Werewolf Sings the Blues (8 page)

I don't think he meant it as an insult, but I still scowl. “You're not around women that often, are you?”

“There are women in our pack, and I often work for women as a contractor. Why do you ask?”

I roll my eyes. I'm beginning to think this guy's autistic. Or maybe a robot. “Never mind.”

“No. Did I say something wrong?” he asks, genuinely curious.

“Um, yeah. Rule of thumb, unless you're asked, never mention a woman's weight or age. It's rude.”

“But you
are
too thin. It's a sign of unhealthy habits or disease. You should be aware of this fact to correct it.”

Is this dude for real? “Yeah, but … just don't okay?”

“Okay.”

We eat in silence for a few moments. I hate it. “So, I called a friend of mine. Apparently Donovan—”

“You did what?” he asks, mouth still full.

“Don't worry, I didn't tell him where I was. I'm not a total idiot. Besides, he won't narc. He promised. Don't you want to know what he said? About the police?”

“You mean that I'm an escaped convict named Gavin, and that I've kidnapped you? I know. I have since this morning. We have a contact inside the F.R.E.A.K.S. This Donovan must have switched my photo inside the system into the file of a real fugitive. My real name would trigger a F.R.E.A.K.S. investigation. Neither party wants them involved. There's bodies on both our sides. Agent Price is just feeding the pack information. We're on top of this. You shouldn't make any more calls. It's too dangerous. Don't do it again,” he says, catching my eyes. His voice was neutral but those eyes are cutting. On instinct, I lean back farther in my chair.

“I-I won't. Sorry.” I stare down at my food, away from his gaze. I think I prefer him commenting on my weight more than attempting to draw blood with his eyes.

“Just don't do it again. Please,” he adds as an afterthought.

I nod. Once again, we fall into agonizing silence. After a few seconds, I look up and see his head hanging as he chows on his burger. Crap, did I hurt his feelings again? He notices me glancing up. I smile apologetically. “Not quite the sister you imagined, huh?”

“No.”

“What did you think I'd be like?”

“Softer. Fragile. Innocent.”

With each of those words my urge to laugh rises, but that last adjective pushes me over the edge. I let out a chuckle. “Oh, man.”

“What?”

“Nothing, it's just … those are the exact
wrong
fucking words to describe me. What the hell did Frank tell you? I was a Disney princess or something?” The chuckles die off a few seconds later as he doesn't join in. I don't know, maybe he's incapable of laughter. “So, is my lack of princess status a good or bad thing?”

“I'm sorry?”

“Am I a huge disappointment? Do you wish I was swooning every five seconds?”

His eyes narrow in confusion. “Of course not. That would slow
us down.”

No guile. No guile whatsoever. Refreshingly cute, yet aggravating. “Right. Didn't think of that.” I move my gaze down to the food I shove in my mouth. I cannot get a read on this cat. It's driving me nuts.

“Did I say something wrong again?” he asks.

“No,” I say with a reassuring smile. Thank God I'm done eating. I collect my trash, sticking it in the bag. “I think I'll take a swim.”

“That's not advisable. You should stay in the room, out of sight.”

I rise anyway. “Yeah, that's not happening. If you're worried, you can always join me.”

“I didn't buy a swimsuit.”

“Then wear your underwear. Or nothing,” I suggest with an impish grin. “I'm game if you are.”

Yes! Score another blush. And he thought
I'd
be the innocent one. I start rifling through my freshly packed suitcase for my bikini.

“I'll sit nearby and watch you.”

As I pull out the bikini, I raise an eyebrow. “Oh, so that's what you're into, Blondie? Think that can be accommodated.”

“That's not—I …” he says, flustered and now red as a stop sign.

I giggle. “You are adorable, you know that? Really.” I give him a big smile. “Be out in a minute, handsome.”

I close the bathroom door and begin undressing, a thrilling tingle sparking my motor to life. Maybe I should reinstitute Project Rollercoaster. The blushing virgin routine is tantalizing for damn sure. I have cured one or two men of that affliction in my time when I felt like a challenge. Most of the time I go for the cocky, smooth type. Less work. Still …

I apprize my naked body and grimace. He's right, I am too skinny. I can count my ribs, my stomach's concave, and I've definitely gone down to an A-cup. Not to mention the bruises from last night, the semi-brother factor, and I'm not a hundred percent sure he's into me. Hell, I'm not even sure he
likes
me. Of course that never stopped men before. I'll play it by ear. I put on my tiny yellow polka-dot bikini, emphasis on
tiny
, and check for coverage. Thank God for cardio kickboxing. I may resemble Olive Oyl, if she had toned legs and ass. If this doesn't do it …
no
. Seriously, what the hell am I thinking? No, it's too complicated, which I avoid like a child does a trip to the doctor. We—

When I open the door, and Jason sets eyes on me, second thoughts
about aborting the plan overload my brain. I'd recognize that hunger
anywhere, especially those ravenous eyes as his gaze moves down my body. He drinks me in, mouth opening millimeter by millimeter as his gaze moves up. I don't have to be a werewolf to smell his lust from here. Well, one question answered. Fuck it. Rollercoaster's a go.

“Like it?” I ask, caressing the strap of the top. “I always wanted an itsy bitsy, teeny weenie, yellow polka-dot bikini. Just hope it doesn't fall off like in the song.”

He tears his eyes off my flesh. “Um, yeah.”

I smile to myself and reach back into the bathroom for a towel. “You gonna need a towel too?”

“Um, no.”

“Too bad.” I turn back to him with a grin. “I'm dying to see if you're a boxers or briefs man.” My eyes graze his crotch, which is bulging more than it was before. “Of course I'm sure I'll find out eventually. Ready to guard my body, Blondie?”

As we meander down the hall, I make sure to walk ahead of him and sway my hips a little. I may not have much, but I do know how to use what I do. I don't glance back all the way down the hall, but I'd bet even money his eyes don't leave my swishing ass. If you got it, flaunt it.

The pool is small and missing a few tiles, but the water's clear. We're the only people out here enjoying the desert evening, but in the room right across it sounds like someone's auditioning for a porno. Mood music. As I lay my towel on the lounge chair, Jason keeps glancing at the room. Though the only light comes from the glow of the pool, I can tell he's blushing again. I love it. “Someone's having fun,” I say. “Or doing a very good job at faking it.” I wink, and his eyes immediately avert down.

I wade into the pool and let out a deep sigh. The water's amazing against my hot skin. There's nothing like a cool pool on a hot summer night. “Holy shit, Blondie, you need to get in here. You don't know what you're missing.”

“No, thank you,” he says from his seat.

“What if I promise not to look when you undress? Cross my heart?” I say as I physically do it.

“I'm fine.”

“Your loss, handsome.” I just float on my back for a few seconds, staring up at the stars and moon just peeking out. I never get to see them in California. The moon is especially gorgeous as a wispy cloud passes across it. I don't think I'll ever look at a full moon the same again. “Does it hurt when you change into a werewolf?”

“Yes. Very much so.”

“Do you walk on two legs or four?”

“Four. We resemble wolves in every way except size. We're bigger.”

“Huh. I always liked wolves. Saw one in a zoo once. I wanted to reach through the bars to pet it
so
bad. I even snuck away from Mom and Barry so I could go and watch it some more. Took them an hour to find me. Or to notice I was even gone, not sure. I begged them for a Siberian Husky after that, but Mom's allergic.” I chuckle. “Define irony, huh? A woman allergic to dogs ends up married to a werewolf. She was literally allergic to her husband. Maybe that's why she kicked him to the curb.”

“It wouldn't have affected her. He would have been locked up, away from her, in wolf form unless on pack property. It's the law.”

I stand up to look at him, brow furrowed. “Why? Are you that dangerous?”

“We're like any other wild animal. Caution is required.”

“That must put a damper on the old love life, huh? Most women won't even tolerate hairy backs, let alone fur all over. Not to mention how to even tell her. ‘Hey, babe, I'm a mythical crea
ture who wants to eat you at least once a month.' Imagine it'd be a deal breaker for a lot of chicks. Unless you're a player, then you don't really need to tell them.”

“A player?”

“You know: wham, bam, thank you ma'am, gotta jam?” He blinks. “One-night stands? Casual sex? Sex, then you never see her again?” Oh, please don't let him be a virgin. Even I have some scruples.

“Oh. I attempted casual sex on one occasion at Tate's urging. I did not enjoy it. It was … hollow. I did not particularly like her beyond the physical.”

“So you're a romantic,” I say with approval. “Don't meet many of
you anymore. Makes sense, though. Aren't wolves monogamous?”

Even in the dim light I can see him turning away from me. “Yes.”

“So, you just haven't found her yet. Don't worry, I'm sure you will.” I float flat on my back again. “Doesn't mean you can't have fun in the meantime. Just because you didn't like something once doesn't mean you should give up on it. I hated veggie burgers at first, now I love them. If at first you don't succeed, try, try again and all. That's my motto. Like marriage. I had a crappy first one, doesn't mean I don't want to try it again should the opportunity arise.”

“I do not wish to continue with this topic of conversation.”

Damn. “Then what do
you
want to talk about, Blondie?” I flip over and start stroking toward him from the far end of the pool. “Come on. Ask me anything.” I rest my chin on the edge of the pool and gaze up at him with wide eyes and a sex kitten pout that's brought many a man to his knees. Literally. “I promise to tell the truth even. You must have a million questions for your long-lost little sister. Come on. I'm an open book. Start reading, handsome.”

His eyes narrow a little to study me for artifice. This cat really needs to work on his trust issues, and that's coming from
me
. When they return to normal size, he asks, “Why do you hate yourself?”

“Uh …” Okay, not expecting that. I have no idea what to say except, “I-I-I don't hate myself. Why the hell would you think that?”

“I've watched you. You don't take care of your body. You don't eat, you drink too much, you engage in reckless behavior, you … give yourself freely to strangers. In my experience only people who have little regard for their life engage in such activity. Even when you sing, the majority of the time there is no joy in it. I wonder why.”

With every fiber of my being I want Donovan to show up and shoot Jason or me or both of us in the fucking head. Don't care which, so long as I do not have to answer that question or be examined by his apathetic eyes. This isn't fun anymore. If I wanted
a therapy session, I'd go back to Dr. Cruz. I only lasted three
sessions because I felt like shit for days after. But I promised I'd answer. I'm trapped by my own master plan.

“I don't hate myself,” I begin. “I don't eat because I have to stay thin. No one signs or hires fat singers. End of story. Blame society for that one. I drink because I work in a bar and the tips are better if I drink with the customers. And I give my body freely to strangers, as you so judgmentally put it, because I enjoy sex. It's fun. It feels good. As for the no joy while I was singing …”

I shake my head. “I've been trying to launch my career for thirteen years and the farthest I've gotten is wedding singer, which is about one step up from hustling karaoke contests, which I still sometimes do when rent is due. I turn thirty in a few days. In show business if you haven't been discovered by then, you have a better chance of winning the lotto
while
being struck by lightning than getting signed. Doesn't help that I can't write a song or dance to save my life. You can only live on hope for so long before real hunger finds you. But, if I give up, then all my sacrifice, all that hard work, will have been for nothing. I'm stuck on a damn treadmill with no stop button.” I scoff. “Not that I really want off because all I've ever had was that treadmill. It's all that's kept me going. I have nothing else. No husband, no kids, no college education. If I get off, all that surrounds me is uncertainty, desolation, and the fact I just wasn't good enough.”

Jesus Christ, I've never told anyone this. These thoughts have kept me awake so many nights, in the past year especially, but I've never said them out loud for this very reason. My stomach churns as my hands shake in rhythm. Because it's all true. I am well and completely fucked. Hell, I don't even enjoy singing anymore. I haven't for years. And it's not as if I haven't done all I could to make it. I did everything right. I spent over ten thousand dollars on vocal lessons, I learned guitar, I sang in clubs, I went to every audition I could, I charmed the few producers and managers I could get close to, and still nothing. There is
nothing
more I can do. And what do I have to show for it? Fifteen grand in credit card debt, a shitty apartment, and dreading doing the one thing I used to love. I've wasted my youth on a pipe dream just like Mom said. Even if I make it back to California, there's nothing for me there. It's over. There's no hope left in me. The treadmill's broken.