Bayou Blues (4 page)

My words got stuck in my mouth as I stood up and saw the mechanic staring at me from the opposite side of the car.

For whatever reason, I’d expected an older man. Some balding guy in his late fifties with a scowl and a beer belly. The only part I’d gotten right was the scowl. The man looking back at me was maybe twenty-five. His angular jaw was tense, and his full lips were set in a humorless frown. But
goddamn
. He was the single hottest man I’d seen in my entire life.

His eyes were hazel, the color of swamp water flecked with fresh fallen leaves. Something about them reminded me of home. His hair was either dark blond or light brown, though my certainty on which changed with each shift of sunlight over his head. He wore mechanics overalls with the top stripped down and tied around his waist. This gave me a provocative view of his chest and shoulders in an almost-too-tight gray T-shirt. His upper body was so muscular I thought he might be able to lift the car up on his own.

A waft of wolf scent hit me, and my eyes went wide.

He
could
lift the car barehanded if he wanted to. This guy was a werewolf through and through.

His nostrils flared, and he gave me a knowing nod, letting me know he’d figured me out too. “Car trouble, ma’am?” he drawled, and his eyes glimmered with humor for the first time since I’d seen him, breaking up the seriousness of his frown.

Since he was a werewolf in St. Francisville, he would be under Callum’s control, and that made him safe, if not trustworthy. I saw no sense in lying to him. The whole pack would know soon enough.

“Almost got driven off the road by one of those Church of Morning loonies.” I didn’t know it had been them for sure, but it seemed like a pretty safe bet.

This made his eyes widen, either in surprise or because he was impressed, it was hard to tell which. “And a couple blown tires were the worst of the damage?”

“You haven’t seen my rear end yet.”
Oh God, Genie, did you seriously just say that?

He smirked but didn’t say anything. Instead he walked to the back of the car and let out a whistle. “Guess they meant business.”

“Sorry, I don’t mean to sound rude or forward or anything, but who
are
you? I thought I knew every wolf in Callum’s pack.”

“What’s the matter, Princess? Worried I might be up to no good? Seems to me you’ve already had your fair share of bad luck today.” He flicked the dented trunk and gave it one last assessing stare before sauntering back towards me.
Walk
wouldn’t have been the right verb. He moved like a predator or a really suave runway model. Each gesture promised something obscene.

My cheeks flushed.

What was it about this guy? So far he hadn’t been very nice to me, but just the sight of him was turning me stupid. It was unfair for any one man to be as good-looking as he was. If he had a half-decent personality, I might have been at risk of falling for him, but from what I could tell I had nothing to worry about in that department.

I wasn’t too astonished that he knew I was a princess. He’d taken my name when I called in. As a werewolf in the south, he could easily do the math. “You obviously know who I am. It’s only fair I have a name I can call you.”

“You can call me anything you want to.”

I rolled my eyes. “Smooth. On average, how many times has a line like that worked for you?”

“It’s usually fifty-fifty. I’ve never tried it on royalty before. Seemed worth a shot.”

“Sorry to tell you, but your average is tipping towards failure.”

His mouth quirked up in a slight smile, and he set about getting the car rigged up to the tow truck. I thought he was going to ignore my question a second time, but just as I was about to push for more information he said, “My name is Wilder. Wilder Shaw.”

Shaw.
I bristled. Now there was a name I
definitely
knew.

“You must be related to Hank.” I tried to make it sound casual, but a hint of bitterness snuck into my tone, and there was no getting around it.

Hank Shaw, one of the longer-standing members in Callum’s pack, was a big reason I still hadn’t brought Cash home to meet the family after a year together. Hank was bigoted in a way that seemed over the top even in the south. He was vocal and obnoxious about his racism, so much so the pack’s sole black member, James Fairfax, had been granted permission to live away from the pack compound.

Worse still, Hank had actively abandoned the pack once to join a rogue group led by none other than my mother. Ultimately he’d come back with his tail between his legs and begged forgiveness, which Callum had grudgingly offered him. Mercy was, technically, part of the pack, so while Hank had by all accounts defected, the king let it go on a technicality.

Secret, when she found out, was furious. As it turned out, one of the duties Hank had performed for Mercy was beating the tar out of Secret. It was too late for Callum to go back on his decision though. All he could do was keep Hank on a short leash and hope he was reformed.

Ben and I had both asked Callum on many different occasions why he didn’t kick Hank out of the pack, but our uncle believed in second chances, and he thought there was hope for Hank yet, in spite of how hateful the man could be. Maybe he was right, but it made things tense around the plantation time and time again. Secret wouldn’t visit if she knew he was there.

“Yeah, Hank’s my older brother,” Wilder said.

I tried to take this new information and see him in a different light, hoping it would make Wilder less attractive to me. No such luck. He was still swoonworthy, especially given the way his shoulders and arms flexed while he worked with the hitch.

“Are you and your brother…um…close?” I couldn’t figure out a better way to ask,
Are you also a racist prick who likes to beat up women?
Southern girls were raised to not be quite so confrontational in our conversations with handsome strangers.

Wilder gave a half shrug, not paying much attention to me as he worked. “I know what you’re trying to get at,” he said finally. “I
do
know what he’s like, and I sure won’t defend his beliefs or the mistakes he’s made. But I also won’t badmouth my kin.” He wiped his hands on his overalls and glanced up at me, the green flecks in his eyes catching in the light, making him seem like more animal than man for a fraction of a second. “He’s good in his own ways, but his badness keeps people from seeing it. I know a different Hank.” The grimace had returned.

I guess I’d stepped on his toes in spite of all my efforts not to.

“I was pretty sure I knew all the wolves in Callum’s territory, so why have I never met you?”

He gave me a look that told me nothing about how he felt. “I was around for awhile. When you were off playing with the frogs and the gators. Came back to make sure Hank doesn’t have too rough a go. He’s been struggling a bit.”

“Oh.” I wasn’t really sure what else to say, and I didn’t want to ask more about his brother.

“All right, Princess, I’m almost done here. Why don’t you hop up in the cab?”

“Genie,” I corrected.

“Hmm?” He’d stopped paying attention again.

“My name is Genie. Eugenia, really. But…people, um…call me Genie?” Smooth. Dumbass.

Wilder glanced at me. “I know your name, sweetheart. But that won’t stop me from calling you Princess.”

I was about to tell him if he was trying to be proper, Princess wasn’t the appropriate form of address, Your Royal Highness was, but then I realized he wasn’t being polite. He was being condescending.

I sniffed and hiked my bag higher on my shoulder, trying to come up with a witty retort to wither him in his place. Secret would have known exactly what to say. My sister was the master of the soul-crushing one-liner.

After a much-too-long pause I said, “Wilder is a stupid name anyway.” I turned on my heel, hoping my pathetic rejoinder would at least get me the last word.

Before I could get into the cab of the truck I heard him say loud and clear, “Whatever you say, Eugenia.”

The whole drive back we sat in tense, awkward silence. I was afraid to speak again because my foot had a tendency to wedge itself right in my mouth whenever I started saying anything. Wilder was no help. He was doing his best to project the air of a man who embodied
strong silent type
.

Fine. Whatever. It wasn’t like I
needed
to talk.

By the time we pulled up to the garage I was squirming in my seat, words bubbling up the back of my throat. He stopped at the front of the building and stared at me pointedly until I realized he was waiting for me to get out.

“Oh,” I mumbled, feeling stupid for not getting his hint sooner. Of course, if he’d just
said
something, I could have bypassed the embarrassment stage altogether. My mental catalogue of reasons to not like Wilder was steadily outstripping his more…attractive qualities.

I paced with barely constrained nervous energy by the garage door, not sure if I was supposed to go in or if I was meant to find my own way home from here. Wilder, from my short acquaintance with him, seemed like he might be the kind of man to make a stranded woman walk six miles by herself.

I could have called Callum’s estate and gotten a ride from here, but then I’d need to explain why I hadn’t called them in the first place. I’d rather get a lift with a cranky stranger than tell my uncle over the phone that I’d been the target of an assassination attempt.

Some things are better said in person.

So instead of leaving I waited, assuming he’d come back for me even though he hadn’t said anything one way or the other.

Plus the front door was locked.

I hugged my purse to my chest and was almost convinced he wasn’t returning when the big garage door behind me gave a loud groan and lifted. Trying to hide my startled jump, I steadied my breath and schooled my features.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said.

Dammit.
“You didn’t scare me.”

“Sure.” A little twist of a smile again. I had no doubt he was making fun of me.

My Dart was behind him, and another set of garage doors was open at the back of the shop, letting a warm breeze flow through the space. He’d parked his truck beside my car. The smell of engine oil and gasoline wafted out to meet me. It was a pungent, unmistakable scent, but one that was not altogether unpleasant. It made me think of road trips and outboard boat motors.

A flat platform on wheels was next to a toolbox, and I suspected it was used for him to roll under the car to work on it. My only real exposure to mechanical work came from movies. I tried not to picture Wilder smeared with grease, his shirt sticky with sweat as he rolled out from under a car and said,
The chassis will be good as new when I get my hands on it.

I blushed.

That fantasy had gotten specific awfully fast.

I was
not
interested in Wilder Shaw. He was just one of those guys who’d been born with an incredibly distracting defect: he was too perfect. That face. Those lips. His stupid beautiful eyes. He was like one of those flowers that lured insects and animals in, only to devour them whole. Sure, he was pretty, but he was a predator through and through.

And no matter what he’d said earlier, my opinion of his brother was still coloring the way I perceived Wilder. There was no way one brother was a traitorous bigot and the other just walked away totally liberal and devoted to the pack. Nope. I’d lived in Louisiana long enough to know the brush of racism painted people in heavy strokes and light ones, but being
less
of a racist than Hank didn’t make him a good person. As for the traitor thing—twisted political ideals tended to run in families hand in hand with personal ones.

Who’s being prejudiced now?
a voice in the back of my head scolded.

I slung my bag over my shoulder and followed him into the garage. He didn’t invite me in exactly, but he did open the door and walk away, which I was beginning to realize was sort of the same thing.

“How big is your head?” His voice was muffled from inside his truck.

“I
beg
your pardon?”

His head popped up over the hood of the truck, assessed me, then said, “Looks normal.”

“Thanks?”

He had already disappeared. When he came back, he was carrying two helmets and tossed one at me without waiting to see if I was prepared for it. Thankfully, werewolf reflexes kicked in, and I grabbed it out of the air before it fell, hugging it tight so it didn’t clatter to the floor and make me look like the klutz I sometimes was.

Though why I cared what he thought about me, I didn’t know.

“What’s this?” I realized too late it was the wrong question to ask.

“A helmet.” He pulled the front door closed and swung a lever over to lock it, dimming the interior light.

Of course.
Of course
that was his answer.

“Is it absolutely necessary for you to answer all my questions like I’m six years old?” I glared at him, then back at the helmet, still not sure why I was holding it. Did he think the drive back was going to get extra bumpy? Was he worried I couldn’t walk around without hurting myself?

“My momma always said if you want an obvious answer, ask an obvious question.”

“I’m betting she had to field a lot of obvious questions in her time.”

Wilder snorted. “You wouldn’t be wrong. Put that on.”

I did as I was asked, though I didn’t like obeying the commands of this wolf I’d never met before. I was his superior. He should be nicer to me. And he definitely shouldn’t be bossing me around like I was his kid sister.

He led me to the back of the garage, where his plan became all too clear, and I knew I’d been a fool not to connect the dots earlier. A beautiful red Indian motorcycle was parked next to the open rear doors. It was old but in perfect condition. My pulse jumped.

“We’re not taking the truck?”

Wilder stepped up to me until he was so close I could smell the woodsy aroma of male werewolf on him. I had to raise my chin to see his eyes, and much to my irritation, he was smirking at me again. He slid his fingers under the strap of my bag, his rough skin rasping against my bare shoulder, and he lifted the bag effortlessly over my head so the strap crossed my body.