Werewolf Sings the Blues (12 page)

He stares down at my offering. “I shouldn't sl—”

“I told you, Blondie.” I shut my door and grin. “Settle in. I got this.” It's three thousand miles to Maryland, we've got a full tank of gas, half a gram of coke in my pocket, it's dark … and we're not wearing sunglasses. I start the engine.

“Let's hit it.”

six

Oh, crap. Oh, hell.
I think I snorted too much coke. My heart is about to burst out of my fucking chest, and I'm shaking almost as bad as I was last night. Every nerve ending jangles like a plucked guitar string. Not to mention I'm as horny as a boy in a cheerleader's locker room. I'm blaming absolute, utter exhaustion for my lack of better judgment. At least today's bad judgment. I don't think I've ever been so tired in all my damn life. It started halfway to Salt Lake City as the adrenaline wore off. I downed an entire Mountain Dew in five minutes so I could be at least halfway conscious while I boosted us another car. It worked because the theft went down without a hitch. The hotel parking lot was unguarded and lousy with cars. I chose the first Accord with a key holder, switched the plates, and drove back to the demolished Civic a quarter mile away. I wanted to buy time before the two were linked. I transferred our possessions and my groggy companion, then got the hell out of Dodge.

After that, smooth sailing. It took a little over three hours to drive
down to I-70. I got to see a beautiful sunrise and the Acura owner was a jazz fan so I have decent tunes, but boredom quickly drained my reserves regardless. As we crossed the Colorado border, what little energy I had burnt out. Not even fumes remained. I'd had three sodas, two cups of coffee, and still couldn't keep my eyes open. I debated waking Jason but figured he needed sleep more than me. He hasn't woken since the car exchange in Salt Lake. I'm nothing if not stubborn, so I let him sleep and did a bump. Damned if it didn't work. Powdered energy to the rescue. I made
it another three hours before my eyelids started their fight again, and a massive wave of depression washed over me. When I stopped for gas just outside of Denver, I did two full lines. Bad idea.

Being hyper-vigilant while driving in a major city? Insane. Every
time a car changed lanes, I jerked in fear it was about to hit us. Then, when I spotted a cop, my throat closed to a pinpoint, and my mouth became Death Valley. It passed us, but I couldn't stop trembling for ten minutes. That was an hour ago. My heart hasn't slowed. Mostly because I am convinced,
convinced
that cop radioed ahead, and there's a trap setup here somewhere. I just know it. And yet in spite of my racing heart and superhuman vigilance, my eyes are growing heavy again. Fuckers.

I'm in hell. Absolute hell. I feel like plowing this car into the concrete divider. Seriously. I had to stop myself from doing just that. I know it's the coke—chemical reactions and whatnot—but that knowledge doesn't help keep the depression from swallowing me whole. No matter the cause, I still
feel
it. The exhaustion. The
hopelessness. Maybe I should just kill myself. If I died, really who'd
care? Mom for about an hour, Barry maybe a minute. Jessica would mourn, but she's resilient. She'd get over it. They'd move on. Really, my death wouldn't impact a single life. Like ten people would attend my funeral. Oh God, that's so fucking sad.

No impact. I've left nothing lasting in my life. No husband, no kids, not even a damn album. It'd be like I never existed. Why the hell is Jason risking his life for a nothing? People
rely
on him. An entire pack. He's essential to other people's lives. People
love
him. He should just leave me. Go back. Let Donovan have me. Instead the man gets shot because of me. He almost died, and it was my fault. If I hadn't called Cyr, Donovan never would have found us.

I've had hours to work out how the Marshal tracked us. We used cash, didn't tell anyone where we were, we were so damn careful. It wasn't until Jason's phone rang, and the display showed the name and number of the caller the pieces, locked into place.
When I called Cyr the hotel's name and number must have popped
up on his display too. Thinking he was helping, he phoned
Donovan with the info.

It was stupid of me to trust Cyr. The man is a drug dealer after all. For all I know Donovan threatened to arrest him unless he sold me out. So I am the reason Jason almost died. My damn fault in every way. As if I didn't have enough to feel guilty about already. Shooting at him, biting him, making him uncomfortable with my lame seduction scheme, suggesting I only wanted to sleep with him for his good deeds,
then
I also get him shot? God, if I were him I'd leave me at a gas station and phone Donovan myself. What really depresses me is I think I would.
I
wouldn't get shot for
him
. I really wouldn't. I'm so not worth any of this. And I'm scared shitless the second he realizes this, it's gas station time. Wouldn't blame him at all.

Just the thought of this hypothetical situation brings me to damn tears. Not that there's even a small part of me that thinks he'll do it. Never. He'll protect me until his dying breath. He's too good. Too good for me, that's for fucking sure. I finally meet a decent, hardworking, adorable man with a chivalrous streak a mile long to boot and he ends up being my adopted brother. And a werewolf, but nobody's perfect. The brother factor bothers me more than the werewolf thing—go figure. I could overlook them both, already have really, but not the fact I'm not fit to polish his fucking gun. I take a long, deep breath and sigh. God, I'm depressed. Stupid drugs. Stupid me. I shake my head to clear it. Stop this. Stop. Distraction. Need a distraction.

I grab the
Best of Gershwin
CD and pop it in. The bluesy trumpet from “Summertime,” begins and I feel a bit better, more so when Ella Fitzgerald begins crooning. I love
Porgy and Bess
. One of Gershwin's best. So sad and sexy and strangely sweet. No matter how much Bess fucks up, Porgy always comes after her. Used to think that only happened in fiction. The CD continues with
more classics. “They Can't Take That Away From Me,” “S'Wonderful,”
oh! “Someone to Watch Over Me.” I love, love,
love
this one. I was merely lip syncing the others, but I can't help myself. I actually sing along with Ella, getting lost in the melody, the words, how fun it is to croon.

I'm transported back to the first time I ever sang this tune, when I was fourteen at my boarding school. Damn, I loved it there. No one ever believed in me before, not like Miss Tyson. I was one of only three soloists and the only freshman. I worked my ass off getting that song literally pitch perfect. Hours doing scales, practicing breathing techniques, even reading a book on Gershwin to really understand what the song meant. It was my life's mission to make hat woman proud of me. It was there, up on that stage with that
spotlight on me alone, everyone in the audience applauding,
that I'd never felt so happy. My first fix, and sixteen years later I'm still chasing that particular dragon even though my feet are nothing more than bloody stumps now.

When I reach the second chorus, I realize I'm being watched again. I glance toward the source. Jason stares at me with that same intense gaze he had at the wedding when I performed “You Don't Know Me.” Dazed. Reverent. Titillated. Yearning. Shit, my cheeks warm in a blush. “Sorry. I didn't mean to wak—”

“Please continue singing.
Please
.”

The deep need in his voice is jarring, but I'm flattered more than anything. A command performance. First one ever. Can't disappoint my adoring audience. I oblige with zeal, belting the rest with everything I possess and swelling with pride in time to Jason's
soulful, emerging smile. It brings a matching one to mine. God, I've m
issed this.
This
is what it's all about. Feels like the first time. Better than coke. When the song ends, I turn back to the road and force
my cheeks to return to their normal color, failing miserably. There's that damn i
nternal orchestra again, continuing their symphony inside me. I'm tingly all over with every note.

“You're astonishing,” Jason says.

“Shut up.” I turn down the volume, at least on the radio. That orchestra continues to play the blues away. “I'm good. I only have a range of two octaves and can only hit high notes half the time.”

“I think you're spectacular.” He pushes himself into the sitting position. “For what it's worth.”

It's worth more than I'd care to admit to either of us, Blondie. “How are you feeling?”

“Stiff. Hungry. Thirsty. How long was I out for?”

“Oh, about fifteen hours.”

He stares out the window at the grassy plains of east Colorado then glances around the car in confusion. “Where are we? Is this a different car?”

“The answer to A is an hour outside of Denver. I changed our route to throw off Donovan. We're on I-70. And the answer to B is, yes, this is a new car. Upgraded from our bullet ridden, bloody Civic to a cleaner Acura in Salt Lake. You don't remember that?”

“I … no. Fifteen hours?” he asks in shock.

“Blondie, you'd been up for three days and lost half your blood. If you needed to sleep for double that, I'd let you. I told you, I got this.”

The sides of his mouth twitch into a momentary smile. “Thank you.” He twists open a water bottle with his human hand and chugs the contents. “I need a toilet and food.”

“Think that can be arranged.” I glance at his furry arm. “Although you might wanna …”

He stares at the limb. “Oh.”

“Looks like it worked, though. The bullet hole's gone without a trace. The gash in your head and cheek healed too. You're as good as spanking new.”

“Yeah,” he says, touching his cheek with his paw.

Strange how quick I got used to that paw. Forgot it was even there. “Can I … touch it?”

“What?”

“Your fur. Can I touch it? I want to see what it feels like. I almost did a few times before, but didn't want to molest you in your sleep,” I say with a smile. “I mean, how often do you get a chance to pet a werewolf. So can I?”

“Um, okay. I guess.”

I reach across and touch the fur. Holy hell, that's soft. I run my fingers through his thick pelt with a grin. It's so thick my digits almost vanish inside it. “Cool.”

“It doesn't bother you?”

“Hell no. I think it's fucking awesome. You're so soft.” He's staring at me again, studying me for I think evidence of a lie. Of course he doesn't find any. This werewolf thing is pretty nifty. “What?” I ask, pulling away my hand.

“Most people find it … unnerving.”

“Blondie, I've lived in New York City, New Orleans, and Los Angeles. I once did a gig with a guy who surgically inserted horns in his forehead. One of my roommates dated this cat who was covered in tattoos literally from head to toe. Your arm barely cracks the top five.”

“Oh.”

“So how do you want to do this? Change in here?”

“No. It gets messy. Gas station, I guess.”

“Aye aye, Blondie.”

We drive in silence for a few seconds as he wiggles around. Must be stiff. The man barely moved in his sleep. As he does, he notices his cell phone under the gearshift and picks it up. “I have five missed calls.”

“Yeah, didn't want to overstep my bounds.” Again. “I did text Frank this morning that we're alive and well.” Oh, good. An exit. “It'll keep.”

I pull up to the pumps and walk inside the station to retrieve the key to the bathrooms and twenty bucks unleaded. Jason waits
by the bathroom with a blanket covering his arm and blood- stained
pants. We exchange the key and smiles. While he's transforming, I do the same back at the car. My hair's frizzy in the braids, I don't have makeup on, and it's way too hot for long sleeves. I change into my blousy, off-the-shoulder peach top sans bra, slap on lip liner and concealer, and brush my hair. Massive improvement. Be better if my hands would stop jittering though.

At least the depression's held at bay for the moment. Maybe I should do a tiny bump just to level out. Taper off. And I'll be witty and charming as I only am on the stuff. Fuck it. I open the glove box where I've been keeping it, but just as I pull out the baggie, I hear Jason's voice. Shit. I stick it back in as he strolls toward the car, now fully human and clean with his phone pressed to his ear. “… no, if he's willing, we could sure use the help. I have four bullets left.” Jason tosses his pants from last night into the trash as he passes. I stand up. “I know we have to pass through Kansas. Just don't know how long it'll take us to get to him.” He listens. “Limon, Colorado.” He listens. I mouth, “What's going on?” and he holds up a finger. “Just set it up. Get directions from I-70. We'll find it.” He nods. “You too. Bye, Dad.”

“What's up?” I ask after he hangs up.

“We might be making a pit-stop in Kansas. A friend of the pack
offered to get us some extra ammo.”

“Can we trust this friend?”

“Seth's responsible for his wife's death, so yes. He's been feeding Dad information as well.”

“Can't wait to meet him then.”

Jason moves over to the driver's side. “You ready to go?”

“As I'll ever be. You sure you're okay to drive?”

“I got this,” he says with a half smirk. A joke! I do believe I'm rubbing off on him.

Blondie takes the wheel and after a quick stop at Arby's, away we go. By the time we're back on the highway, two of his five sandwiches are gone. I add the Arby's sauce to the third and hand it to him. “Thank you.” He chows down, getting some sauce on the side of his mouth.

“You are such a messy eater.” I pull out a napkin. “Here.”

I move toward him with the napkin, but he shies away from my
touch, intercepting the napkin and snatching it from my hand. “Thank you.” He wipes. “You should get some sleep. You look exhausted.”