How to Run with a Naked Werewol(16)

When he finally woke up, Jerry wailed and cursed and grunted for the rest of the drive. I thought Caleb would do the Dog the Bounty Hunter thing and lecture Jerry about the bad choices that had led him here. But all he said was "You do something this stupid again, you know they're going to have me right back at your door."

Note to self: Stop making comparisons between Dog the Bounty Hunter and Caleb. He wouldn't find them amusing, and I couldn't stop picturing Caleb with a libido-killing haircut. Also, I liked to think I was above calling him Wolf the Bounty Hunter-even behind his back.

"Inspiring," I told him, and we engaged in a battle of dueling body language.

I jerked my head toward Jerry. Caleb shrugged his shoulders. I tilted my head and poked out my bottom lip in the prettiest pout I could muster. Caleb sighed, glanced over his shoulder, and added, "Eat your vegetables. Say your prayers before bedtime. And give a hoot, don't pollute."

I shook my head. "Really?"

Caleb shrugged. "What?"

Unimpressed by Caleb's life coaching, Jerry seemed to exhaust himself thrashing and growling muffled insults at us and fell asleep. It seemed impossible to sleep in that position, but given his steady snores, he was apparently comfortable enough. I napped off and on, only feeling slightly guilty that I'd had more sleep than Caleb in the last twenty-four hours and he was the one who was driving. Since he'd sort of banned me from driving, he could just deal with it. Funny, I'd had intermittent insomnia ever since I'd filed divorce papers, but I was able to nod off in a moving vehicle with a werewolf and a fugitive.

Sometime around midnight, Caleb stopped for coffee at a run-down all-night diner halfway to our destination. I woke up enough to check on Jerry, who was still unconscious, and reassemble my hair into something like a ponytail. I offered Caleb a grateful smile when he handed me a large orange juice. At that point, I wasn't sure if I could handle caffeine or coffee breath.

"It occurs to me that other than your upsetting fondness for plastic restraints and preserved meat, I don't know much about you," I said, sipping the juice and welcoming the rush of blood sugar.

"I'm an open book," he said, and gave me a sunny smile that was just obscene at that hour.

And by the way, werewolves were anything but open and honest. The CIA could take lessons in discretion and misdirection from a werewolf pack. They tended to live in insular communities, separating themselves from the outside world. If humans noticed something "off" about a werewolf, the wolf was a master at redirecting the questioning until those humans were so confused they were no longer sure what they saw. For every odd behavior, they had a dozen plausible explanations. They shared their secrets with a few select, trusted humans, usually the ones they mated with. And for a misguided human who betrayed a werewolf clan . . . well, I don't know what happened to them. I never saw one twice. The problem with dealing with large predators is that they usually know how to hide a body from other large predators-even if those large predators include state troopers.                       
       
           



       

"And what do you do in your spare time?" I asked.

"Hunting," he said. "Hiking."

"An outdoorsy type, huh?" I asked, having just a little too much fun with the I know something you don't know game.

"You could say that," he said. "And what about you? Any hobbies I should know about? Taxidermy? Exotic piercings?"

"How did you go from taxidermy to body piercings?" I asked. "Also, FYI, piercings are not a hobby."

"I never know with you wild tattooed women," he said. I shot him a dirty look. He grinned. "So what do you do for fun?"

I pursed my lips and resolved to do penance for my teasing with a healthy dollop of truth. "Dye my hair. Obtain illegal identification. Forge government paperwork."

Caleb's expression waffled between uh-oh and wow. I didn't know whether he believed me or not. I wasn't sure whether he wanted to believe me or not. Finally, he cleared his throat and said, "Well, you are an interesting girl, aren't you?" I shrugged my shoulders, all innocent eyes and fluttering lashes. "What are you running from?"

That put a damper on the fluttering lashes. "Columbia House Music Club," I said, recovering my snarkiness quickly. "Oh, sure, they say they'll sell you six CDs for a penny, but they'll hunt you down like the hounds of hell if you miss the payments."

"Stop kidding around."

"I'm not. A Wilson Phillips CD ruined my life."

I was treated to yet another Caleb expression to add to the catalogue, the halfhearted I'm getting really tired of your shit, woman glower. Normally, a glare like that would have me retreating a bit, at least leaning back in my seat. But there was no heat in Caleb's stare, just frustration and a touch of irritation. Somewhere in my chest, a little pressure valve opened up, and I was able to release a breath I didn't even know I'd been holding.

Contrite, I told him something real. "I'm not ready to talk about it yet. All you need to know is that I need to get to Anchorage to pick something up. It's nothing illegal. I don't have any warrants. After that, I don't know where I will be going."

Caleb muttered something I couldn't make out, frowning into the distance. Well, if there was any way to kill a fun, flirtatious conversation, that was it. We rode along in silence for a mile or two.

Desperate to recover the previous mood, I said, "OK, lightning round. Siblings or only?"

"Only," he answered. Of course, I knew that. Only children were such a rarity in the hyperproductive pack that the wolf-aunties were sure to tsk over "poor Caleb," all alone, the last of his line, handling the details of his father's death by himself.

Caleb's mother, a human, had abandoned him and his father when Caleb was just a little boy, I remembered now, which had been quite the scandal in the little valley community. Did the lack of brothers and sisters make it easier for Caleb to leave the packlands and wander by himself? As a cub, he would have had plenty of kids to run around with, cousins upon cousins to keep from being lonely. But still, after his father died, I could imagine Caleb feeling his connections to his fellow wolves fading.

I couldn't help but feel a little sorry for him. Running with other wolves was supposed to be one of the best parts of being a werewolf. How often was he able to shift out here on his own? How did he avoid hunters and game wardens or running afoul of locals? Shifting alone was considered a big no-no in the valley. The more time a wolf spends with the pack, the clearer his memories during the phasing. There was a sort of collective memory among the wolves, which could be unfortunate, given some of the stupid stuff some of them were known to pull while on four legs. Shifting solo could lead to a werewolf waking up in human form, naked, in a grocery store parking lot two hundred miles from home. (It had happened to Maggie.) Or suspected of eating hikers. (It had happened to Cooper.)

I cast a sidelong glance at Caleb. How long had it been since he'd been able to run? Werewolves had to shift every once in a while just to get the "wolf wiggles" out. Maggie told me once that her kind tended to get pretty cranky if they went too long without phase. It would explain Caleb's occasionally less-than-sunny demeanor.

It seemed my little mental vacation had taken longer than I thought, because Caleb was looking at me expectantly. Oh, right, I was supposed to be participating in car games, not pondering werewolf PMS. Cheeks flushing, I cleared my throat and asked, "College?"

"No."

"Past felonies?" I asked.

"Is public nudity a felony?"

Wrinkling my nose, I asked, "Biggest phobia?"

"Russian nesting dolls. I've always hated those."

"Because you think the tiny baby doll inside could be made of pure evil?" I suggested.

"Yes, I do." He managed to say it without a hint of irony.

"Rambo or Rocky?"

He scoffed. "Terminator."

"Sorry, the correct answer was John McClane," I told him, shaking my head. "Always."

"I feel this quiz is unfairly skewed toward Bruce Willis fans."

"Don't feel bad. I stopped speaking to a friend for a month when she suggested Love, Actually was a better Christmas movie than Die Hard," I told him. It was true. My relationship with Mo was very strained until she brought me chocolate chess squares as a peace offering.

"Springsteen or Def Leppard?"

He fist-pumped in mock triumph. "Neither. The correct answer is Garth Brooks."

"I don't think we can be friends anymore," I told him.

That obscenely sunny smile made another appearance. "Well, at least you admit that we're friends in the first place."

I rolled my eyes. "Football or basketball?"

"Curling," he insisted, and when I burst out laughing, he added, "I can't help it! It's weirdly compelling. Those poor guys out there on the ice with their little brooms."

"I have no problem with that," I promised him. "Chunky or creamy?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Wow, I hope you're talking about peanut butter."