Laura's Wolf (Werewolf Marines) (4 page)

“Barn,” he finished. “It’s okay, you can say it. Listen, this homeless thing is weird for me too. Two months ago I was living on a military base in Afghanistan.”

As soon as he said that, he wished he hadn’t. His shoulders tensed as he waited for her to ask him what happened.

“It’s amazing how fast things can happen. In a flash, like that.” Laura snapped her fingers. “One second you’re having an ordinary day, and the next second your entire life is changed forever.”

Alvarado had sounded like that after he’d had two men killed on a patrol he’d led: sorrow and resignation, anger and guilt, bitterness and regret. And over it all, the crushing knowledge that you could never, ever change what had already happened.

Roy wondered if the scarf over her face wasn’t only to protect her from the cold. She’d sounded… scarred.

“Yeah,” he said belatedly. “‘In a flash’ is exactly right.”

One moment, the noise of the whirling rotors had been lulling him to sleep; the next second, a huge explosion had rocked him backward, and he’d felt the impact—painless at first—of metal slamming into his chest. He’d looked down, more surprised than frightened, and known immediately that nothing would ever be the same.

Silence fell, but it felt more companionable than awkward. He sensed that Laura, too, had been remembering.

She opened the basket, revealing a thermos, a half-loaf of French bread wrapped in a cloth napkin, and a bowl and spoon. Then she glanced around, looking for a place to set them.

With a grin, Roy indicated a cardboard box. “My dining room… box.”

“It’s home-made venison stew. I hope you eat that.”

“I love venison.” On his way here, Roy had killed a deer and eaten it raw. It had been delicious… to a wolf.

Laura started to turn away. “I hope you enjoy it.”

Roy couldn’t stand the thought of her leaving so soon. He wanted to keep talking to her, keep breathing in her sweet-sharp scent. He wanted to see her face, whatever it looked like.

He held up his hand. “Wait! Have you eaten yet?”

She hesitated, and he wished he’d said nothing. Obviously, the last thing she wanted was to have dinner with the homeless guy lurking in the barn. At least he’d left her the easy out of saying that she’d already eaten.

To his surprise, she said, “No. But I only brought the one bowl and spoon.”

“I have another bowl and spoon here,” Roy said. “I even have a knife and a fork. And a plate.”

The tone of her voice made him think that she was smiling. “Well, in that case…”

Laura took off her parka and draped it over a chair, then unwound the scarf from her face.

She wasn’t scarred. Or, at least, her scars weren’t on her pretty face. But there were dark circles under her honey-brown eyes, and her smile, though genuine, was also sad. He didn’t know what had happened to cast that shadow over her, but he had the urge to take her into his arms, hold her tight, and tell her that everything would be all right.

Which was ridiculous. Even if he hadn’t just met her five minutes ago, he was in no position to fix anything for anyone. He was a homeless werewolf on the run from unknown sinister forces. There was no way he’d get a sweet woman like Laura tangled up in his weird, dangerous problems.

He tried to push the “hold her tight” fantasy aside, but as he kept looking at her, more fantasies sprang up to take their place. Fantasies of tangling his fingers in her curly brown hair. Fantasies of kissing her round cheeks and full lips. Fantasies of touching the soft mounds of her breasts, of running his fingers over the luscious curves of her thighs…

“I’ll get the other spoon.” He turned and nearly bolted across the barn.

Roy pretended to rummage around in the box of stuff George had given him, willing the heat that had welled up in him to subside. The depressing thought that Laura’s father had given him literally everything he had, down to the clothes he was wearing, squelched the last of his fantasies.

He returned with the promised bowl and spoon, along with a folded blanket.

With a smile, she took the blanket and sat cross-legged on it. Roy sat across from her at the cardboard box as she set it like a dinner table. He felt like a boy playing house, on special request from the pretty girl across the street.

“What were you reading?” Laura asked.

“A western your father loaned me.”

“Oh? Which one?”

“
The Key-Lock Man
, by Louis L’Amour.”

“Oh, I love that one!” Laura exclaimed. “That and
The Lonesome Gods
are my favorites of his. What are yours?”

“Can’t say yet,” Roy replied. “I’ve never read anything by him before. But a buddy of mine was a fan of his. The other guys in my platoon liked westerns too, so Marco passed them around. But the first time he had a Louis L’Amour novel, it got lost right before it would have been my turn to read it. The next time—also right before my turn—someone left it near a suspicious package and it got remote-detonated. After that, it turned into a joke to keep the Louis L’Amours away from me. When I finally I got my hands on one, it turned out that someone—my money’s on Alec—had cut off the cover to
Last Stand at Papago Wells
and glued it on to a romance novel called
Her Fiery Passion, His Icy Heart
.”

Laura laughed. “What did you do?”

“I read
Her Fiery Passion
,” he admitted. “It wasn’t bad, actually. I liked the scene where the heroine disguised herself as a man and fought a duel. Once I finished it, I let Alec overhear me telling Suarez it had one of the most graphic sex scenes I’d ever read. After that, it disappeared, I assume into Alec’s sleeping bag.”

“Did it have any sort of sex scene?” Laura asked, smiling.

“Not unless you count ‘Locked together in longing, they sought their pleasure of each other on the ballroom floor.’ Followed by a blank line. Followed by, ‘The next morning…’”

“Where were you guys when you were passing around the westerns?”

“Afghanistan,” Roy replied. “Civilians think we’re in combat all the time, but it’s more like ten percent combat, forty percent preparing for combat, and fifty percent bored out of our minds and desperately searching for something to do. ”

“What did you do other than read, during the bored out of your mind time?”

“Worked out. Talked. Played cards.”

“Cards, huh? Do you play poker?”

“I know how, but I never got the hang of the poker face.” He saw Laura’s lips twitch mischievously at that. “Do you play?”

She gave him a deadpan stare—her poker face, he realized—then nodded. “When I go on vacation in Las Vegas, I pay for my hotel and so forth playing poker. I’m not a gambler other than that,” she said hastily, as if she thought he might disapprove. “Vegas has fantastic restaurants and theatre and concerts. And I like the desert.”

“I do too,” Roy said. “I grew up in New Mexico. Where are you from?”

“All over. But I was born in Missouri. The Show-Me state, whatever that means.”

Between the conversation and the “table” between them, Roy felt as if he’d accidentally gone on a first date. It didn’t help that the barn was illuminated with candle light.

Candle-lit dinners and walks on the beach,
he thought.
No beach, but we could walk in the forest…

Laura was apparently thinking the same thing—at least, about the candles—because she said, “I could have sworn Dad said the barn had electricity.” Her gaze settled on the light switch. “Is the power out?”

Roy didn’t want to lie to her, but he could hardly tell her that it was a side effect of becoming a werewolf. “The power’s on. I was wounded in Afghanistan. Electric lights hurt my eyes now.”

All three statements were true, at least. He hoped she wouldn’t ask for more details.

To his relief, she only asked, “Which branch of service?”

“Marines.”

“Semper fi?”

“Oorah,” Roy said automatically.

“What was that?”

“It means ‘yes, sir,’ or ‘good job,’ or “go for it.’ Or ‘someone just said our motto.’”

Laura smiled. “When did you join?”

“I was eighteen. I wanted to test myself.”

“Is that why you picked the Marines, specifically? You thought they’d be the hardest test?”

“Yeah, that’s exactly why.” Roy wondered what had made Laura come to that conclusion. Civilians didn’t usually think of doing something
because
it was difficult.

Laura unscrewed the thermos and poured out the venison stew. The savory aroma that rose up went straight to some primal part of his brain, sending messages of safety and contentment and hominess.

Safety
. How strange that he’d feel safe now, when he was on the run, unarmed, in an unsecured area, and without his buddies to watch his back, alone except for a civilian woman who undoubtedly wasn’t armed either. It was a pleasant feeling, but he didn’t trust it.

Roy tried the stew, and all his mixed feelings went out the window, washed away by the rush of sensation. The venison stew was rich and satisfying, tangy with wine and scented with herbs. It was hard to stop eating it for long enough to compliment Laura. “This is fantastic. Where’d you learn to cook like this?”

“Dad’s an amateur gourmet chef. If he’d made this, it would have twenty spices you’ve never heard of and flash-fried kale on top.”

Roy chuckled. “I’m not big on kale. I’d probably like yours better.”

“Kale’s very trendy right now,” Laura said, smiling. “You can hardly order anything anywhere without getting a side of braised kale or a kale salad starter or dehydrated kale powder sprinkled over the mashed potatoes. I’m not surprised you’re sick of it.”

“Dehydrated kale powder, seriously?” Roy asked. “That sounds like something you’d get in an MRE.”

“A what?”

“A Meal Ready to Eat. Also known as Meals Rejected by Everyone.” Not to mention other terms too gross to repeat while Laura was eating, the mildest of which was Meals Refusing to Exit. “Field rations. They last for years, they can be dropped from an airplane without anyone noticing the difference, and they have twenty-four entrees that all taste like dog food.”

Laura laughed. “Dog food topped with kale powder, what a treat.”

“So kale’s in fashion now? My mother used to buy it because it was green and cheap.”

“Did she teach you to cook?”

“She tried. I never learned to make anything like this stew, though. Just easy stuff like burgers and pancakes. But she worked long hours, so I used to cook when she wasn’t around or she was too tired.”

“Was it just you and your mom, growing up?” Laura asked.

“Yeah.” Roy could have left it at that. Usually he did. But to his own surprise, he found himself adding, “My father was never in the picture. When I was a kid and I asked about him, my mom gave me the ‘Sometimes things just don’t work out’ speech. But what had really happened was that when they were dating, he promised to marry her and support her. Then she got pregnant, and he dropped her like a hot potato. Left her to raise me all by herself. I saw him maybe once or twice a year, when he came by to see my mom. Eventually I found out that what he was doing was trying to sweet-talk her out of collecting child support.”

“Nice guy,” Laura remarked ironically.

“When I was a little boy, he’d say, ‘Hey, Roy, you’ve gotten so big. I bet you play sports, huh? Let’s go to the park some time, I’ll teach you to throw a curveball.’ I’d get all excited and ask Mom if I could, and she’d look at him and say, ‘Of course you can see your son. Call me to set it up.’ And he never would. Next year, same deal: ‘Hey, Roy, you a basketball fan? I can get tickets.’ He pulled that shit on me until I was fifteen, which is when I told him to take his worthless promises and shove them up his—” Roy broke off, hearing the anger that had crept into his voice.
Dial it back,
he thought.
The language, too.
“Excuse me.”

To his relief, Laura seemed unperturbed. “He sounds like a real prize. Good for you for not jumping at the bait.”

“That was the last time I ever saw him. I was over six feet tall by then, so maybe I scared him off. Mom said he showed up a few more times, but never when I was around.” Roy cupped his hands around his bowl of stew, warming them, breathing in the soothing aroma.
“What about you? Same deal, just you and your dad?”

Laura nodded. “Not for the same reason, though. My mother died when I was three. I don’t remember her.”

Roy dipped the bread in the stew. “You said you lived all over. Why all the moving?”

Laura’s fingers tensed on her own bread, crumbling it.

“Sorry,” Roy said. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No, it’s okay.” Laura smiled brightly, but her cheer didn’t reach her eyes. “Dad didn’t tell you what he does for a living, huh?”

Roy shook his head.

“He’s a Shakespearean actor,” Laura said. “We’d go from town to town, wherever he got hired, for as long as their Shakespeare festival lasted. You’d be surprised how many towns have them.”

Roy hadn’t been consciously listening to Laura’s breathing and heartbeat, but he noticed that both had sped up. Her scent changed, too, getting a tinge sharper.

She abruptly stood up. “It was nice having dinner with you, Roy. Good night!”

Before he could reply, she’d grabbed her parka, scarf, and walking stick, and was out the door. She didn’t even put on the parka. Her bowl was still half-f of stew.

Roy sat perplexed on the floor, wondering what had happened. She’d left the bathwater running? She had a call scheduled? It had occurred to her that he might be a serial killer? She’d remembered some Shakespeare-related trauma and had a panic attack?

He finished his stew and bread, then eyed Laura’s with growing temptation. He finally decided that there was no way Laura would return that night, and polished off hers as well. Apart from the hunting he’d done in the forest, tearing into raw meat with a wolf’s fierce appetite, it had been a long time since he’d eaten for any reason but the dogged determination to keep his strength up. The food in the lab hadn’t been MREs, but it had been at about that level of appeal. It was impressive how much better a good meal made him feel.