Werewolf Sings the Blues Page 13

  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 California. 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. Under 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.”

  “Did you follow me here?” Price asks.

  “But of course. I noticed you wandering out of the armory carrying a bag, and naturally grew suspicious. You have only been with us for a few weeks. For all I knew, you were supplying our flamethrowers to the Taliban. I suppose a wanted serial murderer and his mate is not as troubling.”

  “I am not a serial murderer,” Jason growls.

  “I apologize, your kill number is under three? No desire to beat Daddy’s record?”

  “I am nothing like him,” Jason snarls.

  “Not from what I hear, rpoMaДHbiЙ.” The vampire turns to me. “That is what Lord Peter called his father: his monster. Dear Peter unleashed him when he did not desire to dirty his own hands. Sound familiar, monster?”

  The table rattles as Jason shoots up, hands balled into fists. Both Price and I rise as well in case he decides to attack the smug vampire. I grab onto his fist. “Don’t,” I warn.

  “Listen to your mate, rpoMaДHbiЙ. I am a Federal Agent,” he says in sing-song.

  “Shut up, asshole,” I snap.

  “Oh, but you are fiery,” Oliver declares gleefully. “I do enjoy that in a woman. If you were brunette and not so emaciated you would be my ideal woman. I shall overlook those flaws in your case, though.”

  Jason takes a step to lunge, and hell, I’m about to let him when Price body blocks him. “Let’s go. Let’s get out of here.” Though he’s still literally seething, Jason listens, following Price toward the door. I glare at the grinning vampire as I round the table for the bag, which I pick up.

  “If you ever tire of Alpo boy, you know where to find—”

  With my free hand, I lift the mug and toss coffee in his face. “He is ten times the man you have been or ever will be. You’re the only one lacking a soul here.” That wipes the smile from his face. “How sad for you.” With a pitying smile, I stalk out of the bar, shaking my head at this idiocy. At least I wasn’t the source of it for once.

  Price has Jason by our car, and they’re talking when I come out. “… sorry,” Jason says. “I shouldn’t have put you in this situation.”

  “The pack all but saved my life. You recommended me for this job. I owe you. Besides, I can handle him. From what the others tell me, deep down he’s a coward. Doesn’t give a damn about anyone but himself. He’ll probably forget all about it in an hour. And if he does say something, I’ll lie.”

  “Still. I’m sorry,” Jason says. “And if this doesn’t work out, you know you’re always welcome in the pack. We’d love to have you.”

  “We’ll see, huh?” Price turns to me. “Good luck to you both.” He nods at me, then Jason before walking toward a truck. Nice guy.

  “Are you okay?” I ask Jason.

  “I’m sorry I lost my temper. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  I squeeze his hand again. “You didn’t,” I assure him. I release his hand. “And besides, you weren’t the one who threw a drink in his face.”

  “You did?”

  “Hell yes! That guy was a total asshole! Had to defend your honor somehow. What are mates for?” I ask with a wink. “Now, let’s get the hell out of here before I decide to go back in there and add to my list of felonies.” I flash him a cute smile before climbing into the car.

  Jason gets in a second later. He stares straight ahead as if solving a dilemma and doesn’t start the car. “I … what he said in there …” He glances over. “I …”

  “Hey,” I say, reaching for his hand again. “Don’t you dare give that prick a second thought, okay? You are nothing like your father.”

  “How do you know that?” he asks quietly.

  “Simple, Blondie. I wouldn’t be here if you were. I’d be dead in a ditch somewhere. You are no monster. You are the most selfless man I have ever met. The best man I have ever met. Don’t you dare let anyone make you doubt that, yourself included.” I squeeze his hand. “So stop beating my mate up, or I’ll be forced to kick your ass. You know I will too. I may not be a werewolf, but I’m vicious and I fight dirty when I need to. I can take ya,” I whisper with a sweet grin.

  He stares at me, looking for the lie again. All he finds is sincerity. “Thank you.”

  “No, thank you.”

  His eyes slowly move to mine. The moment they connect, that same feeling I experienced while I was singing invades my body like a ghost passing through. Exhilarating and frightening and joyous all at once, stronger than anything I’ve ever experienced before. No spark, no orchestra, just a … churning, a glorious metamorphosis in my soul so strong it literally takes my breath away. I don’t know how I know it, but I do. This moment is important. Nothing in this universe will ever be the same. Everything I’ve been through, everything I’ll have to go through, it’s all worth it for this moment. The moment when … I know I’m not alone. That I’ll never be alone again, not really. That someone good and pure and worthwhile saw the same in me. That this man’s hands will catch me if I fall. But that’s not what scares me. It’s the miraculous realization that I’ll do the same for him. And I will. No matter the storm, no matter the sacrifice, I will fight to the bitter end to be the person he believes I am. I can do it. For him.

  He must see the change in my eyes, the determination, the desire, but he doesn’t like it. Sheer panic flashes through his eyes, and he drops my hand. If that’s not ego bruising enough, he recoils up against his door, as far from me as he can get. “We, um, better get going.”

  “Right. Yeah. Okay,” I whisper.

  “Halfway there,” he says, starting the car.

  Yep, so close, yet so far away.

  He maneuvers the car out of the lot. Off we go again into the dark night. But this time I’m not scared. I can feel the warm light on the horizon. Been awhile. Hope this time I get something more than sunburn.

  eight

  “Come on. Everyone knows the words to ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow.’”

  “I don’t. Sorry.”

  I playfully narrow my eyes at him. “I’ll bet you do know it. I’ll bet you know the words to all the songs I’ve mentioned, but you’re lying to get out of singing with me, you sneaky werewolf you.”

  His mouth twitches into a quick smile. “I really don’t know them. I swear.”

  It is my new life’s mission to get that man to give me a genuine, huge, brilliant smile that lasts more than a heartbeat as often as I possibly can. To get him to let his guard down like when I’m singing. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s possible. It’s almost as if he’s reluctant to, even afraid maybe, as if allowing joy inside could crack him in two. I truly, deeply hope his father is not only burning in hell but is Satan’s personal bitch for all he’s done to his son. I keep my own smile plastered to hide these evil thoughts.

  “A likely story, Blondie. I’ll get the truth out of you yet. I have ways of making you talk,” I say in a terrible Clint Eastwood impression. This gets another brief grin. I do think they’re getting longer each time. Oh. In the distance, I see a sign. “Look! Look! Wait for it … wait for it …” We pass under the “Welcome to Ohio,” sign attached to a big blue arch. I blow a kiss behind us. “Good-bye, Indiana! You will be missed!”

  I turn back around with a grin, but Jason doesn’t share my enthusiasm. He’s too busy yawning for the fourth time in ten minutes. Once again, I catch the bug. I’m exhausted, but unlike him I managed to catch an hour or two of sleep since leaving Stoker. I offered to drive a few times through the night, even suggested we stop. Nope. Good thing I like my men stubborn. So I’ve been making him stop for coffee every two hours and am doing m
y best to keep him entertained. I sang the entire Gershwin CD complete with dazzling jazz hands. I interrogated him within an inch of his life. I was pleasantly surprised, shocked even, that he never hesitated to answer. What a difference forty-eight hours makes.

  I learned his best friend Adam, who no matter how many times Jason literally snapped at him when they first met, never stopped trying until he wore Jason down. Then there’s Tate, Adam’s older brother, who taught Jason to fight whether Jason liked it or not. Maureen, their mother, who has the patience of Job. She taught him to read and was like a mother to him. Jenny, our stepmother, who never took a shine to him nor him to her. Probably intimidated by him. That and she was too busy playing Queen of the Pack to spend much time with her children. Frank sure does have a type. He spent the most time talking about Matt, our little brother.

  That was the only time he seemed reluctant to speak. I didn’t press, though I was dying to know. I think he sensed that and without further prompting began talking. He started with how frightened they were of each other at first, but Frank kept pushing them together until coexisting became love. It all started a year after he moved in. Some of the boys in the pack were picking on Matt, and Jason heard them. He just walked up, punched the ring leader in the face, and probably would have put the kid in a coma if Frank hadn’t intervened. The gesture didn’t endear Jason to the pack, save for Matt. He became Jason’s little shadow. Big brother didn’t mind. He was even the best man at Matt’s wedding to Linda and is godfather to the twins, Dustin and Nicole. My niece and nephew. He sounded sweet. Artistic. He loved nothing more than walking around a forest snapping photos or playing with his children.

  Though Jason shared these stories in his usual monotone manner, there were moments when the façade cracked, manifested in twitches or clearing his throat. I realized halfway through, when he was deep in a story about Matt’s first change, that he hadn’t had time to process, to come to terms with the fact his little brother died. Maybe when we reach Maryland, he’ll feel safe enough to break down. Mourn. And I’ll make sure to be there to help in any way I can.