Werewolf Sings the Blues (6 page)

He takes the cell. “Thank you.”

“And I'm sorry for shooting at you. And biting you. I was wrong, and when I'm wrong, I own it. From here on, I won't fight you. I'll … do my best to trust you.” I hold out my hand for him to shake.

He does. Wow does he run hot. It's like touching a skillet. “Thank you.”

I pull my hand away. “So, what now? What's the plan, Blondie?”

“Jason.” He puts on a gray v-neck t-shirt. Damn. “We return to the compound as fast as possible. All pack members are assembling there. We're about forty miles from the Arizona border now. We'll fly out of Phoenix and be in Maryland by the afternoon.”

“Except my purse with my ID is sitting in a Ventura parking lot or in police lock-up. I can't get on a plane, train, or even a bus without one since September eleventh. So unless Frank has a private jet, looks like we're driving.”

“That'll take days.”

“About three if memory serves. We'll take shifts behind the wheel.”

“Sounds fair.”

“Okay then. First things first though.” I smirk. “You're taking me shopping, Blondie.”

_____

Even in the middle of a desert a gal expects to find a damn Target. This is America after all. We have more strip-malls than trees. Not today though. We've been driving for over half an hour and nothing. Not even a damn Wal-Mart. My chauffeur doesn't say a word as the miles pass, and his face remains unreadable. I wonder if he has any other expression. I did see another look last night when he was listening to me singing, happiness mixed with awe. Wonder how to get that to resurface. He's making me uncomfortable just staring out at the road, thin lips set in a straight line. He's so still I can barely tell he's breathing. Maybe it's a werewolf thing.

Whatever it is, it's driving me nuts. The stillness, the silence, I can't take it another fucking second. I might begin to
think.
Can't have that. “We live in a country besieged by strip malls, but there's never one around when you need one, huh?”

“We'll stay on the interstate. There's bound to be one sometime.”

That's it. That's all he says for two damn minutes before the silence gets to me again. This is going to be the road trip from hell, I can tell already. “So, Blondie—”

“Jason,” he corrects.

“Why'd you draw the short straw?” I ask, ignoring him. “Piss off the old man or something?”

“I don't know what you mean,” he says, glancing at me.

“Princess guard duty. I can't imagine there were a whole bunch of your people jumping at the chance to sit in a car for days on end watching me pick up dry cleaning. Especially when there are people back home who are actually in danger. Not that I'm not grateful you're here. Vultures would probably be picking at my corpse right now if you weren't.” A stab of fear clenches inside my stomach, even sending its army of bile up my throat, as I realize this is a hundred percent true. The man beside me saved my life last night. Most guys don't even put the toilet seat down for me. “Thank you.”

He glances at me again, and for a split second I see a glimmer of that previous happiness cracking through those chilled eyes, but if it was there, it vanishes as quickly as it came. “I was just following orders.”

“Do you always follow orders? Even ones that can get you killed? For a stranger no less?”

“Yes. I trust your father with my life. Whatever he instructs me to do, I do. Without question. I know everything he does or says has a purpose. For the good of the pack.”

“So, you're a foot soldier?”

“I'm your father's Beta. Second in command,” he clarifies. “He gives an order, I carry it out.”

“You're his enforcer,” I say.

“I'm his Beta,” he says with an edge of bite.

I can absolutely see this guy beating and killing people. Hell, I've seen just that. “Call it what you will, I am not judging. As I said, you saved my life. You get a free pass from me for-fucking-ever vis-à-vis questionable behavior. And based on last night, I'm sure whoever you, you know,
betaed
, they probably deserved it.” I shrug. “Some people just do.” Blondie stares at me with two actual clear emotions. Confusion and apprehension this time judging from the narrowed eyes. “What?”

His gaze whips back to the road. “N-Nothing.”

“What? You don't share the sentiment?”

“No. I … do. I'm just surprised
you
do.”

“Well, I am full of surprises, Blondie. One of my many considerable charms,” I say with a seductive smile.

He doesn't smile back, just stares straight ahead with his mask on. “I'm sure.”

We drive in silence for thirty seconds until it gnaws at me again. “You never answered my question.”

“Which was?”

“If you're his second-in-command, and it's the middle of a crisis, why'd he send you for little old me?”

“You're his daughter. You're family. And I'm the one best equipped to protect you.”

“Once again. Why?”

“That's a question for your father,” he says in an almost menacing tone.

Civilization rolls into view, saving him from further interrogation. He's keeping something from me, that much I know. I'll wrench it out of him. It is three thousand miles to Maryland after all. Project.

We pull into the Target parking lot, which is surprisingly busy for a Sunday morning. Even the Linens ‘N Things is bustling. All the families in the lot stare as we walk toward the store. Guess they don't see many redheads in cocktail dresses and fake fur or musclebound blondes in this neck of the world. At least the handcuffs are gone. He had a spare key in the duffel bag. My wrists are red and raw, which can't help matters. Inconspicuous, we ain't.

Since I'm not footing the bill, and I need one of everything, I go a little crazy shopping. Enough clothes for a month, toiletries, munchies, and soda to feed us for a week, magazines and CDs to keep me occupied as Blondie has proven himself a lousy conversationalist, pillow and blanket for napping, and a huge suitcase. Basically, anything I saw that I wanted, I threw in the cart. All he contributed was a first-aid kit, a thousand Slim Jims and protein bars, a map, and Gatorade. He doesn't say a word as I keep adding items. A whole new wardrobe. Thank you, Daddy Dearest.

After the teenager rings up a few items, I take them—khaki shorts, cerulean t-shirt, flip flops, hairbrush, and deodorant—into the restroom to clean up while he pays. It's no wonder Blondie was immune to my flirting, I'm a mess. Makeup smeared or gone, hair a rat's nest, dress so wrinkled it could double as an accordion. I do my best to reassemble myself, changing my clothes and brushing my hair. Have to do. Blondie waits beside the restroom door when I step out. My improvements go unnoticed as he never unglues those eyes from the man with a headset who keeps glancing over. “What?” I ask.

“Let's get out of here,” Jason says. He looks back at the man as we hurry toward the exit.

“What? What is it? Who is that guy?”

“Manager. My card was rejected. Had to use the pack business one. Then that man came over.”

“Forget to pay your bill there, Blondie? Don't be embarrassed. My cards are always being rejected.” We walk out of the store into the scorching day. “You should at least pay the—oh, fuck.”

We stop dead when we spot the police cruiser beside our Mustang with an officer reading the license plate into his radio. Guess someone got the plate last night as we made our getaway. “Now we know why your card was flagged,” I offer.

“Shit,” Jason says.

“Yeah, we have about a minute before they get word you just tried your card inside. We have to get out of here.”

“My weapons are in there. My clothes.”

“Forget them. Come on.” I tug on his shirt. He snaps out of his
fog and follows me away from the police, blending in with the happy
families. We need new wheels. Lucky for us I've known some colorful characters through the years, including a car thief. He dated one of my roommates in New Orleans. Always liked the guy. Today more than ever. I push the shopping cart toward the back of the lot.

“Where are you going?” Jason asks.

“Employees have to park far from the store. If we're lucky, we'll boost one of theirs. It'll be hours before they report it.” We have a winner. “Here. This one,” I say with a grin.

A Honda Civic, one of the most nondescript, widely bought models around. There are two in this row alone. It's white as well, the most popular car color. It'll do the job. My smile drops at the sound of a police siren. I glance back at the Mustang and spot an officer walking into Target as another cruiser pulls up beside the Mustang. Shit. I reach under the back wheel of the Civic. Nothing.

“What are you doing now?”

The front right wheel. Nothing. Front left … yes! I yank off the magnetic key box with a triumphant grin. Thank you, Bubba. The corners of Blondie's mouth twitch in what I think is his version of a smile. I unlock the car. “Hurry!” We quickly toss all our bags into the backseat and climb in the front. Jason starts the car and pulls out, away from the swarm of police.

“Marshal Donovan's been a busy boy,” I say.

“All my guns. All my ammo. Clothes. Emergency cash.”

“Speaking of cash, the card that went through at Target, they'll probably pull the number. If you use it again, they'll track us with it.”

His scowl deepens along with the creases in his forehead. “We need money.”

I think for a second. “ATMs. We find another shopping center, hit all the ATMs in the stores, get the limit from each. Use cash for everything. Untraceable. We need to change the license plates on this car anyway.”

“We do?”

“Yeah. We find the exact same model and color, then switch their plates for this one. That way if someone runs them, the car doesn't come up stolen. No one ever notices their plates are different.”

He glances over at me, confusion overtaking his face again. “How do you know all this?”

“How do you not, Blondie?” I ask with a proud smirk.

He doesn't answer. He just returns his attention to the road. Think I offended him. This time we don't have far to go for another strip mall or another white Civic, only about a mile. I wait anxiously in the car, scanning the highway for police, as Blondie hits the stores with an ATM sign in the window, all four of them. He returns after the second, a hardware store, with my requested screwdriver. He continues on our funds run as I take care of our other problem. My heart pounds as I remove the license plates from the cars. The few times people pass by, my throat closes up as I pretend to tie my flip flops. If they don't believe my pantomime they don't say a word or stop walking. Thank God for modern apathy. Blondie returns as I screw in the back plate on our new car. “We need to hurry,” he says.

I give it two more twists. “Done.” Like a gentleman, he holds out his hand to help me stand. “How much you get?”

“Thousand.”

Should be more than enough—
shit
. Sirens. My protector and I exchange a glance before rushing into the car. I barely get the door closed before he pulls out. As he drives out of the lot, I start rooting around in the bags in the back for the maps. “Drive about five above. Do the limit or below, it's suspicious. Above five, risk a ticket.” Oh, my sunglasses. I retrieve them and the map book before plopping back down in my co-pilot chair. “We can't take I-40 anymore,” I say as I open the book to California. “They know we're using it. Plus you have to stop at the California border to check for vegetation if memory serves. We have to assume if they have the Mustang's description out, they have ours out as well. Our best bet … yep,” I say, reviewing the map, “is to backtrack to I-15 then take I-70 through Utah, Colorado, so on. Other option is I-80 through Wyoming, Nebraska, etc. 80 is farther so probably safer, but it'll add half a day. My vote's still for 80 though.
What
?” I snap. He's been glancing at me damn near slack-jawed through my instructions. It's making me self-conscious.

“N-Nothing. Just … surprised.”

“By?”

“How good you are at this.”

Oh. Huh. A satisfied smile crosses my face. “Well, Blondie,” I say, kicking up my feet on the dash, “I may have barely passed high school, but I have a damn Ph.D. in street smarts and survival. Stick with me, handsome.” I slip on my cat's-eye sunglasses and stare at the wide open road. “Might just learn a thing or two.”

And I settle into the seat of our stolen car. I may have just committed a felony, I may be on the run from both police and homicidal werewolves, I may be riding shotgun with a killer, but damned if I'm not enjoying myself a little. Just hope this walk on the wild side doesn't end at a cemetery.

three

The enjoyment doesn't last
long. The thrill of our escape wanes within the hour, giving way to boredom.
Massive
boredom. I talk for almost an hour straight when I can't take the five minutes of complete silence a second longer. I tell Blondie about my career, all the places I've lived, and I think he listens. Can't be sure. He doesn't say a word, just nods. I feel like I'm talking to myself,
so I shut up after my life story's complete. He doesn't offer one fact
about himself in return. Guess sharing and conversation aren't his forte.

After my monologue, I spend my time fiddling with the radio, staring out the window at the desert, or biting my cuticles. Thrilling. I almost wish we'd get into another car chase just to break the monotony. Still Blondie doesn't utter more than ten words in seven hours and most of those were to the drive-through attendant at McDonald's when we buy lunch. The man scarfed down five Big Macs like he was in a competition. I can add “almost only eats meat” to the werewolf file growing larger in my brain. Went through an entire box of Slim Jims too. I pity any cow that crosses his path.

We make it over the Utah border and have to fill up. I leap at the chance to take over driving duty when he suggests it. His eyes have been drooping since Vegas, where he refused my first offer to switch. Control freak. Blondie's snoring by the time we're back on the interstate. Cruise control does my heavy lifting. We haven't passed a single speed trap, but I still only keep it five above. People, even trucks, pass us once or twice with a rude hand gesture, but probable cause trumps rudeness in this case. An hour into my shift, Jason moans in his sleep as if in pain and flips over to face me. His brow is furrowed again, and his face is scrunched up as if he's smelled something foul, but a second later he relaxes. Bad dream.

I take this chance to study his peaceful face. I've tried a few times when he was awake, but he'd notice and turn to glare at me. Don't think he likes to be looked at. No clue why. He's fucking gorgeous, especially asleep. Gone is the off-putting menace and thorniness that he always seems to exude, on purpose or not. His lips are a lot fuller than I thought. Pinker too, like the color you'd paint a room when you found out you were having a girl. He has long blonde lashes too. I'm jealous of that front. Add that to the muscles, thick hair, and cutting cheekbones—he's a babe. I'll bet he's fierce in bed too. As take charge and masculine as he was last night when he was fighting for my life. I do like it a little rough sometimes. And we do have days and days of dull driving all alone together. A quickie or two
would
break the monotony. Not to mention he did save my life and everything. Can't think of a better way to thank him. I smile at the mere thought of those lips on mine, him stretching me apart as I writhe against him. Damn, I'm wet already. It's decided then. Before we reach Maryland, I'm gonna ride that man like a rollercoaster.

The question though is how best to go about seducing him. I wonder what his type is. Flighty and sweet? Damsel in distress? Strong and take charge? Of course he could be gay. Or married. Hell, come to think of it, I don't know a fucking fact about him. Not even his last name. Not that I get the last names of a lot of the men I sleep with, but still. Might help to know these things for the seduction, if not just in general. The more I know the better I'll be able to play him in any given situation. You can't adapt if you don't know the environment.

As I'm culling together an interrogation list, his cell phone rings. All that survived our great escape was what he had on him: wallet, cell phone, and Glock with an extra clip. Blondie stirs and opens his eyes on the third ring.

“Hello?” he croaks before listening to the person on the other end. “Hey, Tate, what's going on? Is everything alright?” He listens. “Thanks. Appreciate it. It's good to hear your voice too. How are things there?” Silence as he listens for a full minute. “No, you, Adam, and whoever can stay at my place as long as you need. Sounds cramped at the main house.” More silence. “Yeah, ran into some trouble. No question.” He's quiet, then glances at me. “I don't want to talk about it right now.” I believe my ears are burning. “Yeah.” He listens. “Don't know. Think we're still in Utah on 15 going to 80?” He glances at me, and I nod. “Yeah, probably two days if we don't stop.” Silence, then he glances at me again. It could be the setting sun, but I do believe his cheeks are turning as pink as his lips. “That is not going to happen.” His mouth sets vice tight. “I'm not you.” Quiet. “I'm hanging up now if—” Silence for a few seconds. “That may be required. Thank you for the offer. I have to go. Talk to you later. Bye.” He ends the call.

“Your boyfriend okay?” I ask.

“M-My what?”

“Boyfriend. Call sounded a little naughty is all. I mean, no judgment here. I live in Southern California, I know more gay people than straight.”

“I'm not gay,” Jason says, slipping the phone back in his pocket. “Tate is my friend.”

“Oh. My mistake.” One question ticked off. “So, what's going on in war-torn Maryland?”

“Lockdown. The majority of the pack who live within a hundred miles have reached the compound. Families are still arriving though. It's chaos. They're having to set up tents outside, RVs on the lawn. Over forty men, women, and children in a house with ten bedrooms.”

“How many werewolves does my fa—
Frank
have?”

“We're thirty-two strong, spread from Maine to Florida. The Eastern Pack is responsible for all werewolf activity from the Mississippi River to the Atlantic.”

“And only thirty?”

“There's an estimated hundred fifty werewolves in America. Not all are pack because they haven't made themselves known or did not want to join.”

“Only a hundred fifty in all of America?”

“We were once much more, thousands even, but the hunters and witch finders brought us close to extinction. Like the true witches, our ancestors fled to the wilds of Russia, Canada, and the United States, and built from there.”

“How did you become one? Is it like the movies? Do you have to be bitten?”

“No, my father was a werewolf. You are either born one or the
curse can be transmitted through fluid exchange while in wolf form, when there is a higher concentration of the magic and virus.
Most who are attacked fail to survive, and those who do often take their own lives after their first change.”

“Why?” I ask.

“It is difficult to control the beast, even with years of experience. More often than not they don't know what they've become and fail to take the proper precautions. A loved one often dies.”

“Jesus. That's terrible.” It is. This werewolf thing sure does sound God-awful. Good thing I only want a one-night stand, not a relationship with one. I pause. “So, your children are werewolves?”

“If I ever have any, yes. The first change occurs during puberty.”

No kids. Check. “And the full moon? Silver bullets? It's all true?”

“Yes. With practice some can call their beast at will, no matter the phase of the moon, but during the full moon the magic overtakes us, and the change must come. Silver burns and makes it difficult to heal, so we bleed out. Normally we heal ten times faster than humans, we're immune to most diseases, and we're five times stronger than you. Our senses are more acute as well, along with our reflexes.”

“You
are
the Incredible Hulk,” I say with a smirk.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind.” I drop the smile. “So, what do you do when you're not doing Frank's bidding? Have a job? A girlfriend? Wife? Hobbies?”

“No girlfriend or wife.” Double check. Rollercoaster is a go. “My friend Adam and I own a contracting company with a few other wolves. We do home improvement, construction, things like that.”

“Hobbies?” I prompt.

“Woodworking. I construct beds, chairs, even a boat once.”

“Cool. I love men who work with their hands. It's so … rugged.”

He glances at me with confusion. “It's just a hobby.”

“One I am sure you excel at.”

His eyes narrow. “What makes you say that? There's no basis for that statement.”

“Um …” I have no clue what to say. “I don't know. You seem like someone who's good at whatever he sets his mind to. I'll bet when we get to Maryland, I'll be proven right.” I glance over at him. His eyes have returned to normal. Guess he buys this. I've got him talking now, don't want to lose the momentum. “Do you have any brothers or sisters or anything?”

Those eyes become pinpoints again, aimed at me. Now what? “Why do you ask? Why are you asking so many questions? Why do you care?”

I do a literal double take at his vehemence. “Whoa. Okay, I'm just trying to get to know you. I'm not trying to steal your identity or anything. Chill. God. Are you always this defensive and paranoid?” I shake my head and stare straight ahead. “Forget I asked.”

I don't look over, but out of the corner of my eye, I spy Jason studying me again. I pout as if he's bruised my feelings. He is an odd one. Limited social skills for sure. Good thing I enjoy a challenge from time to time. I pretend to literally shake the negativi
ty off and turn up the radio. He hangs his head a few inches, properly cowed. Works every time. “I'm sorry,” he says.

“It's fine,” I say, a little short. “Your orders were to protect me, not talk to me, right? You want to remain a grumpy man of mystery, no skin off my nose. Just trying to make the trip more enjoyable. I won't try to bring you into the fun again.”

“I didn't … I …” He stops stammering. “I'm sorry. I … don't talk much. Especially about myself.”

Oh, my God. He's shy! Huh. I dig it. I've never met anyone as hot as him who was anything but a narcissist. He is so adorable, I could just melt. Must keep this to myself though. I don't want to scare him back into his hole. “Fair enough. We don't have to share intimate details if you're not comfortable yet. I will get it out of you, though.” I raise an eyebrow and smile seductively. “I have ways of making you talk, Blondie.” Damned if he isn't blushing again. Once again,
so
adorable it makes a basket of puppies look like a basket of rats. “But I am about ten seconds from falling asleep at the wheel, so as co-pilot it's your job to entertain me. Them's the rules.”

“How?”

“I don't know.” I think for a second. “Tell me about my sperm donor.”

“Da—
Frank
?”

“Yeah. What's he like? Get me prepped for the reunion.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Uh, how'd you meet him? Start at the beginning,” I suggest.

“It was … complicated.”

I roll my eyes. “Come on, Blondie. You can do better than that. He's my bio-dad, I kind of have a right to know what he's been up to since he ditched me.”

“He didn't ditch you,” Jason insists.

“Sure. Whatever.” I roll my eyes again. “So, how'd you meet? When he joined your pack?”

“No. He brought me in some years later.”

“
He
brought you in?”

“When I was eight. He saved my life,” Jason says.

“How? What happened?” Jason doesn't answer. He stares out the window at the brown prairie and rolling hills outside. “Sorry. Too personal, I'm sure. You don't have to answer.”

“No,” he says, glancing back at me. “You're right. You should know what kind of man he is.”

“I'd appreciate it.”

Jason's jaw sets, and all the muscles in his face stand at attention. He hasn't even begun the story, and he's already rigid. “My father … was not a good man. Before I was born, he was exiled from his pack in Russia. For the rape of another member. He wasn't arrested, but he emigrated to America, worked as a translator for the government and later as a bodyguard for the vampire Lord of D.C.”

“Wait, vampires are real too?”

“Yes. Our kind doesn't mix well with theirs. My father was an exception. He was fond of Peter. Loyal, though
only
to Peter. With everyone else, my mother and myself included, he was brutal. One of my earliest memories is of him beating my mother for making a comment about his haircut. When I was six, I fell asleep to their fighting, and when I woke, she was gone. He claimed she abandoned us,
me,
but I know now he must have killed her.”

“Jesus.”

“For the next two years, I was basically on my own. Alone. The only times my father paid attention to me was to beat me after a stressful day. I took care of myself. Cooking, cleaning. I didn't go to school, I just stayed in the house watching TV as I was told. No
one but him, the odd girlfriend, and colleague ever came over. I'd hide in my room. Then one night, he didn't return home. I though
t nothing of it. He'd been angrier, more agitated than normal for days. I know now he was scared.”

“Why?” I ask, captivated.

“Bobby Conlon and Lord Peter had no love lost between them, but they tolerated one another for decades until they both wanted to buy a piece of property in D.C. A few days later, one of the pack was found drained of blood—Abigail was seventeen. Then another wolf was murdered in the same manner. In retaliation, some wolves took it upon themselves to slaughter a few vampires, along with their human companions. That brought in the F.R.E.A.K.S.”

“The who?”

“The preternatural police. They investigated, then acted as mediator between our two factions. The men finally agreed to a cease fire when it was uncovered my father was responsible. He'd been dating Abigail, and when she refused him sex one night, he beat and raped her. Fearing she'd talk, knowing she was pack, and that there were tensions between the wolves and vampires, he made her death seem like a retribution vampire attack. Then he murdered another wolf for good measure. When the pack was given definitive proof of his actions, they broke into my house looking for him, your father included. They found me in the closet, clutching a butcher knife.”