Not Your Ordinary Wolf Girl (5 page)

FOUR

S
omeone banged on the bathroom door, jolting me awake. Reluctantly, I removed my paper-towel scarf and opened the door. Light flooded the room, making me wince. I caught my reflection in the mirror and realized there was a wet circle around the collar of my personally tailored black-and-hot-pink roller derby T-shirt, and all the bracelets had fallen to my wrist, uncovering the scar. I shoved them back up my arm. The stylist was going to murder me!

Spyke stood on the other side of the doorway, glaring. Oh, shit. How long had I been passed out? Long enough for the whole crew to finish lunch and get into position around the stage. Jules fiddled impatiently with her keyboard. Harris and Malika looked worried.

“Why was the light out?” Spyke demanded. “Are you high?”

“No!” Not again. “Sorry. I fell asleep.”

Spyke sniffed. “Are you
dying
? Because you'd better be.”

“Can I get back to you on that?” I held out my hand, indicating she should move and let me past.

Spyke stepped aside and waved toward the stage. “We're going to have to make up the lost time. I've got more important things to do than babysit rock stars.”

Unbelievable. I'm as close as you can get to straight-edge without being religious about it. Just to irritate Spyke, I slouched my way over to the stage as slowly as possible.

The makeup artist scurried over with her loaded powder brush and a tube of lipstick. She instantly noticed the ring around my collar and shrieked like someone had stabbed her. “Wardrobe! Bring me another shirt! This one's soaked.”

The stylist shook his head. “No can do. It's one of a kind, cut and sewn to Sam's exact measurements. She's tiny!” He glanced toward Spyke, unsure what to do.

“Come on, it's just a shirt,” I said. “Give me something else and I'll change. Who cares what I'm wearing?” I didn't mean to insult the stylist, but I wanted to get this over with.

“You can't change clothes at a random point in the video,” said Spyke.

“Let's try a blow dryer,” suggested the makeup artist, already running for her supplies. She came back, unravelling an extension cord as she walked and aiming brutally hot air at my neck. Just what I needed.

Spyke flopped dramatically into a fold-up chair. After about two seconds under the blow dryer, I had sweat pouring down my face and back. I could feel pools forming under my arms, in my elbows, and behind my knees. Even my toes were sweating.

A wave of roast beef–flavoured bile rose in my throat. Gross. I gagged once, then a second time. I barely managed to stop myself from tossing my sandwiches right there. No one else seemed to notice. They were all too busy being irritated by the delay.

It was like something broke inside my brain. I couldn't handle another second onstage. I jerked out of reach of the hair dryer and away from the pounding light. Immediately, I felt better.

“Is it dry?” asked Spyke.

“Not yet!” said the makeup artist.

“Then finish the job!” Spyke yelled.

The woman moved forward, heat ray aimed at my neck. I darted away, knowing that the cord could reach only so far.

“You're screwing everything up,” Jules said in her typically blunt manner.

“Stay out of this, okay?” A sudden impulse to lunge and tear her throat out was so strong that my body shook with the effort to control it. The last thing I wanted was to get in a serious fight with her. That would cause a lot more trouble than getting under the director's skin. “Look, I'm not in great shape today.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” said Jules.

“I think I should go home. Something really weird happened to me last night—”

“Oh, please, enlighten us all,” Spyke broke in.

“A huge dog attacked me after the concert,” I blurted out. “Maybe I caught rabies or some other kind of infection. I don't know. I went to the hospital this morning and the doctor seemed to think it was just the flu, but I'm freaking out and can't stop eating.”

“Maybe you
should
go home and rest,” said Malika.

Her kindness hit harder than a punch to the solar plexus. My eyes filled with tears. Malika was ready to believe me—no questions asked. “Yeah. I'm sorry. I know this is really inconvenient.”

“Damn right,” griped Spyke.

Harris stared at his feet awkwardly. Vinnie grumbled and checked his phone.

My nausea surged. I clamped a hand over my
mouth, tore across the room to the garbage can, and puked. Loudly. A collective gasp rose from the crew as my six sandwiches made a reappearance in the world. When it was over, I straightened and wiped my mouth delicately with a wad of napkins. I felt like I was burning up and wasn't sure if it was fever or humiliation.

“Ewwww,” said Jules.

I shot her a warning look, grabbed my jacket off the back of a chair, and tried to throw Janis over my shoulder. Unfortunately, the case's latch wasn't properly shut, so she tumbled out. Harris dived and caught her before she hit the ground. I nodded my thanks at him, afraid to open my mouth. I couldn't imagine what he thought of me.

The stylist flapped his arms and hurried toward me. “The shirt! Sam, don't leave with it on!”

I yanked the shirt over my head and tossed it at him. Then I took off, wearing nothing but a red and pink bra under my jacket—my underwear was getting a lot of airtime lately. But in New York, people would think it was a fashion statement. Out in the hall I pushed the elevator's down button frantically.

What a mess! Maybe if I just went back to sleep, when I woke up my life would be normal again. I was still standing there in a daze when Harris and Malika came running out to the hall.

“You okay?” asked Malika, handing me the shirt I'd worn to the studio.

“Please leave me alone,” I said, sniffling as I pulled it over my head. I was not going to cry in front of Harris. Not. Going. To cry.

“We want to help,” she said, touching my shoulder. I hiccupped. “I'm n-not kidding, Mali. Something's wrong—I'm messed up in the head!”

“You're sick,” she said.

“In the head.”

“Not true. You're just tired and sick. Don't worry about the shoot. Vinnie'll deal with the fallout. Jules is bitching, but she always gets over it. And this video is the biggest thing that's ever happened to Spyke. She shouldn't talk to you like that.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled.

I blinked to push back the tears. The elevator doors opened. I rushed inside and jammed my thumb into the lobby button repeatedly, trying to hide my face in the corner. Just as the doors were closing, Harris jumped in with me.

Once we were alone, he clasped my elbow and pulled me into a hug. His hands slid beneath my shirt to the bare skin of my lower back. I shivered. He held me tightly against his chest. I sucked in a breath and let my head fill with his scent. His body was noticeably
cooler than mine. After all these months I'd finally gotten his attention, and was in no shape to handle it.

The doors opened at the lobby to a rush of people waiting to get on. I twisted and wriggled loose from Harris. Without glancing back I left the building and jogged down the street toward a busy intersection to catch a cab.

When I got home, I felt a burst of energy. There was no way I'd be able to rest. I ran upstairs to drop off Janis, scrub off my makeup, and grab a bottle of water. Back out on the street minutes later with my bike, I pedalled east through Brooklyn's side streets, away from the snarl of traffic.

Almost instantly, my muscles sang, my nausea subsided, and my mood improved. No violent or inappropriate urges. The exercise really seemed to help. So I kept going and became a cycling
machine
. My goal was to make it out to a quieter area and find a nice park where I could hang out. By the time the sun began to set, I was in some Long Island suburban enclave with cookie-cutter housing complexes on all sides. This would have to do. I was alone except for the occasional SUV whizzing past with a soccer mom and her 2.7 kids.

I'd finished the last of my water an hour ago, and wished I'd stopped to buy more at one of the markets
that lined the busier streets. Turning a corner, I spied a sad old apple tree. It grew next to a field overrun by grass and shrubs that was doomed, from the sign posted in front, to become more box houses.

As good a place as any to take a break. I eased my leg over the crossbar. That's when I discovered just how sore I was and collapsed on the bristly grass. My thighs and calf muscles spasmed. The sky was a fiery orange-red. Beautiful. I fingertip-drummed the rhythm to “Not Missing You” on my stomach and tried to forget about my aches and thirst.

A vintage 1970s half-car, half-pickup rounded the bend in the road. I gawked at its sleek black-and-white hood. The owner must've put in a lot of effort to keep that thing polished and running smoothly. It rolled to a halt a few feet away. The driver's door opened and a familiar-looking guy got out. It was Marlon, Harris's buddy from art class.

Although his narrow face was set in a surly frown, he wasn't hard to look at. His light brown skin, slightly pointy chin, and artistically tousled black hair made me think of a young Johnny Depp. He was wiry almost to the point of being thin, but he looked strong, and his painted-on jeans emphasized his muscles. He also had on a green and purple T-shirt and black high-tops with lavender laces.

In one hand he held an economy pack of beef jerky. In the other, a big bottle of spring water. Water! My eyes automatically went from the bottle to his bicep, decorated with a dark blue tattoo. As he got closer I was able to make out that the drawing was a howling wolf 's head.

I waited silently, figuring he'd explain why he'd pulled over. Instead he tossed the snacks on the ground, dropped down beside them, and leaned back on his elbows to enjoy the sunset with me.

“The snacks are for you,” he said after a moment.

There was nothing actively threatening about him. He wasn't encroaching on my personal space. Well, not exactly. He was three feet away. For some reason he didn't seem as creepy as his brother, but the situation made me really nervous. How had he found me out here? What did he want?

He slid a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket and lit one. The smoke tickled my nose and made me sneeze.

“Do you mind not blowing that in my face?” I said.

He shuffled a little farther over and turned his head to exhale, leaving untouched the water I so desperately craved and the dried meat. I glared at him. When he was finished, he ground the butt into the dirt.

“Did you follow me?”

“Yeah.”

Again I waited for an explanation, but didn't get one.

“Pretty nice view,” he said, flicking his brown eyes in my direction. “My name's Marlon.”

“I know. Harris told me.”

“And I know who you are.”

“Why are you stalking me?”

“I'm a fan,” he said, in an oddly flat way. He still made no effort to explain what he was doing way out here in the boonies, on this deserted stretch of road, at this exact moment.

“But what are you doing
here
?”

“I came to help.”

Okay. I was stuck in the middle of nowhere with Mr. Mysterious. People always assumed they knew me based on an interview I'd given or a certain song's lyrics, but they didn't usually go this far. Suddenly the gorgeous sunset felt like a blazing warning that it would be dark soon. I shook out my legs. The thought of getting back in the saddle was thoroughly unappealing. Then again, so was hanging out here with my Number One Fan. Apparently, Harris had terrible taste in friends.

But
Marlon
was the one who should leave—I'd found this tree first. Before I could say as much he shot me a disarmingly crooked grin. I groaned.

“Okay, move along,” I said. “I'm not interested in sharing my apple tree. I came out here to be alone.”

“So it's
your
apple tree?”

He jumped up and picked a plump, low-hanging fruit, then bit into it with relish, as if he had no worries in the world. I watched him chew in disbelief. If my legs didn't hurt so much I wouldn't be sitting here having this conversation at all. I'd be back on my bike, out of here. Leaning forward, I tried rubbing my leg muscles, hoping to ease the cramps.

He tossed the apple core aside, folded his arms behind his head, and shut his eyes. “Sam, I understand what you're going through. All the strange feelings and reactions.”

“What the—?”

“You must be terrified.”

I
was
scared. And I needed to get away from him. Now. Somehow my exhausted legs let me stand up, but then they wouldn't move another inch. My knees wobbled dangerously.

“Sit down. You can hardly stand. I'm not going to bite.”

“Just go away! Why are you still here?”

“You're ridiculously warm, thirsty, and hungry … right? You feel like you could eat three cows—raw— and drink a swimming pool dry.” He gestured toward
the bottled water and the beef jerky on the ground. “Those will help.”

My eyes narrowed. “I'm not stupid enough to eat your roofie-laced snacks.”

“Do I look that evil?”

I shrugged. “Stalkers come in all shapes and sizes.”

“Sam, I wouldn't even know where to get roofies. I was serious about the cows, by the way. Let your mind relax, and they'll start to look an awful lot like prey.”

“Shut up.”

He let out a soft hiss of air, like I was testing his patience. Reaching over, he opened the package of beef jerky. The scent of salty meat triggered my extra-sensitive nose. He nibbled on a piece, and my stomach growled loud enough to hear.

“Aren't you curious how I know these things about you?” asked Marlon, stuffing another sliver of dried meat into his mouth. He lifted the bag and shook it at me.