackson asked casually, as if it were a completely normal thing to suggest. As if they were friends, instead of two bastards that came from the same hell hole, who hadn’t spoken in years.

Isaac raised an eyebrow at him. “With you?”

“No shit.” Jackson rolled his eyes as he stood up straighter—making the diamond-studded mesh crop top he was wearing hug his torso deliciously tighter. “I mean, the last time we danced together, you were trying to stab me in the neck with a tranquilizer, so…”

“So, what?” Isaac chuckled, turning to face Jackson. “You think I owe you a dance?”

Jackson shrugged, coyly biting his lower lip. “I think that’s only fair.”

“Life isn’t fair, sweetheart,” Isaac reasoned, though his eyes fell hungrily down to Jackson’s exposed abdomen. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips as he eyed the dusting of dark hair trailing from his navel down into the front of his low-riding skinny jeans.

“No,” Jackson agreed, holding his glitter-covered hand out, “but it can be fun.”

Isaac scoffed and shook his head, but slapped his hand down onto Jackson’s nonetheless—who tightly gripped his fingers and yanked him up into his space just as aggressively. A slow smile stretched across Isaac’s face as Jackson provocatively looked up at him through his lashes, and he couldn’t help but ghost his hand along Jackson’s jaw to hook a finger under his chin and guide his face up towards his. Jackson’s confidence always made him seem taller in Isaac’s mind, but he had to be almost half a foot shorter than Isaac.

Considering that Isaac knew Jackson had moved to London before he’d even come to Europe himself, he shouldn’t have been all that surprised to run into him. However, there was no way in hell that he’d could've anticipated that Jackson’s hands would feel so amazing as they slipped under his shirt and left a rough trail of glitter up his stomach while they grinded against each other on the dance floor—or how sexy the combination of the whiskey on his own tongue and Jackson’s sweet lip gloss would taste.