Werewolf Sings the Blues (13 page)

I pull my hand away, trying and failing to hide my hurt. I stare ahead as the chemically induced depression floods back. Fine. Fuck. I grab the pillow and blanket from the backseat and lower my own, turning away from the werewolf. Sleep is impossible with my heart thudding a hundred miles a minute. God, I wish I had a Valium. That usually brings me down. I close my eyes anyway, willing my heart to slow. My concentration is interrupted a minute later by his buzzing cell.

“Hey, Tate,” Jason says quietly, followed by silence. “I know. I've been asleep all day. Sorry.” Silence. “Fine. I'm fine. Had worse. I'm healed now.” He's had worse than last night? Damn. “Yeah, she did.” Think they're talking about me now. “I … agree.” Damn it, what's Tate saying? “I don't want to talk about that.” A pause. “Yes.” Damn it, why can't I have werewolf hearing too? “Because it's not appropriate. And this is a bad time.” A pause. “Somewhere in Colorado on I-70. We had to change our route.” Silence. “This really isn't a good time. I'll call you later, okay? Say hello to your mother and Adam. Bye.” I assume he hangs up.

“You've had worse than last night?” I ask.

“What? Oh, sorry. Did I wake you?” he asks.

I flip onto my back. “Too amped to sleep.” I raise my seat. “So, you've been shot before?”

“Actually shot? Once. Took some birdshot to the leg when Dad and I were chasing a rogue seven years ago. Wasn't silver, though. Been stabbed in the chest once too. That
was
silver. Had to do a full change. Tate had to run down the rogue alone. Got him though. The worst was this time in Maine. Husband and wife. I was trying to round him up with a F.R.E.A.K.S. agent. Didn't know the wife had changed. Came out of nowhere, almost severed my arm. Ripped open my gut too. The change helped, but I was still out of commission for a few days. They got them eventually.”

“Jesus Christ, Jason.”

“All part of the job. They hurt innocent people. They're a threat to our way of life. Someone has to do it.”

“How many people have you … never mind,” I say, shaking my head. “You don't have—”

“Including the wolf in Ventura? Eight. Most rogues who step out of line, I just put the fear of God into them. They've usually killed accidently on their first change. We talk to them, help them, and warn them there is no second chance. They usually listen. But some … they either bring too much attention to themselves, threaten to out us to the public, or as Dad calls it, they get ‘drunk with power.' They think the rules don't apply to them. Let the wolf take over. They're the eight.”

“Does it ever bother you, what you do? Keep you up at night?”

“Not often. It was always necessary. Always. For the pack.” He glances over. “It's … hard to explain.”

“No, I get it. You're protecting your family. Your people. Hell, even perfect strangers. It's kind of noble. Selfless. I mean, as long as you don't get a perverse thrill out of it. You know, enjoy being sadistic or something. Skin them when they're alive just to hear them scream.”

“I don't like killing, if that's what you mean,” he says.

“Didn't think you did, Blondie,” I say with a smile. He doesn't return it. O-kay. I move my gaze straight ahead again. “
I
couldn't do it. Putting my life on the line for others. Getting shot for a woman I've only known a day.”

Fucking depression. The wave of sadness that's been rolling
to the surface since the stupid napkin incident crests. A flood of images and regrets ride the wave. His fright when I threw myself at him. His pain when he thought I was ashamed of him because of his God-awful past. The abject terror I felt when I heard those gunshots and had no idea if he was dead or alive. His torture when I dug that bullet out. That chaste kiss I shouldn't have instigated. The awe and pride he had when I sang. No one's ever looked at me like that in my life. Like I was all that mattered in the universe.

“I'm sorry,” I say, voice cracking. “I'm so sorry. It was my fault Donovan found us. My fault he shot you. That you almost bled to death. It was Cyr. He tipped off Donovan. It was so stupid of me to call him. I'm so sorry. Please don't hate me. I'm sorry.”

Jason's half of the car is quiet, and I'm afraid to glance at him. I feel like I have no skin, and one look from him will cause untold agony. I wipe my stupid tears. God, I'm never doing coke again. This is horrible. I hate
feeling
. It never brings about anything good.

“Please don't cry,” Jason says tenderly after a few seconds. “I don't hate you.” Another pause. “I could never hate you.” I gather my confidence and glance over for confirmation. His usually rigid face has softened with either sadness or pity. “It was a mistake, one I'm sure you'll never make again. And considering the impossible position we've forced you into, I am … damned impressed with how well you're handling this all. You've kept your head when most would have lost theirs. You saved us last night. You saved
me
. Thank you.”

Damn it. Those words bring fresh tears. “But—”

“No, buts,” he cuts in. “Take the compliment. You deserve it. You've earned it.” He pauses. “You did good, Vivian. Better than good. I'm proud of you. I'm
proud
you're in my pack.”

I don't know what to say. I want to protest, absolve him, but I'm too choked up by
…
I don't know what. Whatever that spark was last night ignites again, striking up the orchestra again so their beautiful music is almost deafening, overwhelming so nothing but the beauty they bring to the world remains. I can count on one hand how many times someone's told me they're proud of me and now twice in one day. Where with Frank it made me uncomfortable, when Jason says it, I
feel
it. I believe it. Hell, I think I'm proud of myself too. “Thank you,” I whisper, wiping the waning tears.

“No, Vivian,” he says, catching my eyes with his, “thank
you
.” With a reverent nod, he gazes back at the road.

A quick smile crosses my face along with a blush. I'm getting as bad as him in that department. The urge to lunge across the car and kiss him until our lips bleed damn near overwhelms me. I keep it at bay like a lion tamer with a whip. Impulse control has never been one of my virtues. She's building her strength now, that's for sure. My smile doesn't wane until the buzzing phone breaks the spell, bringing real life back into this car. Thank God.

Jason picks the cell up. “Hey, Dad,” he says before a long pause. A huge yawn escapes me. Catharsis is exhausting. “Great. Where
and what time?” Another pause. “That sounds fine. Hold on, let me find a pen and paper to write them down.” He places the phone
on his thigh and glances at me. I'm ahead of him, grabbing the Arby's bag for a napkin as Jason opens the glove box to root around for a pen.

The moment it opens, my baggie of coke falls right beside his hand.
Oh, hell
. Jason stops searching to stare at the baggie. Fuck. Double fuck. I stop breathing, stop blinking in an attempt to become invisible somehow. Just when I've impressed him, made some headway, I go and cock it up again. In that instant, my emotional suit of armor is yanked on. Bring on the lecture. The disapproving looks. The contempt.

But none comes. Jason slowly blinks at the bag before resuming his pen search. When he locates one, he hands it to me. “Dad, I'm putting you on speaker. Read off the directions.”

Jason presses a button with his left hand while picking up the baggie and closing the glove box. I can't look at him, I'm so embarrassed. “Can you hear me?” Frank asks.

Jason rolls down his window. “We can.” He chucks the baggie out the window. “Go ahead.”

I can barely concentrate on the directions I scribble on the napkin, I'm too preoccupied with glancing at Jason. That firm, unreadable mask of his has returned. He keeps his eyes ahead as Frank drones on. God knows he's regretting those words now. I went from Wonder Woman to a coke whore in one fell swoop. “Got it?” Frank asks.

“Yeah,” I say.

Jason picks up the phone. “Thanks, Dad. Talk to you later.” He hangs up.

We drive in agonizing silence as I stare at my lap with my head hung. As usual, thirty seconds is all I can stand. “Jason, I'm—”

“You will never put that poison into your body again,” he says with finality. “
Ever.”
A pause. “You're worth more than that, whether you believe it or not. Treat yourself as such. Promise me.
Promise.
”

“Okay. I promise,” I say. And I mean it. I swear on Nina's grave, I will never touch it again.

“Good.” He nods, which I take to mean that's the end of the discussion. “We have a little over five hours before we reach Stoker. Try and get some sleep.”

“Alright.” I hand him the napkin, and he nods again.

I lower the seat, pull up the blanket, and turn on my side away from him with my eyes closed. I lay here fifty shades of miserable for a few minutes. “Jason?” I finally say.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

A pause, then, “You are welcome, Vivian.” Silence. “Sleep.”

And the misery parts enough for the exhaustion to roll in. The last thing I remember before I drift off is my knight pulling up my blanket to cover me from the cold. I think I fall asleep with a smile on my face.

seven

The stopping car brings
me out of sleep. Damn. I blink a few times to clear the blurs away. Movement and the fluorescent lights to my left simultaneously draw my attention. The bar, or I guess it'd be classified as a genuine honky-tonk, judging from the motorcycles and pick-ups in the lot, is nothing like I thought it'd be. Outside two such bikers in leather and denim with beers in their hands engage in conversation under the neon NO EXIT sign. I've played in places just like this when I was desperate for cash. Not many jazz fans among this contingent.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“Stoker, Kansas,” Jason answers.

“Kansas? Thrilling,” I say, pushing off my blanket.

“We're early.”

“Then let's go get a drink and wait for him inside.”

“I don't think you should—”

“Appreciate the concern but I've been in more places like this than you have, Blondie. Plus I have to pee. Come on.” I wink. “I'll keep you safe.”

Before he can protest, I climb out of the car. So this is what it's like to have someone give a shit about your well being. Annoying yet heartwarming at the same time. Must take getting used to. Jason rushes to my side as I'm about to pass the bikers. One puckers his lips at me, and Jason gives him such a glare of utter hatred even I get a chill, followed by a thrill. Heartwarming overtakes my annoyance.

It's early to be going to a bar—things never pick up until ten—so there are a little over a dozen men and scantily clad women either at the bar or playing pool. It's smoky and not only from cigarettes. My attention diverts to a small stage where a man in a John Deere cap butchers Johnny Cash's “Ring of Fire” as his three friends in front hoot and holler. Jason ignores all this. He ushers
me to a table in the back corner with a view of the door. Every man
who shoots me an appreciative glance receives a glare from my protector. Blondie's the jealous type it appears. I forgive him this when he pulls out my chair for me. “Thank you.”

He plops in the chair beside me without a word. The waitress in Daisy Duke shorts and black tank top immediately struts over. “Welcome to No Exit. What can I get y'all?”

God knows I could use some tequila, but for once I listen to the nagging voice in my head. “Two coffee's please,” I say. “Cream and sugar.”

“You got it,” the waitress says before walking away.

“So, what time are we supposed to meet this mystery man?” I ask.

“Ten minutes.”

“Good. I need to use the powder room.” I rise and Jason does
the same. I press him back down by the shoulder. “Think I can handle this alone, Blondie. You hold the fort.” I pat his shoulder and move to the bathroom. After I answer nature's call, I do my best to fix myself up, fluffing my hair and pinching my cheeks to bring some life to my face. When I step back out, Jason's eyes are glued to the bathroom door in case I need a rescue. I don't think he blinks until I sit again. I sip my watery coffee with a smile as two women get their groove on onstage singing, “It's Raining Men.” Not half bad.

“You ever done karaoke?” I ask Jason.

“No.”

“Ever wanted to?”

“No.”

“You ever sing along to a song you love when you're alone in the car?”

“No,” he says after a sip of his drink.

“Well, now that's just plain wrong.”

“Why?” he asks, genuinely inquisitive.

“I don't know. It means you never get swept away in something you love. That you can be silly, even when no one's looking. Music is an expression of the soul. It should touch you.” His face has gone stony again. “Not that it doesn't affect you. I know it does, I've seen it.”

“You have?”

“Oh, yeah,” I say with a smirk. “The only times I've seen anything close to a smile on your face was when I was … when there was music playing. Seems like we have the same taste in music. Frank left behind his record collection, you know.” I sip my coffee. “Those damn things practically saved my life. When things got shitty, or I just felt shitty, I'd go hide in my room and listen to Ray or Billie, and my troubles seemed to be carried away with the music. I think I became a singer just to chase that feeling.” I start playing with my mug. “Made it my whole life. It was the only thing I could count on. Lost its luster through the years like most highs. You can only chase the metaphorical dragon for so long before exhaustion makes you tumble, and you don't have the energy to get back up. And even if you did, you're miles from where you intended to be.” Great, now I'm depressed again. I am really
never
doing coke again. I sip my coffee. “Anyway.”

“I like when you sing.”

“Huh?” I turn to Jason. I forgot he was here. “Sorry?”

“I like it when
you
sing,” he says, staring straight ahead at the door. “Always have. You're right, it makes me smile when you put your soul into every word and melody. You make me … feel what you're feeling. Your love. Your agony. Your joy. It's like you said, it makes me forget the world. Makes me empty yet full at the same time. You …
move
me.” He hangs his head. “You're good, is all. I like your singing.” He chugs his coffee and sets the mug down. “I need to use the restroom. Be back in a second.” With his head still downcast, he rises and walks to the bathroom. My slacked jaw doesn't snap shut until he's out of sight.

I move him? I
move
him? I don't think anyone has ever said something so lovely to me before. The sentiment burns the dark clouds away as those words cycle through my head. He really has to stop saying such nice things. I'm beginning to enjoy them a little too much. Might get addicted. Still. I let the sunny sensation he gave me light me up. I move him. Haunt him. I kind of want to pay it forward. I know the way I
really
want to. It took more willpower than I ever thought I possessed not to kiss him when he was saying those wonderful things. It's getting harder and harder to stop myself like I promised us both. He needs to stop being so goddamn irresistible. A girl can only withstand so much. Well, if I can't do the first thing I'm good at, I'll do the second.

I move toward the stage to get the song book. I'm pleasantly surprised to find some classics in here. I quickly decide on an old Sinatra tune, and write the number down.

“What are you doing?”

I pivot around to find Jason behind me, face unreadable again. “Killing time. Go sit.”

“You shouldn't—”

“Go sit down, Blondie. Enjoy the show.”

I hand my selection to the MC, a man with a ragged, ZZ Top beard. “What's your name, darlin'?”

I glance behind at my glaring companion. “Dagwood.”

“Whatever, darlin,'” the man says. “Get on up here.”

With a grin, I step onto the stage. There are a few catcalls and whistles, and Jason's glower immediately whips toward the men. I barely notice the noise. Nothing I'm not used to. Jason keeps his eyes welded on the men as he slowly makes his way back to our table.

“Got someone new up here tonight,” the MC says into the mic. “Mrs. Dagwood. Let's all give her a round of applause.”

While most applaud, one man shouts, “Not the only thing I'd like to give her!”

I spy Jason seething in the corner, but I just grin at the man as sweet
as honey. “Sorry, I already have herpes.” The audience groans and laughs at my joke. Works every time. “This one goes out to my partner in crime there in the corner. He's saved my bacon more than twice. Don't know how I can ever repay you. Hope this is a good start, Blondie.”

“I Get a Kick Out of You,” written by the fabulous Cole Porter made popular by Ole' Blue Eyes begins playing. Wrong for this audience, perfect for my one and only. I vamp it up, especially on the cocaine lyric, wriggling my hips and shoulders in time to the music with a cutesie smile on my face. Rita Hayworth would be proud. For the first time in awhile, I'm enjoying myself onstage. I forgot how much fun this can be, hamming it up while belting out a song I love. That sunny feeling I had before doubles, especially when by the chorus a matching smile forms on Jason's face, made that much brighter by his awe. This is what it means to light up a room. We're the only two people in the spotlight though. Just us, the music, and whatever the hell is passing between us. Whatever the hell it is, it scares and thrills me more than … No sentence ever uttered, no music ever composed could come close to expressing what this mere exchange does to me. Magic. This must be what magic feels like, as if my soul is playing Carnegie Hall with little practice. It knows it doesn't deserve to be there yet. I have to look away as I feel my throat closing up. I finish the song staring at the bored foursome in front.

“Give it up for Mrs. Dagwood,” the MC says to scattered applause. “Nice set of pipes she has on her, huh? Good job.”

I nod and step offstage. Damn, I need a drink. Or seven. Shit, no time. A man with a small duffel approaches Jason, who holds out his hand to shake, which the stranger does. Must be our guy. Thank God, I don't think I could stand a moment alone with Jason after whatever that was. At least not with people around.

I guess the stranger would be considered attractive if he wasn't standing beside my Adonis. He's an inch or two shorter, and though a big man, not as muscular as Jason. Still, his Roman nose, strong jaw, and thick floppy brown hair suit him. The men sit as I stroll over.

“Hello,” I say.

“Special Agent Will Price, this is Vivian Dahl,” Jason says.

“Nice to meet you,” I say as I plop down. “And thanks for helping us.”

“Wish I could do more,” Price says. With his foot, he pushes the duffel to Jason. Cool. Feels like I'm in a spy movie or something. “Couldn't take much without Dr. Black knowing. There's a box of silver bullets, a Glock 9mm, silver dagger, and can of silver pepper spray.”

“Hope we won't have use for them,” Jason says. “What else have you got for us?”

“Your Marshal Donovan attributed the shoot-out in Wyoming last night to that Gavin guy. Your real name hasn't been flagged yet. This guy must have someone inside IT or records because not only was your photo swapped for Gavin, but the autopsy on the man from Ventura mentioned nothing about werewolves or even silver bullets. He's covering his tracks.”

“Was Cooper really a Marshal?” I ask.

“No. He was identified as James Cooper of Highgarden, Pennsylvania. Former army sniper. They're claiming he just got caught in the crossfire, that he was attempting to save you and Gavin executed him.”

“Am I still considered his hostage?” I ask.

“I'm sorry, no,” Price says. “They found the stolen car from Cali
fornia. Your prints were on the wheel and tags so there's a federal warrant out for you for interstate car theft.”

“Jesus Christ,” I say almost doubling over in my chair.

“We'll take care of it,” Jason says.

I am officially a federal fugitive wanted by the law. My throat closes up. “This is insane,” I whisper.

Jason rubs my back, which does help. “It'll be okay.”

“You really should let me go to Dr. Black,” Price says. “She's a civilian, we can intervene.”

“She's pack,” he insists, still rubbing. “Under pack law, as offspring of a member, unless she declares herself rogue, she is pack.
This is two warring werewolf factions, not your jurisdiction. Un
der F.R.E.A.K.S. law, unless an unaffiliated human is injured by preternatural means, you cannot intervene.”

“He is correct, William,” the drop-dead gorgeous man approaching us says with a British accent.
Hello
. My g-spot springs to attention. This man gives Jason a run for the money in the looks department. Flowing brown hair, pale skin, full lips, piercing gray eyes. Yummy. Both werewolves bristle and scowl when he saddles up to our table, Jason especially. The Brit receives the full force of his glare as he sits in the free chair to my right without invitation. “I know you are new to our organization, so I shall enlighten you, Special Agent Price. The exceptions are if no formal declaration of war was made, in which all parties are legally responsible for any murder committed. I doubt Francis Dahl or his aggressor would make such an oversight though. The other exceptions are if the crimes begin drawing attention, i.e., maulings in the press, drained bodies, etc., and violence crossing the species. Werewolf on vampire, vampire on witch—”

“You know all about that last one, don't you, Oliver?” Jason sneers.

The man grins, showing his pearly white teeth. “Jason Volyn-
ski, happy to see Alpha Dahl has let you off your leash for a spell. I swear, as the years pass, you grow more and more like your dear, departed father.” The grin slowly drops. “Especially in the eyes. You can tell so much about a man's soul, or lack thereof, through the eyes.”

I didn't think it possible but Jason's scowl deepens almost to snarling proportions, upper lip twitching. Before he can attack the man, I say, “I'm sorry, um, we haven't been introduced.” I hold out my hand. “I'm Vivian. Dahl.”

“Oliver Montrose,” he says, ungluing his eyes from the men only
to use them to fuck me twelve ways from Sunday. “Enchanté.” He kisses my hand with his cold lips. I can't help it, a shiver of lust radiates down from that spot.

“Don't look in his eyes,” Jason orders. I glance over at him. “He's
a vampire.”

On instinct, I yank my hand away. Oliver chuckles. “Oh, Mr. Volynski, no need to frighten the poor girl. As if I would ply my considerable charms on your beautiful mate.” The word
mate
makes Jason visibly stiffen. “At least not in front of you.”