Werewolf Sings the Blues (7 page)

“What'd you do?”

“They'd invaded my territory. I stabbed R.J., slashed at John. They still bring it up. Still haven't forgiven me. Your father was the one who grabbed me as I thrashed around. I bit him, scratched him, cut him, but he just hugged me and whispered it'd all be okay until I ran out of energy.”

Nice of him. “What happened to your father?”

“In the spirit of their newfound cooperation, Peter informed the pack where he was hiding. Abigail's father executed him.”

“I'm … sorry?” Not sure of the appropriate response here.

“Don't be. If ever someone needed putting down, it was Ivan. I'm just sorry I wasn't the one to do it,” Jason says, cold as the Arctic.

He stares out the window again, deep in thought. I give him a few seconds of reflection before asking, “So, what happened next? The pack invited you in with open arms?”

He all but jerks at the sound of my voice. I think he forgot I was here. “What? No. Not exactly. I was wild. Assaulted anyone who got close. I wouldn't eat, wouldn't put on the clothes they gave me. Wouldn't speak. I was afraid to go outside. I thought they were going to kill me. Most gave up even trying, except Maureen Blue, her son Adam, and Dad.”

Huh? “Wait.
Dad
?”

Jason glances at me again, I think a little guilty if I'm reading his eyes right, but quickly looks away again. “The others didn't want me there. Sins of the father and all. A constant reminder of Ivan. I've never blamed them for that.” He pauses. “But Dad saw something in me. Maybe he wanted to atone for leaving you, I don't know. He convinced Bobby not to ship me off to another pack or foster care. He later told me the moment he looked into my eyes
when he was holding me that night, he knew I was to be his in all but blood. Just
knew,
as if God whispered it to him. We werewolves take those instincts seriously,” Jason says with another uncom
fortable glance my way. “Dad took things slow, just being in the same room as me so I'd get used to his presence. Then talking, bringing me toys, sometimes he'd even bring Matt so I'd get used to him too. It was about a month before I'd let Dad within a foot of me, and another two weeks before I said a word to him. Almost two
months to the day I met him, I moved in with him, Jenny, and Matt
. They adopted me. Raised me. As I said, I'd be dead if it wasn't for Frank Dahl.”

I stare at him slack jawed. “So … you're my brother?”

“Adopted. I guess. Yes.”

Okay, brain overload. I don't know how to feel about this information. I mean, I'm more than glad Jason was rescued from that life. No one deserves a father like that. I'm sure as hell shocked he's turned out as well as he did. It explains a lot too. The social awkwardness. Not wanting to talk about himself. Not to mention I'm hella embarrassed I'm lusting after a relative, but it's not as if he's blood, or even that we were raised together. Still. A little fucked up. But, if I'm honest with myself, what's bubbling most to the surface is … rage. Pure goddamn rage, hot and powerful enough to fuel a power plant.

And resent. Really fucking resentful. Beside me is my replacement. All the love I should have received went to him. He's the one who got the bedtime stories. The scoldings for bad grades. The chicken soup for flus. The passing of wisdom. The building of confidence only supplied by unconditional love and a sense of true safety. I always figured Frank had been a selfish bastard incapable of those things. You really can't fault someone for something when they just don't have it inside them. It'd be like blaming the deaf for their lack of musical appreciation. But he could. And he did. Just not with me.

This time I'm the source of the uncomfortable silence. “I've upset you,” Jason says.

“No,” I lie. “I just … that was a horrible story. I am
so
sorry you had to go through all that.”

“It worked out for the best.”

“Right. I'm glad. For you.” Okay, that's all the sharing I can stomach for now. I dial up the radio again and keep my eyes straight ahead. Blondie doesn't take the hint. He stares at me, I think attempting to read my face. I stand the scrutiny for all of thirty seconds. “What?” I snap.

“You lied.”

“Excuse me?”

“You lied about what upset you.”

“Of course I didn't! I wouldn't wish what happened to you on Osama Bin Laden!”

“I trained myself to recognize subterfuge in others. You just did it again. You lied about lying. So, why did my story upset you?”

Okay, now I'm just getting annoyed. “Why do you care? It's not important. Just leave it alone.” He continues staring. Thirty more seconds, then, “
What
?”

“You don't want me as your brother.”

“Huh?”

“It's the most logical answer,” he says, emotionless. “You reached maximum agitation when I told you that. The muscles in your face tensed and your breathing deepened.”

Once again I look at him, literally slack jawed. His face is a mask, but when I meet his eyes, my throat tightens. Oh, shit. I've
hurt his feelings. He thinks my anger is directed at him, not Frank. I've learned that there are two reasons people who never show their emotions and act tough do it. One, they're just a bastard and have none. Blondie and I fit into the second. We feel things too deeply. We've had to build a wall, otherwise we'd be nothing but a raw nerve and couldn't function. I think I just exposed that nerve.

It couldn't have been easy being thrown so young into what sounds like such a close-knit group as the pack, especially after what his father did to them. All the looks, all the whispers behind his back. The suspicion. Knowing that, save a few, they didn't really want him there. That he was an interloper. Called family but not fully embraced by them, no matter how hard he tried. I know
exactly
how that is. A sliver of him will always be that eight-year-old starved of love and acceptance. And I just slammed a sledgehammer into that part.

Very quickly, I lean across and peck his cheek. He flinches and his eyes double in size as if I'd just poked a cattle prod into his side
. “What—Why did you do that?” he asks, almost horrified.

Good thing I didn't follow my first impulse and kiss him on the lips. “Because you're cute. Because I like you. Because I don't want you to think for a second I don't. As I said before, you saved my life. Anything you do or did is alright by me, Blondie.”

His eyes haven't left my face since the kiss, haven't stopped examining me. The man doesn't know the meaning of the phrase face value. Since every word is the truth, he believes me. His tense s
houlders drop a millimeter or two. “Then why were you agitated?”

Damn. He is like a fucking dog with a bone. Or I guess a werewolf with one. “Because I'm a selfish bitch, okay? It's all me. It has nothing to do with you. Let's just leave it at that, alright?” He continues staring, and once again thirty seconds is my threshold. “
What
? Don't you know it's not polite to gawk?”

“I don't want to leave it at that.”

I roll my eyes. “Why the fuck do you care so much?”

“I want to understand you,” he says, as usual emotionless. Jesus Christ, it's like Spock's riding shotgun. “I want to get to know you. You're part of my family. It's normal to—”

“Wait,” I cut in. “Just stop right there. Let's get one thing clear right off the bat, gorgeous. I am not your family, okay? My sperm donor might have raised you, even made it legal, but I am not your sister. I have a sister. I grew up with her. We have a shared history. Shared experiences. Shared love. She's the only person on this planet I
really
consider family. You and I, we haven't known each other even twenty-four hours. I didn't know you existed until yesterday. We're strangers. Frank saw to that.

“Now, I like you. I truly do. And I appreciate all you've done for me more than words can cover, but when this whole shebang is over, I will not be popping over for Dahl Family Thanksgiving or Christmas every year. He may be your savior, and you may love him, but all Frank Dahl is to me is the asshole who abandoned me. And sending you, and keeping yearly tabs on me doesn't make up for twenty-eight years of nothing. He
thought
about me? Where was he when I had my appendix out? During my first concert? Every single night across the damn dinner table?”

“It was necessary to protect you,” Jason says harshly. “To give you a normal life.”

I scoff. “Yeah, a normal life with two narcissists who ignored me except when they decided it was time to criticize me for
everything
I was doing wrong. Not to help me, no, because it reflected badly on
them
. My weight, my clothes, my hair, my grades, my choice in music, when I was a kid none of it was good enough for them, especially my mother. Barry, my stepfather, well he never had much use for me even before Jessie was born. I was literally the redheaded stepchild. I was a weed he couldn't remove from his precious rose garden of a family. He didn't even visit me in the hospital when my appendix burst. Never came to a single performance. Then, when I finally gave up trying to get their approval and started acting out? Forget it. People accepted Lizzie Borden post massacre more than my parents accepted me. They shipped me off to boarding school a hundred miles away with a week's warning.

“And you know what? I actually liked it there. I made friends, I got decent grades, I even had this wonderful music teacher, Miss Tyson, who molded me into a better singer. But no. Barry didn't want to spend any more money on me, so back to Orlando I went, and once again I wasn't good enough. Got into any trouble I could find, didn't give a shit about anything but singing. What was the point, right? Nobody ever gave a damn about me, why should I?

“I barely graduated from high school, left the next day, and never looked back. Hell, maybe I would have been better off with a pack of wolves. But I'll never know, will I, because I wasn't even presented with the option. So, I've never really had a family. I've taken care of myself, and I don't see that changing just because my sperm donor finally decided to look out for me, alright? When this bullshit is over, I'm gone. He doesn't get to be my father
now
. So please don't think of me as your pack or family or whatever. You're just setting yourself up for a big damn disappointment. I don't do long haul. I meant what I said, Blondie. I'm a selfish fucking bitch, because I learned very early on when that hammer drops, in the end all you have is yourself. People will just drag you down.”

Oh, thank God. Escape. I maneuver the car onto an off-ramp toward a gas station. I want the fuck out of this car. “So, fair warning Blondie, I like you. I do. But it's every woman for herself. If it's a choice of saving your ass or saving mine, I'll choose me every damn time and not look back.” I park beside a gas pump and take off my seat belt before smiling cruelly at my protector. “Glad you got to know me now?” Smile dropping, I open the car door. “Excuse me.”

It's hot as hell when I step out. Out of the frying pan into the fucking fire. I feel his eyes on me as I walk into the station. The ladies room is deserted. My first bit of luck ever. I splash cold water on my face and stare at myself in the mirror before sighing. As always, it's Frank's face I see reflected back. No wonder I hate the sight of myself.

four

Guess we got to
know each other well enough. I return to the car, we get in, and drive in silence save for the radio. Fine by me. I drive us through Salt Lake City, and soon after we merge onto I-80, which will take us across America. Just not tonight. An hour outside the city, my eyes begin gumming up, then growing heavy. I'm running on empty. Blondie reached his limit before the city limits and is snoozing away. Good. I can make an executive deci
sion without his input. We're stopping for the night. I need to sleep in a real bed, take a shower, maybe even swim in a pool. I can't
stand another fucking second in this car.

Right over the Wyoming border, I veer off the highway. I pass a few of the chain hotels, instead settling on a brown, dilapidated one-story popular with prostitutes judging from the woman in fishnets and tank top sitting outside in the hallway sucking on a cigarette. I doubt they'll ask for a driver's license or credit card here. Like the hookers they probably charge by the hour. The stopping motion draws Blondie out of his hibernation. His eyes flutter open like dancing butterfly wings, and he glances at our new surroundings and the almost setting sun. “What's going on?”

“We're stopping for the night,” I say as I tuck my hair under my
hat.

“No. We should keep going,” he says.

“Look, I am in no condition to continue driving all night, and neither are you. Plus we could both use a shower. You especially. We stay for the night, recharge our batteries, wake up early, and hit the road. I won't give our real names. Hell,
I
don't even know exactly where we are, how could Donovan?” I remove my seat belt. “I'm staying. If you don't want to, that's up to you.” I hand him the car key. “Feel free to drive off and leave my ass here if you so desire. The choice is yours.” I grab some cash from the glove compartment before climbing out. There is no way in hell he'll ditch me. My father raised him right.

I pass the growling and barking pit bull staring right at our car, lunging at it too on its chain. I keep my distance, though it ignores
me. Must not be a fan of werewolves. “Shut up, Maisie,” a man shout
s from inside the office. The clerk inside the front office is far more clean cut than I expected to see running a roach motel.

“Good evening, ma'am,” he says with a bright smile. “Sorry about my dog. Don't know what's gotten into her.”

Werewolves seem to bring out the worst in us bitches. “It's fine. I need a room for the night, please.”

He hands me the paper register. “Just you?”

“My husband and I.” Mr. and Mrs. Barry Anderson according to the register. I pay cash and as expected he doesn't ask for ID or a credit card. Called it. I do make a hell of an outlaw. When I stroll
out of the office with my key, the hooker has vanished but not my bodyguard. Didn't think he would, not for a second. Our room is on the other side, out of sight of the interstate at my request. I move the car closer to the room, and out of sight from passing police, before gathering all the Target bags to consolidate inside. Jason doesn't speak as I hand him the goods or as he trails me to our room. Who's Alpha now?

I step inside the room with a groan. The décor hasn't been updated since the seventies—with orange wallpapered walls and what I think was once brown shag carpet that's no longer shaggy. No visible cockroaches, no blood or other stains on the walls or bed and an ancient television facing the bed with a magic fingers feature. It's no Hilton, but it'll do. I've stayed in far worse but maybe Jason hasn't. He stands with his back to the door, cracks forming not only in his forehead but behind that stony veneer. “What?” I ask as I drop the bags and giant empty suitcase on the mattress.

“There is only one bed,” Jason observes.

Oh. Isn't he cute? “Well, you can always sleep on the floor if you're concerned about your virtue,” I say with a sly grin before glancing down at the cigarette-burnt carpet. “Though I'd be more worried about getting fleas from the carpet than me taking advantage of you in the middle of the night.” He doesn't smile at my quip. There has to be a sense of humor buried deep down in there somewhere. I
will
find it. “I'll try to keep my hands to myself if you do the same, alright?”

Damned if a glimmer of relief doesn't seal those stone cracks. Holy shit, is he scared of me? What does he think, I'm some raging nympho who's gonna roofie him?

“I'm going to walk the perimeter.” Jason scoops up the key from the table by the window and walks out, locking the door behind himself. What a strange man.

Whatever. I flip on the television just for the background noise. Three fuzzy channels. I settle on the least snowy, I think the news. I'm halfway through pulling the tags off my new wardrobe when Blondie returns. “Any bogies on the radar?” I ask.

“No.”

“See? Nothing to worry about. We're safe. Why don't you go get us some dinner? There was a K-Mart back about a mile. You should pick yourself up some new clothes too.”

“If I leave, you leave.”

I roll my eyes. I forgot this man is incapable of processing subtlety. “You're gonna make me say this? Okay.” I sigh and set down the sundress. “I need some alone time. Once again, nothing against you, I just want, no
need,
like half an hour to myself. You probably do too, especially after our … whatever. I will be fine. I'll lock and bar the door. You can even leave me the gun. Anyone but you tries to come in, I swear I'll put one between their eyes without hesitation. We each need this. Please.”

He stares at me for a few seconds, once again unreadable, before reaching into the back of his pants and removing the gun. “The safety's on, but there's one in the chamber.” He sets it on the table. “My cell is (410) 555-8723. I will return in half an hour. Do you have a preference for food?”

“Salad, large fries, strawberry milkshake. Thanks.”

He nods and grabs the car keys. The moment the door closes, I let out a long sigh. Damn that man is intense. It's like being beside an unexploded bomb. They say it's defused, but you can
never be too sure. I chain the door and wedge a chair against the handle as promised. Half an hour of peace, quiet, and stillness. I flop on the lumpy mattress and stare up at the water-damaged ceiling to clear my head. There's a lot to fucking clear.

If someone came up to me yesterday and told me I'd be in Wyoming running from the law with my long-lost semi-brother, who also happened to be a werewolf, I would have asked for a hit of whatever they were smoking. Jesus, not even twenty-four hours ago I was onstage, now I'm a federal fugitive. A car thief. Accessory to murder. Being hunted by werewolves. Oh, fuck. Panicking again.

I curl into a ball, hugging my knees to my chest. The short breaths soon give way to sobs.
This
is why I wanted him gone. I needed to have an overdue meltdown in peace. Jason doesn't strike me as a man who tolerates weakness or outpourings of emotion. Really, I don't want him to think any less of me than he already does.

I've never been a crier. Only when stressed. This qualifies. I sob until I can't see or breathe right. Images and thoughts fuel my misery. Cooper's brains splattering out. The car chase. Reading those damn letters. Mom's lack of concern about my life. Jason's story. His pain radiating like Chernobyl when he thought I was rejecting him. And my father. My fucking father. He's ruined my life all over again. I can't go home. I'm an accessory to murder. If the werewolves don't get me, the law will. My life is over. It may have been small, and more often than not shitty, but it sure as hell beat this.

Okay, calm down. Calm down, Viv
. Deep breaths. I inhale and exhale in rhythm just as Miss Tyson taught me until the sobs become weeps. With the fog of panic huffed and puffed away, I can think again. Maybe it's not as bad as I imagine. I doubt Donovan wanted the Marshal Service to know he was kidnapping innocent singers for his werewolf leader. Who knows if Cooper was even a real Marshal? Maybe I'm not even in their system. These thoughts all but stop the tears. I glance at the rotary phone on the nightstand. A little voice in my head whispers
it's a bad idea
, but as always I ignore it. Even if he doesn't know anything, I just really need to hear a familiar voice. I roll in Cyr's number.

“Hello?” he asks skeptically after the fourth ring.

“It's Viv.”

“Holy shit, Viv. What the hell happened? Are you okay? Where are you?”

“I'm fine. Sort of. But it's better if you don't know where I am.”

“Were you kidnapped? The police didn't know if you're a hostage or what. They said it was the guy from the club the night before. He hasn't hurt you has he?”

“No. I'm fine, and he didn't kidnap me. Not really. It was those other guys, the Marshals.
They
tried to kidnap me.”

“What? No, Viv. The guy you're with is real bad news. He's killed and raped at least three other women. They tracked him to the club, figured he'd been following you for days. They were putting you into protective custody when he killed that other Marshal.”

“Cyr,
Donovan
pulled a gun on me. He handcuffed me. He was gonna kill me.
Jason
saved me, okay? You weren't there. Don't believe them.”

My friend's quiet for a few seconds. “Is he there? Is he making you say this? Cough if he is.”

“Oh, hell. He's not here, okay? I swear on Nina Simone's grave. Don't believe a damn word Donovan says. I just need to know if anyone besides him has contacted you, and what they said. What do they think happened?”

“I told you. The Marshals were taking you into protective custody, the blonde guy ambushed you, beat up one Marshal, killed another and abducted you. The Ventura PD called me in today, asked me all sorts of questions. I told them about the blonde, whose name isn't Jason by the way. It's Gavin McHale. He escaped from custody in Sacramento before his murder trial two months ago. I told them he was watching you all night, but that you said you'd never seen him before.”

“So, I'm not in trouble? I'm not a fugitive?”

“Of course not! You've been fucking kidnapped, Viv! By a murderous rapist. If he really isn't there, just run. Go to the police. Call the Marshal. He gave me his card. It's here somewhere … ”

“Cyr, listen to me. Listen. The Marshal is real bad news. If he calls you, or anyone asks you about me, don't say a word. And don't tell anyone I've called you, okay? Promise?”

More silence, then, “I promise.”

“Thank you. I don't know when I'm gonna be able to come back, okay? Can you pick up my mail for me?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Thank you. I'll call when I can,” I say. “I gotta go.”

“Viv—”

I hang up. A tiny wave of relief ripples through me. I'm not a fugitive, I'm a victim. I can return to my life when this is all over. One less worry. I'll just tell them Jason kidnapped me, then let me go. The rest is for him to deal with. I stand and sigh again. There is actually some light at the end of this crazy train tunnel. I just have to survive the werewolves, Blondie, the open road, and a shitty family reunion to reach it. Piece of shit-covered cake.

As I return to my task of organizing my new wardrobe, I attempt to watch TV, but my mind just won't let up. It bothers me that I can believe the werewolf crap more than Jason being a raping serial killer. I just dismissed it without a second thought. I have the feeling he's killed enough times to qualify as a serial, but not that he enjoys the act or performs it without a legit reason. Yet, I don't feel unsafe around him. Quite the opposite. If I had to go through this alone I'd be raped, dead, or if I was lucky enough to get away I'd be curled up catatonic in the fetal position on a bathroom floor. And yet I was a total bitch to him for something Frank did to me. Me and my damn temper. It's true what they say about us redheads, we are a fiery bunch.

I'll think of a way to make it up to him. Maybe not Project Rollercoaster though. Pretty sure that train won't be leaving the track. In his mind I'm his kid sister, and unless he has an incest fantasy, which ewww, I don't see it being successful. Which is a damn bummer. I was looking forward to seducing him, not to mention the end result. Us sweaty, panting, him sliding in and ou—

The knock on the door snaps me out of my mental porno. I glance at the clock. Exactly half an hour. Time sure does fly when you're breaking down. “It's Jason,” he says on the other side. I unlock the door before pulling the chair away. The smell of charred meat and grease wafts in, and I salivate a little. I grab the Burger King bag and milkshake from Jason's hands and start chowing down on my fries before the door even closes. I dump everything out, all ten Whoppers and my salad. As I set the table in-between fries, Jason places his K-Mart bags on the bed beside the suitcase before sitting across from me at the table. “Get everything you need?” I ask with a wad of fries in my mouth.

“Yes.” He unwraps the first burger, biting it in half.

“Like hamburgers, huh?” I ask, eyeing the pile. “That a werewolf thing?”

“Our metabolism is faster than yours. We are required to eat twice as many calories as you, and we prefer meat for the protein.”

“Good to know.” I finish off my fries. “I'm a vegetarian, in case you hadn't guessed. Started out as a diet thing Mom put me on when I was thirteen. Had to lose weight, at least according to her. Just stuck.”

“Then you shouldn't do it anymore. You're too thin,” he says matter-of-factly.