“That’s ridiculous,” Omar says. “We’re a pack. We—”
“The same pack that was once under this guy Seth’s rule,” I point out. “Who’s saying there isn’t a loyalist or two around?”
“She has a point,” Tate says.
“So who knew about it all?” I ask. “Kansas? Me?”
Adam scoffs. “Come on. Who didn’t? This pack is worse than any group of teenage girls when it comes to gossip.”
“Wonderful,” I say. “And here I thought I was a secret. That was the point, right?”
“There is no one who’d betray us like this, sir,” Omar insists, talking over me. Protesting too much maybe?
“Okay, enough,” Frank says, holding up his hands to stop the chatter. “I need time to think. Omar, you and Tate take Reid on the Costco run. Maureen says we’re out of almost everything. Again. Try and make sure your guns stay hidden this time. And I don’t want any of this rat business leaving this room until I decide how to proceed.”
“Yes, sir,” Tate says. He and Omar rise to leave.
“Adam, take over for Sam on perimeter duty if you feel you’re up to it.”
“I am, sir,” Adam says as he stands. Adam shoots me another bright smile before walking out as well.
And I am alone with my father. Swell.
“Did you sleep well?” Frank asks.
“Yeah. Fine. Thanks,” I say, glancing everywhere but at him.
“And how do you feel? In any pain?”
“I took some pills.”
And cue the excruciating silence. I mean, even if I were operating at full capacity, I still wouldn’t know what to say to this man. I study him for a split second. The resemblance really is uncanny. Same long jaw, same blue eyes, same red hair. Hell, we even look the same age. No way in hell would I think this man is in his fifties. Mid-thirties maybe. Must be a werewolf thing, the lucky bastards. I look away before he catches me.
The thirty-second awkward silence tolerance must be genetic too because after second twenty-nine, Frank says, “Vivi, I—”
“You’re sorry,” I cut in. “You’re sorry you dragged me into this nightmare. You’re sorry you left me, that you never called me, that I inherited flat feet from your side of the family. I get it. I just …
don’t care. I’m too tired and freaked out and overwhelmed to even hear it right now. Thank you for sending Jason to me. Thank you for coming for me last night, okay? I appreciate it. I do. Everything else … just don’t expect a Hallmark moment between us. Ever. There is no water under the bridge because the water swallowed that fucker up years ago. Okay?”
“That’s … fair.”
“Okay,” I say, standing, “then I’m gonna try and make myself useful. Let you get back to work. You just became a rat catcher on top of all else.”
“It seems I have,” he says with a quick smile. “Thank you for all your assistance in this matter. It’s appreciated. Good work.”
“Always glad to be appreciated.” I nod and walk out.
The moment I slide the doors shut, I take a deep breath and let it out. That went a million times better than I thought. Of course I always figured it’d end with me being arrested and him bleeding.
With Jason’s clothes in hand, I walk out the front door, stepping into scalding soup. Steamy Maryland felt just like where I grew up in Florida, although I hadn’t been back in years. I forgot how much I hate humidity, especially when it’s in the high nineties already. The majority of people must be inside as the shanty town to my right is almost deserted. Air conditioning is a gift from the gods, no question. I remember Jason saying he had a house on the property, not sure where though. Thankfully Adam is in the driveway talking to a man standing beside an ATV. The sweaty man with black bushy hair, must be Sam, hands his helmet to Adam as I approach.
“Hey,” Adam says with a smile. He does like to smile. “Sam James, Vivian Dahl.”
“Hello,” I say. “Call me Viv.”
“Nice to meet you. See you around,” says Sam before walking back to the house.
“We have two guys driving the perimeter at all times as look-outs,” Adam explains.
“Smart.” I pause. “You aren’t, by any chance, driving by Jason’s are you?”
“Yeah, but he’s probably still asleep.”
“Take me anyway? I have some of his clothes, and—”
“Oh, I can take them,” Adam offers.
“I’d, uh, rather do it myself.”
“Um, I don’t know if that’s a good idea. You’re safer he—”
“Please. I need … I can’t stay in that house right now. And I need to see him. I need to set eyes on him. The way we left things …” I shake my head to clear my list of bad deeds. “Please?”
I understand his reluctance. I am the siren that almost crashed his best friend’s boat after all. Thank God he’s such a softie. My pleas break him down. That smile resurfaces as he hands me the helmet. “Hop on.”
He is officially my favorite. “Thank you.”
I hold onto Adam as we careen down the paved driveway to a gravel offshoot through the trees. It is beautiful here. Thick trees with green leaves exploding from large branches. I forgot how green the East Coast is compared to brown California. The trees grow sparser by the second though, replaced with brush and wild grass, then sand, as dark blue water comes into view. As does a wooden bungalow at the end of the path. It’s small with three windows
visible, one on the triangular second floor. There are two trucks with planks of wood and tools in the back parked out front. As we stop beside one, I see the trucks have “Top Dog Construction” with a picture of a wolf on the side of the trucks. Their contracting business.
“You know he practically built this place himself,” Adam says as I climb off. “I mean, we helped, but …” He shrugs. “The door’s open. I’ll be back around every fifteen minutes if you want a lift back. Flag me down.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
He puts the helmet on. “Just … be gentle with him.”
“What—”
Adam speeds away before I can finish. What the hell did that mean? Whatever. I walk up to the house and enter through the ornately carved wooden door. The eaves around the roof have the same pretty, wavy pattern with tiny rosebuds sprinkled in. Bet it took him forever to carve those. Worth it, though. They’re beautiful. The inside is bigger than I anticipated but still cozy. It’s a large open room like my apartment, with a living room and kitchenette attached. The similarities stop there. His furniture is much nicer than mine, most of it carved wood, but mixed with various blue and plaid cushions softening the couches. There are huge bay windows along the back wall looking out onto a deck and water. The snoring werewolf in the loft above me cuts through the calm. There’s a ladder, but when I walk into the kitchen I see him asleep in the bed next to the only other piece of furniture up there, a nightstand. I love this place. If not for the beer cans, dirty plates, clothes strewn around, and sheets on the couch it’d be perfect. Houseguests can be a pain in the ass.
As quietly as I can, I start cleaning up the living room and kitchen. It’s the least I can do. The very fucking least. I locate the washer and dryer inside a pantry but no trash can. My search leads me to the only other room besides the bathroom, his workshop. The scent of varnish and sawdust assaults my nose the second I open the door, and I step in regardless. It’s almost as large as the house itself with workbench, assembly table, saws, racks, drills, even a sink. He was working on a guitar judging from what’s propped up on the workbench. I’ll bet he spends all his free time in here. If what I’ve seen before is his work, he’s a master craftsman. I’m impressed. Not surprised, but still impressed.
My clean-up project has a wonderful side effect, I get to poke around in the name of helping. I glean he only reads magazines and books on woodworking. He roots for the Balti
more Ravens. Really it’s the photos on the walls that capture my interest. Several group shots taken on the lawn outside the manor portray the pack through the years. I recognize a few faces from the house. They’ve barely aged. There are also several photos of just the family. One is from when the Dahl boys were teens, on dirt bikes, with Linda off to the side. Beside that is their wedding photo. Linda and Matt stand in front of a tree with their parents on either side. My brother was a good-looking kid with shaggy brown hair and the Dahl jaw and nose. His mother, Jenny, wasn’t nearly as good looking as my mother even before the plastic surgery, but she was still pretty. Petite with brown eyes, long brown hair, but thin lips and a hooked nose. Wish I could have met them, well Matt, at least. He looked like a sweet guy, my kid brother.
There are more photos. One of Jason changing a diaper beside Matt as he changes one as well. Jason and Adam sitting in a johnboat holding up fish. Adam and Tate with a short old woman wedged between them. My smile falters a little when I see the one of me onstage singing in this dive bar in New York City when I was nineteen. After a few more of Jason with various men engaged in sports or holding Matt’s kids, I spot another of me, this one more recent. Once again I’m onstage in my red silk dress with a magnolia in my hair, holding an old-fashioned silver microphone. It’s my publicity still, signed even. Sometimes people write or e-mail my website asking for a photo. Doesn’t happen often. I’m … honored to be on his wall amid family. Among the people he loves.
Though it ain’t easy with a broken finger and slashed arm, I continue cleaning, even tackling the bathroom that sorely needed a scrubbing. Manual labor helps keep the doubts and guilt at bay for a while. I finish the bathroom and search for more to do. Nothing. Jason’s still in bed, but the snoring has ceased. I’d watch TV but that’d wake him. I sure as hell don’t want to go back to that manor with dozens of grinning, well-meaning werewolves. I grab a bottle of beer from the fridge and wander into the soup outside.
Crickets and birds ring out through the stillness. I follow the breeze to the lapping water of the Chesapeake. At the end of the wooden dock, I kick off my flip flops, and lower my still-aching body into a sitting position. The water’s refreshing against my feet, helping to chill the rest of me. I can even enjoy the warm press of the sun against my skin. I close my eyes to heighten the sensations. Cool, warm, fresh. Close to heavenly.
What a difference a day makes. Twenty-four hours ago I was being driven to my death. Didn’t think I’d live to see this very day. Now I’m at a manor sunbathing and sipping a sudsy beer. I made it. I’m alive. Feels pretty damn good.
An image of blood pouring out of Mick’s mouth as I drove the bar into his side over and over breaks the tranquility I was fighting hard to maintain. My eyes open to banish it. Nope. Not going there. No way in hell. I chug my beer. I blink, and for that instant I see him again, lying on that dirt floor. The crickets’ song is overshadowed by his gurgling. Choking on his own blood. Stop it. Another blink, another horror show. Stop. It had to be done. He was going to kill me. Kill Jason. It was self-defense. Him or me.
Still … I took a life. I’m a killer.
He may have had a family. People who loved him. He’ll never see the sun again. Enjoy a beer. Take another breath. His blood will always be on my hands. And yet, if I’m honest, the guilt weighs about an ounce. I feel worse about feeling next to nothing. Maybe I’m still in shock. I’ll be in the grocery store one day, and it’ll whack me against the head. I’ll have a nervous breakdown in produce. I mean, is this lack of intense guilt normal? Am I just a despicable human being?
I’ve done a shit ton of things I’m not proud of, that’s for damn sure, but in a weird, fucked-up way I’m … kind of proud of this. He was a threat to me, to Jason, and I had the strength to do what had to be done. I didn’t enjoy it, don’t want to have to ever do it again, but I would if I had to. No question. I pull my feet out of the water and hug my legs against my chest, resting my good cheek on my knees to stare at the tranquil water. I’ll ask Jason if this is normal.
Jason. Now, the guilt comes? My throat closes up as another memory floods my brain. Me, seconds away from abandoning him in that motel. The man risked his life for me a dozen times over, but the second he bruises my feelings, I cut and run? And even after that, he risked it all over again. Even if he didn’t have the others for backup, there isn’t a doubt in my mind he’d have stormed that house alone. For me. I owe him my everything. He’s …
right behind me.
The dock shakes as someone steps onto it. I turn and almost burst into tears at the sight of him standing there, staring at me as if I were a mirage with equal parts astonishment and disbelief. I know because I’m gazing at him the same way. His emotion vanishes behind that mask of his an instant later. The sun almost halos his messy, wild blonde hair as if he’s an angel. He is in my estimation. My blonde guardian angel. I slowly rise, but after that I’m not sure what to do. The last time I saw him he was eating Donovan. The time before that he was disgusted. By himself. By me. He—
Oh, fuck it.
I sprint up the dock as fast as I can, throwing my arms around his neck and squeezing until my arms hurt. He doesn’t hesitate. His solid arms embrace me back so tight if he hadn’t already taken my breath away it’d be forced out now. He’s here. He’s holding me. I was wrong, this is heavenly. In his arms. Heaven on this damned earth.
We cling to one another for a few seconds as if we were life rafts in the choppy ocean. I listen to his strong heartbeat, his breathing, and part of me can’t believe he’s really here. That he doesn’t hate me. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
“You have nothing to be sorry about. I shouldn’t have left. I shouldn’t have let him get you. I should have protected you. He never should have …” he says, voice cracking.
Guilt pierces me down to my very core. I have to tell him. Even if he loathes me forever, I could live with that better than I could with him hating himself. I pull away to meet his eyes. “I … it was me. It’s all my fault. I made us stop. I made you run. I was leaving you, and that’s why the police took us. I got arrested. I got caught. You, you did nothing wrong. Don’t you dare blame yourself. It was me. It was my stupidity. My selfishness. It was all me. You did everything right. You saved me. And I’m sorry. I am so sorry. Just please, please don’t hate me. I couldn’t bear if you hated me. I—”
“I don’t hate you,” he whispers sadly, “I could never hate you. Never.”
“Really?”
“Of course not.”
My legs almost give out in relief. I wrap my arms around him again not in case they do fail me, but because I want to hold him again.
I just want to touch him, savor his body against mine for as long as he’ll allow. He nestles me back, heightening the joy of the moment. “I thought I’d never see you again,” I whisper. “I was so scared.”
“Me too,” he whispers, squeezing tighter. “I almost went inside that house a thousand times.” He releases me just enough to see my face. “Did they hurt you? Did they …” he can’t finish.
“No. Broken finger, some stitches and bruises, I’m fine. Really. I just, I—” I look down. I don’t want to see his face when I confess this. “I killed one of them last night. I stabbed him and I stabbed him until I lost count,” I say, voice quaking. “All I could think about was you coming in the house and them killing you. I was so scared, and I killed him.”
“Good,” Jason says. I gaze up at him with surprise. “He deserved it. You saw what you had to do, and you had the strength to do it. Most wouldn’t. And I am so proud of you.”
Once again those words light me up more than all the lights of Broadway on at once. “Really?”
“Absolutely,” he says with utter certainty.
I rest my head over his heart again. “Thank you.” Then, when the absurdity of those words penetrates my brain, for the first time in days I chuckle.<
br />
“What?” he asks.
“Oh, nothing,” I laugh. “Just, only you would respond with ‘I’m proud of you’ after I told you I stabbed a man to death.”
“Is that wrong?”
“God, no. It’s one of the things I love about you.”
For some reason he goes stiff as a corpse against me. “Thank you.” His arms drop from my body, and he steps away with his eyes to the deck.
I’ve done something wrong again. The compliment. I forgot he hates when I praise him. I’m going to do my damndest to break him of that habit. “You’re welcome, Blondie. I mean it.”
“Thank you,” he says, head still hung. “I’m going to, um … excuse me.”
He turns his back on me and starts back toward the house. I’ve just been dismissed, haven’t I? Yeah, that’s not happening. “Must feel good to be home,” I say, following behind.
“Yes.”
“Your house is beautiful. Adam said you built it yourself.”
“Yes.”
“See? I was right.”
“How?”
“In the car. I guessed you were a master craftsman, and I was right.”
“Oh. Thank you,” he practically whispers.
We step onto his porch, then through the sliding glass door inside. He picks up the pace into the kitchenette, but I will not be ignored. He’s going to have a hard time shaking me this time. No escape. “Would you like me to make you something to eat?” I ask.
“No,” he says, pulling out frozen chicken from the freezer.
“Really, if you want I can. I know how to cook a thing or two,” I lie. “I’ve already cleaned your place, one more domestic duty won’t kill me. Least I can do after everything you’ve done for me.” I chuckle at the idiocy of that statement. “The very least. Feels like I should give you my firstborn or something.”
Werewolf Sings the Blues Page 18
