Werewolf Sings the Blues (10 page)

Shit. I rush over to the bed as Jason enters so I don't get caught eavesdropping. “Everything alright?” I ask.

He glances up at me, then back at the floor like a chastised child. “Fine.” He moves over to the suitcase across from me. “I'm going to brush my teeth.”

“Okay.”

Head bowed, he finds the toiletry bag and walks into the bathroom, closing the door. Okay, what the fuck did Frank say to him? From the way he refuses to look at me
yet again
, I'm positive it had to do with me. Taking advantage of me? That's a laugh. If anyone's taking advantage, it's me. Obviously he's attracted to me. But …
fuck
. I think I'm having a crisis of conscience. It only happens once every blue moon, so I can't be sure. Tiny pit in my stomach? Almost sour taste in my mouth? Tiny voice in my head that began shouting when I stepped out intent on seducing him? All present and annoying.

I'm torturing the guy, aren't I? In his mind, I'm his freaking sister. If he gave in, no doubt he'd end up hating himself. Or me. Especially if Frank, his mythic hero, got wind of it. Now I literally have a bad taste in my mouth. Damn it! God, I hate self-reflection. It's such a downer. Fucking conscience. Fine, you win this time. Hope you're happy. Fucker.

Jason steps out of the bathroom just as I pull the sheets back on the bed to get in. I glance over but that handsome head of his is still hung and mouth set with a scowl. Who's he angry with, me, Frank or himself, I don't know. Probably the latter. He moves over to the suitcase now on the table to replace the toiletry bag as I climb into bed.

With his back to me, he says, “Can you please throw me the other pillow?”

“Why?”

“It would be safer if I slept by the door,” he says, positioning the chair so its back is to the table.

“Safer?”

He places the pistol on the side of the table. “I can hear better from here.”

“Don't be ridiculous. No one knows we're here. You need sleep. I'll be on my best behavior, I promise.”

“I can sleep anywhere. I'll be fine. I'm sleeping here,” he says with finality.

Wonderful. As if I wasn't feeling guilty enough as is. I toss him the pillow as he sits. I'm too tired to put up much more of a fight.
I flop down onto my pillow and flip my back to him. A second later
Jason shuts off the overhead light. Bedtime. Or that's the plan. Hard to put into practice though. I try to get comfortable, shifting around in the bed, but like the pillow the mattress is lumpy from overuse. Not that I could sleep on a cloud right now. With every creak of that chair he's in, my guilt wretches up a notch. After about two minutes, it's cranked up to eleven. My eyes fly open. “Jason, for God's sake! Just get in the bed!”

“I'm fine here,” he insists.

“Right. I also wiggle around like a Mexican Jumping Bean when I'm comfortable. You need sleep. We both do. We're safe here, okay? You're no good to either of us without a clear head. I'm sorry for earlier, alright? I just
…
it was stupid of me. I'm not going to say another word, and I am not going to touch you, I swear on Nina Simone's grave. I'm sorry I made you uncomfortable. I know I put you in an awkward position. I wasn't thinking. I am now. It will not happen again. So just
…
get in the fucking bed!”

There are a few tense, silent seconds before the chair creaks again as he rises. I keep my eyes shut as the bed shifts under his considerable bulk and the sound of him setting the gun on the nightstand. We lay back to back for a minute. Jason doesn't get under the covers but that could just be because the man is a walking furnace. His heat radiates against my back. It's not an unpleasant sensation, save for the tension I also sense wafting from him. The man's barely breathing.

“I am sorry, you know,” I say. “I shouldn't have fucked with you
like I did. It was a shitty thing to do. Are we alright?”

Silence, then, “May I ask you a question?”

“Anything.”

“Why did you attempt to seduce me?”

A chuckle escapes. The man does love to go right to the heart of the matter. Cut through the bullshit. I can dig it. “I don't know. Thought it'd be fun. Thought you'd be good in bed. You're hot. I like you. You're saving my life, thought it'd be a good way to start repaying my debt. Pick one.”

“You don't owe me a debt,” he says. “And even if you did, you should not use your body to repay it. That's beneath you.”

“That's not what I …” I groan in frustration. “I wanted to sleep
with you because I wanted to sleep with you. It happens. But don't
worry, the feeling has passed. Now just relax and go to sleep,” I say harshly.

“Fine. Good night.”

“Good night,” I snap.

Blondie and I simply lay back to back inches away, but it may as well be miles. And once again I've fucked everything up with the one person who's trying to help me. Who I swore I wouldn't hurt. It is a gift. My only one.

five

… the fuck?

The sudden spring in the bed jars me out of shallow sleep. Damn it, it took me an hour to push down the guilt enough for sleep to come, now this. The warmth behind me vanishes. Damn. My eyes flutter open, and I flip over. Quick as a cheetah, Jason moves toward the window, gun up and ready. That sight is like a shot of adrenaline to the heart, instantly waking me.

“What—”

“The dog's growling and barking,” he says, peeking out of the curtains.

It's faint, but I hear the pit bull too. “So?”

“Did the same with me. It's threatened. Put on your shoes.”

“This is rid—”

“Put your shoes on, Vivian,” he orders, voice hard.

His tone sends a chill down my spine. I toss off the covers and rush over to him. His eyes never leave the crack in the curtains. “It's probably just—”

His head cocks to the side and eyes close to hear better. “Get the suitcase, cell phone, and car key.” After slipping on my flip flops, I pull the suitcase off the table and grab the rest beside it. “Very quickly, I want you to run to the car and get in the driver's
seat. Stay low and out of sight. Do not let your presence be known,”
he says, moving to the door then unlocking it. “Do not turn on the car. If something happens to me, drive and don't stop until Maryland.”

“Jason—”

“Go. Now.”

He flings open the door and steps out, gun first. He swings it left then right to cover me. Shit. I sprint the twenty feet to the car, pressing the button to unlock it. The adrenaline makes it difficult to keep my hands steady so I fumble with the handle. When I get it open, I toss the suitcase in the backseat then climb into the front. The moment the door shuts Jason retreats back into the room, quietly shutting the door. I slip the key into the ignition and wait.

The seconds drag like hours as I scan left to right. This is insane. We used cash. Fake names. The manager didn't even see Jason. The car's not visible from the highway. We didn't tell anyone the name or location of the motel. There is no way in hell …

The sight of Donovan rounding the corner with the manager
knocks the damn wind from my lungs. How the fuck … ? As the mote
l manager points down the hall, Donovan's head starts turning my way. I crouch down as instructed. My breath escapes me in loud, short bursts so I cover my mouth to muffle the sound. Oh, please, please,
please
don't let him sense me. Oh, fuck. What do I do? Fuck. Plan. Need a—

The sound of splintering wood and a thud makes me peek up. Donovan enters our dark room, gun up and ready for damage. I jerk upright as a moment later there are two explosions of light and booms from his gun. That's the last I see of the fucker as he moves deeper into the dark. “Shit.” Shit. W—

Gunshots right on top of each other reverberate through the otherwise still night from my room. I can't count them all. Four? Five? One punctures our room's window, then the Dodge Ram's front window beside me as well. “Shit.” The barrage ceases, only to be replaced by a man's howl and breaking furniture. It's an old-fashioned werewolf brawl. There's a flash of movement inside as a body is tossed onto the bed. There are two more gunshots as I think Jason rolls off out of sight just in time. Bits of feather float up from my pillow that a little over a minute ago I was asleep on. Holy hell. Jason leaps up from the floor and charges like a bull just as another shot erupts. Something. I have to do something. I can't just sit here. What the hell can I do? Leave? I start the car. No.
No
. I wait for him. He—

Oh, thank you God.

Jason backs out of the door, firing another shot inside as Donovan, still cloaked in darkness, returns the fire. His bullet hits the doorframe inches from Jason's head as my protector shoots again. With his arm raised, I notice his white shirt sleeve is saturated with blood. He fires once more before the slide moves back. Out of bullets. Jason ducks right as Donovan fires again. Time to leave. I put my foot on the brake and shift into reverse as Jason zips toward the passenger's side. The millisecond his door shuts, I stomp the gas pedal. Donovan steps into view as I do, pistol pointed right at us. Shit! The bullet cracks both our windshield and back
window, once again narrowly missing Jason, who ducked as I did. I slam o
n the brakes, shift into drive, and spin the wheel to get us the fuck
out of here. So much for a restful night.

I have to break cover to see where I'm going. Donovan fires again
, I think hitting the bumper, before sprinting after us in the parking lot as he shoots again. I yelp as the rearview mirror explodes, raining plastic and glass over us and the dash. Better it than my head. I jerk the wheel to the right to maneuver us out of the lot with Donovan way too close behind. The man can move, I'll give him that. Jason opens the glove box, retrieving another clip as I gun it down the deserted road toward the highway. He grimaces as he pushes in the clip.

“Are you okay?” I ask, glimpsing at his bloody arm.

“Just keep going,” he orders through gritted teeth. Not a problem. Don't think I could let up on the gas pedal even with a crowbar. With another grimace, Jason pivots around to watch out the back window. “Shit.”

Checking the side mirror, I see headlights barreling toward us. And gaining. Not good. I punch the gas pedal down to the floor, picking up speed. I make a hard right onto the highway ramp and for a split second lose control, back tires skidding. I brake hard and turn the wheel to gain control again, then punch the gas to get us revving again. We lose another second we don't have as the tires spin in place before the car jerks forward like a rocket. Of course Donovan uses my miscalculations to bridge the gap between us. The Civic is a great car, but its pick-up sucks. Too damn slow. Donovan's five car lengths behind, then three. Two.

When we merge onto the highway, the bastard's right on our bumper. Jason rolls down his window, leaning out of it. Taking quick aim he fires, cracking Donovan's windshield. The Marshal swerves, then Jason aims lower to strike again. There's a spark on the pavement near Donovan's front tire. I'm so immersed in watch
ing this in my side mirror I almost hit the semi-truck in front of us.
We'd smash into it if I didn't switch lanes in time.
Pay attention, idiot
.

Donovan mimics my swift move into our lane, right before ramming into us. Jason roars in pain as his bad arm smacks into the side of the window as we crash back and forth. He falls back into his seat, clutching onto his bad arm and wincing.

“Are you—”

Donovan rams us again. Fuck. I lose the grip on the wheel. We twist out of control, left, right, left, almost off the damn road, until I grab the wheel to straighten us out.
No matter what, do not let go of this wheel, Viv.
I keep a vice grip on it as he smashes us again. And again. And again, my companion groaning in agony with each assault. This is bullshit. Another car appears in front of an SUV, and I pass it with Donovan as my shadow. Except he moves into the parallel lane and speeds up. He's beside us. He's going to swerve into us, force us off the road or be close enough to aim. Either way we're screwed.

I hate being right sometimes. He collides against Jason's side. I can barely maintain control as half of our car slides into the grass. Donovan is now a car length ahead as I straighten and return us to the asphalt. He slows to smash us again. Another car appears in his lane. Donovan pumps the brakes to change lanes. He's behind us again, then moves again to our right when its clear. Next time he'll really do it. He'll hit us with the force of all of the
car's tons. We'll probably flip over and either die then or he'll walk over to the crash and shoot us in the head. Fuck that.

The world slows to a crawl and all its working parts crystallize in my mind. The distance between the car behind us and Donovan. The angle of his current swerve. The amount of time it'll take for him to smash us. Jason beside me slowly raising his gun in preparation for the onslaught. I relinquish all control to the reptilian section of my brain. Just as Donovan's car completes its move to the right lane, I slam on the brakes. The force slaps us both to the back of our seats but the reptile barely notices. She's too happy that we're stopping. “Jason, tires!” Donovan continues forward for a millisecond before he brakes too. Jason only has that moment to lean out the window again and take aim. Damn good thing his reptile is just as badass as mine.

When he's out, gun ready, I punch the gas again. Our car remains stationary for a second, tires skidding on asphalt, then jerks forward again. The moment it does, Jason fires twice at Donovan's still slowing car. Despite the smoke brimming from the burning rubber, I can tell one of the bullets hits home from the loud pop. Donovan's car lurches to and fro like a drunk as he loses control. I maneuver us past him as the SUV Donovan just passed, who isn't as fast on the brakes as the Marshal, clips his left bumper. Donovan's car does a full one eighty into the SUV, walloping them both off on the side of the road into a cloud of dust. I keep the pedal to the fucking metal until they're out of sight, and I say a silent prayer for the SUV driver. Donovan's on his own.

Jason thumps back into his seat with a groan. I'm too amped up to pay him much attention. I'm focused on the road.
The road
. We can't stay on the highway. Police are probably on their way. The werewolves know we're using it. Once again, the reptile takes the wheel. Before I realize it, my foot touches the brake again. “What are you doing?” Jason asks through his heavy pants.

I slow enough so we can safely veer left onto the sandy divider. We switch from the eastbound lanes to westbound, back the way we came. “They'll be looking for us on 80. We can't use it anymore. We're ten minutes from the Utah border. It'll take time for
the Wyoming cops to coordinate with the Utah state police. We
go back to I-15 then I-70 and switch cars when we can.” Within seconds, we pass the accident site. Thank God. The SUV driver stands outside his car, talking on his cell phone. I don't see Donovan, but his car remains still. Too bad. I had hoped it flipped or exploded. I'll have to settle for out of commission.

We drive a mile. Two. “You should, uh, slow down,” Jason says, or really moans. I glance at the speedometer. Shit, I'm doing ninety. I decelerate to seventy and loosen my grip on the wheel, which proves difficult. My hands may as well be superglued into position. Damn, my fingers are numb and I wiggle them to bring back
sensation. Another mile and my breathing normalizes. The hyper-
vigilance fades enough for me to stop scanning the periphery for cops or other dangers. Nothing. Another mile, and I realize I'm not alone in the car. I glance at Jason who is clutching his blood-soaked arm.

Oh, shit.

Now that it has time, my brain processes just how bad a shape he's in. The back of his head has a gash that isn't bleeding anymore but was bad judging from the fact his blonde hair is now red and tacky, along with his neck. His right cheek is swollen as if he has an egg underneath. Of course the biggest concern is his still-bleeding bicep. He moves his hand enough for me to see the wound. The saturated shirt is almost glued to his arm, especially where the bullet entered. Bullet. Which means … “Holy shit, you're shot!”

“Yeah,” he whispers.

“Jason, you—”

“Just keep driving,” he orders, pressing the wound.

He's right. We need more distance between us and the crash. All I can do is keep my foot on the accelerator, one eye on the road, and the other on him. He removes his hand again, and mutters, “Fuck.”

“What?”

After he turns on the light above, he puts pressure on the hole
again. I tense as he slams his head a few times on the headrest
in frustration. “Silver,” he winces through gritted teeth. “Still in there. Won't stop bleeding.”

“Jason …”

“Just drive.”

I do. He takes a few deep, cringing breaths, then moves his hand again. Blood spews in a steady stream as he removes his shirt from the right side first. When it comes time for the left, he whimpers as he slowly peels the sleeve off. Oh my God, that's fucking disgusting. The wound looks like it's exploded outward, and I can make out the pinkish muscle inside. Stinging bile rises up my throat, but I
swallow it down. The car's disgusting enough without adding vomit
to the mix. Jason's panting just from the effort of this simple task. “I'm going …” He takes another breath, “… take the wheel. You … tourniquet with shirt. Tight.” He tosses the drenched shirt into my lap. “Ready?”

I nod. He leans over, good hand on the wheel and wound right beside my face. More bile rises, but as I wrap the shirt over the grotesque hole, my automatic pilot pushes it down. I make a knot and yank it tight. Jason cries out in pain and releases the wheel. I quickly reclaim it as he falls back into his seat. He closes his eyes and pants.

“J-Jason, that's not going to do much good. You need a doctor.”

“No, just … give me a minute to think. Just drive.”

God, the pain must be insane. I don't want to even imagine it. Instead, I keep driving. He's been shot before, or at least had more experience with it than me. And he's a werewolf. Super-healing. What might kill me is just a flesh wound to him.
Just keep going
.
Get out of the damn state. That's your only job, Viv.
Carrying us forward to safety. Don't fuck it up.

When we cross the state border back into Utah, his panting has lessened. It's about ninety minutes to Salt Lake and the interchange. We'll lose about five hours getting to I-70. Definitely need to ditch the car. I'm positive there's exterior damage, not to ment
ion the bullet holes in the windows. The sooner the better. I check
the clock. A little past three AM. Shopping centers are out. Hotels will have the best selection. Ten, twenty miles, then I'll pull off, do the exchange, haul ass. I got this. I chuckle. Who'd a thunk I'd be so good in a crisis.