Not Your Ordinary Wolf Girl (9 page)

“And The Cream Puffs,” I said, nodding at the poster.

“You hungry?” he asked.

“I could go for a snack,” I said—the understatement of the year.

“What do you feel like?”

“How about sushi? There's a place nearby.”

He stood and pulled on a black jacket, then picked up his canvas bag and dug out a cardboard envelope. “I forgot. This is for you.”

As I followed him out the door, dodging the mass of people who'd come in since we arrived, I peeked in the envelope to find the completed sketch he'd done of me at the video shoot. Seen through his eyes, I looked composed and beautiful: focused on playing my bass, a tiny bit fragile, but confident in my own skin.

It had begun to rain, and the wind was blowing angrily. I tucked the drawing into my purse next to the bag of meat to keep it safe. Harris had wisely brought an umbrella. We huddled together under it as we splashed through the dirty streets of lower Manhattan. Drivers took advantage of the quiet traffic to whip around corners at top speed, spraying water onto the sidewalks. And onto us. Puddles overflowed and formed rivers in the gutters, carrying garbage and debris along.

The heavy rain muted the lights and drummed a free jazz rhythm on parked cars and trash cans that would've made a musician like Ornette Coleman jealous. The dreamy chaos bought me a little time before I had to deal with Harris again. This emotional stuff was scarier to me than all my other recent encounters.

Beside me, Harris shivered. My hand reached
out and wrapped around his, clasping the umbrella's handle. Too bad I couldn't will my excess body heat to flow into him. He winked at me. I winked back.

“We could always skip the food and go straight to your place,” he suggested, wiggling his eyebrows.

I actually giggled. “Forget it. You're rebounding hard. And I'm not
that
easy. Plus, I really am hungry. Famished.”

“Aww,” he pouted. “I thought you were all about sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll.”

I pinched his arm, making him yelp.

We tumbled into the restaurant. Unfortunately, every single table was taken. Not only that, but a soggy lineup nearly blocked the door from opening. I felt equally guilty and relieved when the owner recognized me and ushered us through to a private booth with a “reserved” sign on it. I'm no Beyoncé, but I'm enough of a local celebrity to reap the benefits sometimes.

The smell of all that fish made me drool. I surreptitiously scooped up a napkin, wiped my mouth, and then reached for the owner's arm before she could bustle back to her duties. Without waiting to find out what Harris wanted, I pointed at a picture on the menu's first page: a heaping pile of sashimi arranged on a large bamboo boat, enough for two people and their dog. “Bring me one of these!”

“Just for you?” asked the owner.

I started to nod, but noticed Harris's expression and changed my order to a more appropriate one-person serving. Then I had to wait impatiently while he took his sweet time poring over the menu only to pick out chicken teriyaki with vegetables, pork dumplings, and steamed rice. Not a single piece of raw fish in the whole deal. He also asked for warm sake. Even though I was happy with green tea, the owner came back and presented each of us with a thimble-sized cup, then poured the wine.

Harris raised his sake for a tiny toast. “To new experiences. And new
friends
.”

The way he said it left no doubt which friend he wanted to experience. He reached over and clasped my hand again. My fingers twitched and I almost pulled away. With my free hand, I took the tiniest sip of the deceptively mild rice wine. Even those few drops burned their way down. I was in trouble.

“So, what's going on with
Dream Rage
these days?” I asked.

His comic's plotline seemed like firmer ground than what the hell we were doing on a date, and Harris was happy to chatter away while we waited for our food. He explained that the last issue's ghostly apparition— which floated around the main character at night,
taunting and insulting him—was supposed to be a physical manifestation of low self-esteem and neuroses. I could relate. The final artwork for the next issue was due to the publisher on Wednesday, and Harris was worried because he was behind schedule and wanted it to be absolutely perfect. It inspired me to hear someone else take his art as seriously as I took mine.

While he talked, he tossed back more sake. I wet my lips a few times. He didn't notice my drink was still full and tried to top it up each time he poured more for himself. When the food arrived, my cup was stone cold and overflowing, and my stomach was on the verge of a revolt. I'd already considered—and reluctantly rejected—grabbing food from the plate of a slow eater sitting near us.

My small sashimi boat was digested in about thirty seconds. Using chopsticks, I hauled three slices of fish into my mouth at a time. I didn't pause for a breath until the final piece was sliding down my trap.

When I glanced up from the empty plate, I saw that Harris was watching me again. Uh-oh. And I was
still
fiercely hungry. Screw it. I reached across the table and popped a piece of his teriyaki chicken into my maw.

“That was
fast,
” he said.

“I told you I was hungry.”

“You haven't touched your salad … or the rice.”

“I'm cutting back on carbs.”

I forked up a few unappreciated bites of lettuce.

He didn't respond, but attempted to add more liquid to his sake cup and realized the bottle was empty. A few feet away, the chef tossed Kobe beef onto the hibachi. I desperately wanted some. Then I remembered I'd brought my own meat pack. I couldn't pull it out here, while Harris was daintily pecking at his salad and drinking soup, so I excused myself and headed for the bathroom.

Locked inside a stall, I removed a garlicky piece of lamb, trying not to think about how unhygienic the entire situation was, and started gnawing away. Mmm. So good.

The bathroom door swung open. Two women entered and began to talk at the mirror.

“What's that smell?” said one.

I froze, rib hovering between my teeth.

“Garlic?” asked the other.

I tore off the remaining meat and shoved the bone back into the bag, wincing as the plastic crinkled, then tried to hold the zip seal closed until the two women left so it wouldn't smell so strongly.

As the door shut, I heard one of them hiss, “Someone was
eating
in the stall.”

“Gross!”

When had I been reduced to a nut job who ate flesh in public bathrooms? But I couldn't stop. I fished out a sausage and bit off the end, hoping it didn't reek as much as the lamb. A few people came and went as I tucked into the rest of the meat, but no one else cracked any comments.

I thought about shoving my Ziploc of bones into the container for “feminine products,” but the bin was too full. Instead, I tucked it back into the bottom of my purse and flushed the toilet for show. At the mirror, I washed my hands, picked a piece of lamb gristle out of my teeth, and freshened my pink lip gloss. Judging by Harris's face when I returned to our table, I'd been gone a little too long.

“There was a line,” I said lamely.

He glanced at the women's room—where there wasn't a single person waiting at the door, damn it— but nodded politely.

“Been trying to get the waitress's attention,” he said. “Wouldn't mind another bottle of sake.” His glazed eyes said he'd had enough.

My cup was still full. I gulped down the contents. I needed it. Harris frowned. He'd been hoping I'd offer it to him. It must be weird to hang out with a stranger after dating the same woman for eight years. Maybe
that's why he was drinking so much. Or did he miss Marie?

The server was running around manically, delivering meals and taking orders, but when I stood up and waved she rushed over. I asked for the bill before Harris could order another round.

“I was waiting for fifteen minutes,” grumbled Harris.

“I've got magic powers,” I said. “They can be helpful in certain situations.”

“Maybe
I
should try being famous.”

I smiled ruefully. “Not always as much fun as you think. Trust me.”

“But you get to jump lines. And you've got groupies.”

“I'm not exactly the hook-up type, in case you haven't noticed.”

“I've noticed,” Harris said, licking his lips.

The server distracted me from staring at his mouth by returning with the bill. I won a brief argument about who was going to pay by snatching the bill and holding it behind my back. Harris teasingly threatened to come after it. He staggered to his feet and almost pitched right over. He had to clutch the chair. I took that opportunity to hand some money to the waitress. Harris shook his head in mock anger, then barrelled out of the restaurant.

He'd already hailed a cab when I made it outside. I jumped in beside him, grateful to get out of the rain. Harris told the driver to head for Williamsburg. Jordan lived on the Lower East Side. As we were speeding through wet streets, he turned to me. “We're going to your place.”

Did he expect an invite upstairs? “Uh, how about we head to your place, then I'll keep going to Brooklyn?”

“No way. Ladies first.”

I told the driver my address. Harris inched closer until our thighs were touching. He rested a hand on my knee. It was so warm I could feel it through my jeans. Rebound Boy
was
hoping to get lucky. As we rode over the illuminated bridge, I glanced at Harris. In the flashes of light, he looked gentle and tired.

My heart ached a little for him. Breakups were hard. I'd only really been through one. I dated a sound techie for about six months. We weren't right for each other. All he talked about was the music industry, which was a total snooze if you lived and breathed it. Still, when we broke up, I felt like I'd been flattened by one of Wile E. Coyote's giant anvils and basically hid in my apartment and lost myself in music for a week.

The cab pulled to the curb in front of my building. I got out more money to pay.

“'T'son me,” slurred Harris. “You paid for dinnerrr!”

“No, I—”

“Sam, please!”

“Okay, thanks.” I gave him a quick hug and opened the taxi door, but couldn't get rid of him that easily.

“Wait!” Harris blocked the door with his foot, sprawled sideways, and slapped cash into the driver's hand before clambering out of the car.

The cab pulled away. We were alone.

EIGHT

I
yawned and stretched exaggeratedly. “It was really nice hanging out, but I'm going to bed now.”

He swayed in my general direction. “But we've hardly had a chance to talk. It's early, and this is the city that never sleeps.”

“Brooklyn?” I joked.

He gave me a playful shove. “New York … Invite me up?”

I sighed and shook my head.

He grabbed my waist and pulled me against him. His lips were suddenly pressed to mine, parting and nibbling. Heat rose up my knees, through my abdomen, and settled in my chest. I closed my eyes and inhaled the scent of Harris Wall. Beneath a layer of alcohol and
a surprisingly sexy cologne was a deep male musk that smelled so unbelievably good. He would probably taste amazing.

What the—?
My eyes flew open. I jerked back. I
could just make out the bounce of a pulse under the
thin skin of his neck. I moved farther away.

“This isn't happening,” I mumbled.

“It's been a long time since I've kissed anyone other than Marie,” he said. “But, wow!”

He craned forward. His mouth lowered again.

“Watch yourself, Harris. She might eat you.” A guy was standing in the shadows next to my front door.
Marlon.
His hair was flat and his clothes were soaked through from the rain, leaving nothing about his body to the imagination. I squinted at the quote in pale blue letters on his black shirt: “In wildness is the preservation of the world.” A Thoreau fan.

“Marlon? Why are you spying on us?” asked Harris.

“I'm waiting,” said Marlon. “For Sam. And, like I said, I'd be careful if I were you. She really was on the verge of ripping your throat out.”

“Get lost,” I snarled, remembering the intoxicat-ingly sweet smell of Harris's blood.

“I just stopped by to thank you for returning my car in one piece.”

“What are you guys talking about?” asked Harris. “Sam borrowed your El Camino?”

“More like stole it,” said Marlon.

I rolled my eyes.

“I thought you guys didn't know each other,” Harris said.

“He
doesn't
know me!” I shouted. “But he followed me when I went for a bike ride and wouldn't leave me alone. I jumped in his car to get away!”

“Oh,” said Harris, frowning. “You were really following her? Not cool, man.”

“I needed to talk to her. Alone.”

“Anything you have to tell Sam can be said in front of me,” Harris declared.

Great. I was now officially in the middle of a duel.

“Okay, then.” Marlon looked at me. “First, I'm returning your bike.” He pointed toward the wall—sure enough, there stood my somewhat wet but otherwise intact trusty pink steed. “Second, a monster really
did
chew on your arm while you were riding in Central Park that night. Third, I can help you understand the changes you're going through. Fourth, if you don't let me help, you're going to do something you really regret. Soon.”

“You rode through the park at night?” asked Harris, squinting at me. “That's not very safe.”

I bared my teeth at both of them. Marlon knew about the dog attack? How? The last thing I wanted was not one but
two
guys telling me what was good for me. I already had a mother, a manager, and bandmates for that.