She’d shifted as a precautionary measure. Now, in wolf form, she curled around the trunk of the tree, perking her ears to see if she might catch a phone conversation —or anything that might lead her to understand what had brought Lassiter here.
I’m not the boy you once knew. Lassiter’s words were as close to the truth as it got for Emerson. They had stung her ears the other night and the more she thought about them, the more regret lingered.
She and Lassiter had gone to school together. His last years in high school were spent mostly with her. Emerson, the awkward teenager, and Lassiter, the foster child of caretakers he just couldn’t identify with but loved nonetheless. They’d met when she was in eighth grade and Lassiter in the tenth. She’d met him in an after school accelerated math class held at the local high school.
Lassiter had stopped a bunch of boys from picking on her and, for whatever reason, from that moment on they’d been friends. He was quiet much of the time, but when Lassiter spoke, it was like a kernel of wisdom Emerson clung to.
Meaning. It was always said with a purpose and with meaning. Lassiter’s life hadn’t been easy, shipped from foster home to foster home, until he’d come upon the Fullers. A kind, older couple who’d taken him in at twelve and loved him like their own.
Yet, Lassiter always had a dark side Emerson couldn’t reach. It was deep and layered, rank with a smell Emerson could never quite pinpoint. He was as different as Emerson was and it bonded them.
Lassiter was a loner — a loner no one screwed with. That didn’t stop them from talking about his pale skin and sunglasses when he wasn’t around, though. He wore them all the time, making Emerson want to tease him about it. But she didn’t because Lassiter didn’t tease her about her gangly, awkward body and her braces.
He’d treated her like his kid sister and, though Emerson had wished it differently, she’d respected their boundaries and kept her schoolgirl crush to herself. She’d had enough of a stigma already, hiding her half-were heritage. Yet she never felt like the dork everyone else thought she was when she was with him. Often, Lassiter had told her, her opinionated mouth would bring her trouble, but back then he’d chuckled more than he’d scowled over her rants about one thing or another.
Lassiter always said less was more.
They’d shared a common bond in their love of animals. At the time, Emerson was working after school at an animal shelter and she’d managed to wrangle a job for Lassiter too. He was diligent in his duties. The animals adored him and it’d seemed like he’d liked them right back. He had a way about him that drew them to him. Even the orneriest of domestics could be soothed by Lassiter. His low, honeyed tone of voice and his easy, gentle hands never failed to amaze Emerson when she watched him in action.
For two years, before Lassiter graduated and moved away, they’d been the best of friends. When he left to go to college, Emerson had cried herself to sleep every night for a month. Her parents had fretted over her and her mother had threatened to drag her into therapy if she didn’t get over what she’d called Emerson’s “bizarre attachment to the pale boy.”
Sure, he’d called once in a while and she’d gotten a letter or two, but it would never be the same as sharing French fries on a park bench after work, watching the sun set. It would never be the same as the time he’d brought his portable radio to the park and slow danced with her after she’d gone to the ninth grade Spring Fling and no one asked her to shuffle off to Buffalo.
That moment, the moment when he’d held out his hand to her from her place on the park swing, would forever turn her insides out. She would always remember the warmth his arms around her had brought when she’d buried her face in his chest, fighting tears. The comfort he’d offered with no words but with a gesture, a gesture Emerson could still feel imprinted on her heart.
It would never be the same as being able to talk with him for hours on end about nothing in particular and everything that was important in her world.
After a year or so, Lassiter didn’t call anymore and Emerson moved on, but she’d missed his presence for a long time thereafter. She’d lost track of her lifeline who’d been something so much more than a friend to her. He’d become an integral part of her life, and his leaving, something Emerson knew he’d eventually do, left a void that couldn’t be filled by anyone else.
When next they met, it had been in California, and then nothing about Lassiter was the same.
Nothing.
He was cold and angry and bitter, but over what she didn’t know. No longer the skinny geek she’d once known, their physical attraction was instantaneous, but Lassiter wasn’t interested in strolling down memory lane.
If he’d been surprised to see Emerson picketing his condos, he hadn’t shown it.
Refusing to be drawn back into the past by silly sentimental journeys, Emerson padded closer to Lassiter’s sliding glass door. The steps leading up to it were rickety at best. Narrow and wooden, they creaked with each step she took. She could only hope that the roar of the wind hid her ascent.
Cocking her head, Emerson listened at the sliding glass door while Lassiter talked to his parakeet as if it were his only friend in the world.
“This is Adams land. It has to be the right Adams. I don’t know what to do, Bud. I’ve looked and looked and nothing, but I can feel it’s here. Damn it, I know it’s here.”
What the hell was here?
“Hereherehere,” the parakeet mimicked back.
Lassiter put his hand in the cage and stuck a finger out for Bud to hop onto. Bud went willingly and Lassiter took care in taking him out and setting Bud on his shoulder. “I could use a little help here, my man. Wanna read the letter again?”
Letter?
“Nonononononono.” Bud flapped his wings and squawked in protest, skittering from side to side on Lassiter’s broad shoulders.
The parakeet nipped at Lassiter’s ear and he chuckled. “Okay, so what you’re telling me is we’ve been over it a million times, huh? Okay. No more letter.”
It was as if the bird understood Lassiter. What kind of freaky nut had Lassiter turned into that he shared confidences with a parakeet? Talk about eccentric. Who did he think he was? Dr. Doolittle?
Leaning further toward the door, hoping to discover what this letter was about, she hit the banister of the stairs and scuffled to remain on the small landing. Her nails scratched the surface with a painful screech, echoing into the dark night. The sound bounced around the trees like a ping pong ball.
That’s what she got for not getting a damned manicure.
Chapter Seven
No sooner had she righted herself than the back light came on, blinding her with its glare.
“What the hell?” was Lassiter’s inquiry as the door whipped open and he stared down at Emerson in her wolf form.
Hooo boy, she was in the shits.
Foiled.
Caught.
Red handed even.
However, as she looked up at him, his face split into the first grin she’d seen him display since meeting him again.
His hand reached down with tentativeness, much like he’d done when he worked in the shelter with her and a new animal was brought in, frightened and leery.
Emerson decided she didn’t have much of a choice. She could run away and not look back, but she could also gain some valuable information if she played this right.
It was sneaky.
It was covert.
It was sooooo despicable.
It was pure fricken’ genius.
Things were looking up.
Score one for Emerson Palmer.
“Hey, puppy, aren’t you pretty? Are you lost? What an unusual coat. You’re almost white,” he cooed, kneeling down and staring into her eyes.
Pretty. Yes, she was rather pretty in wolf form, wasn’t she? Preening, Emerson sat back on her haunches and allowed Lassiter to run a strong hand over her muzzle.
Oh, the man and his hands. Indeed they could be used as weapons of mass
hormonal destruction.
Emerson had to remind herself that as a “puppy” she’d more than likely be very hesitant with a stranger. So she backed away from him and looked the other way.
“Ya hungry, puppy?” he asked in an obvious effort to tempt her in with food.
“Hungryhungryhungry,” Bud twittered from his shoulder.
“Tell ya what. I’ll leave the door open and if you’re so inclined, you just come on in,” he invited noncommittally, his voice swirling in her ears, husky, hot, calming.
“Comeonincomeonin.”
Damn, that was some parakeet. Her experience was that they were difficult to train and rarely learned the variety of words this Bud spouted.
Well, she had nothing to lose by gaining access to the inner sanctum and everything to gain.
Poking her head around the corner, Emerson placed first one paw, then the next over the sliders. Lassiter, tall and firm stood by the kitchen sink, was tearing something up that he’d taken from the fridge.
Emerson’s nose lifted, trying to catch the scent.
Ugh, beef. Steak maybe. Definitely steak. With onions. Bleh.
“I see the call of food wins,” he said over his shoulder with satisfaction.
Crap. Well, if she was going to play the part, she was going to have to put up or shut up.
Setting the bowl down in front of her, Lassiter pulled a chair out from the small table, leaning forward on his elbows to watch her, and waited for her to approach the bowl.
Sniff! Yes, she should sniff the bowl. That was very dog-like and totally in character. Nudging the bowl with her nose, she swiped her tongue over the bits of meat he’d taken such care to shred. Her stomach lurched.
Lord, the humiliation when he said, “Gooood girl. See? I won’t hurt you. I’m guessing you’re a girl because you’re so pretty. I’ll look later to be sure.”
No, no, no. She was not spreading her legs, er, paws for Lassiter Adams ever again. He was going to have to go with the assumption that she was a girl or she’d bite his hand off.
Her stomach rolled, looking at the bowl of meat. Definitely steak and decidedly a few days old. Licking at it with a light tongue, she found she had to grit her teeth to keep from yarking the meat right back up. Emerson silently sent an apology to all the animals she’d vowed never to eat.
Bud hopped from Lassiter’s shoulder and onto her back, landing with his small talons digging into her spine. He dipped his head and nipped at her fur.
For the love of Pete.
“Bud, be nice. See how nice the puppy is? You be nice too,” Lassiter warned in a high pitched, child-like voice.
Hookay, this was sorta freaking her out on a gazillion different levels. Closed mouthed, pissed off at the world, over the top manly-man was talking to her like she was a toddler. Coaxing her to eat, stroking her fur, talking to her all cutesy. It would be desperately funny if she could actually use it to mock him.
He’d spent far too much time alone in her estimation. What else made a man behave like this? It was a totally schizophrenic or bi-polar, or some crazy disorder that didn’t have a name.
“Are you full, pretty girl?” Lassiter inquired, his entire face alight with complete serenity. “C’mon, you can do better than that. Eat up, Princess.”
“Eatupeatupeatup,” Bud seemed to encourage.
Princess? Princess? Oohhhh, this was ammunition to be used at a later date. Now, onto the matter at hand. This letter… Where would Lassiter keep a letter and how was she going to find it?
Rising on all fours, Emerson decided some investigation was in order. Turning to get an idea of the layout of his trailer, Emerson made a beeline for the bedroom with Bud still clinging to her back. This letter, something that obviously held significance, would probably be there.
The hallway was short, covered in shag carpeting that was worn and fraying. Lassiter’s bedroom was small, merely enough to turn around in and not much more. It had a pile of dirty laundry she tried to delicately step over. Swooping her head down, she sniffed a stray sock.
“Ahhhh, I know what you want to do. You wanna play, don’t you?”
Er, no. Not so much.
Lassiter stooped down and picked up the sock. The muscles in his arm flexed enticingly and Emerson had to look away from his yumminess. It blinded her to her mission.
The letter.
Dragging the sock beneath her snout, Lassiter teased her with it.
Oh, no, she was not putting his dirty ass sock in her mouth. Nuh uh.
“Get it, c’mon, girl, get the sock,” he encouraged in that same stupid high pitch, smiling like a kid.
If she could roll her eyes right now, she would. For crap’s sake. Making a halfhearted attempt at “playing,” Emerson nipped the sock, successfully getting it between her teeth and giving it a slight tug.
Lassiter smiled broadly again.
What the hell was his gig?
He tugged back, swishing the other end of the sock around in circles playfully. Bud flapped his wings at being jerked so suddenly when Emerson gave a small growl and pulled the other way. His wings flapped, carrying him to the tall dresser that was crammed in the corner. Digging her paws into the carpet, she got a hold of the sock and yanked hard, pitching Lassiter forward.
Girl werewolves rule, weird meat murderers drool, she thought with some satisfaction.
Plopping down beside her, Lassiter put an arm around her back and commented, “You know, I envy you, Princess. If I could stay like you all of the time, I’d bet life would be a whole lot easier.”
Huh?
Stay like her?
He lifted her back leg and eyeballed her crotch. “You are a princess,” he decided out loud.
A princess indeed.
Emerson yanked her leg back from his hand with a snort. How utterly degrading.
“Don’t be offended, pretty. I was just checking,” he assured her with an affectionate pat on the head.
Turning, Emerson gave him her back end and swished her tail in his face. Check this.
Emerson let her mouth open wide, pushing the sock to the floor with her tongue. It fell soundlessly to the carpet. She turned around again and sent Lassiter a disinterested glare, telling him playtime was over.
If he would just go away, she could rifle his bedroom. But Lassiter had other ideas.
“So what’s your story, Princess? You lost? A stray?”
All righty then, Lassiter obviously wanted to bond. Sitting back on her haunches, she let him ramble, watching his delicious mouth move.
“Do you need a home? You could always stay here with Bud and me. We don’t have a lot of room, but we can make adjustments. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a pet. So, whaddya say? Wanna hang out with us?”
I’d rather walk over an acre of broken glass with my lips.
“You don’t have to decide right away. I have plenty to keep me busy right now. Believe me, I got trouble and it comes in the way of another female that has nothing to do with the canine persuasion. In fact, it might be nice to have a female around these parts who isn’t always such a pain in the ass and can’t talk back.”
Oh, really? I can’t imagine who you might mean.
He ran a hand over his thick hair and chuckled. “Her name is Emerson, in case you’re wondering who I mean. She’s got a mouth the size of Canada and a cause just as big. She calls me a murderer. Can you believe that?” he asked her, looking into her eyes and chucking her under the chin. “She says I murder small animals. Me, an animal lover. If she only knew.”
Only knew what, you oversized hunk of meat loving studliness? Damn, spit it out already.
“I would never hurt an animal, Princess. Emerson should know that by now. We knew each other when we were kids.”
Yes, Emerson, all knowing and all seeing, clairvoyant, should just know what the fuck you mean. God, men could be such retards, but Emerson found his words touching the fringes of her heart. Much in the way the bunny hut had.
Stupid
head.
“We were good friends back then,” he interrupted her thoughts. “She was skinny as hell and awkward, but she isn’t anymore…” Lassiter trailed off with a hitch in his voice Emerson couldn’t say she’d ever heard when he referred to her in the past and especially now. It lingered between them, and he smiled at her in the way he once had when he was her friend so long ago. When he talked about where and who he’d wanted to be after high school.
“You know what, puppy? I don’t think Emerson and I are friends anymore. No matter how I feel about her.”
* * *
Lassiter! Hey, doofus. You’re talking to the dog again. It can’t be healthy to only spend your time with animals.
Lassiter frowned up at Bud in his bird cage and mentally sent him a shut up. No, no, I won’t shut up. You’re talking to a dog. Get a grip on your emotions, my man. Yeah? Well, I talk to a bird too.
I’m offended. I’m much smarter than a dog.
If you’re so smart, why the hell can’t you figure this out?
If I had a pair of legs, I just might. Now quit bitching and why don’t you talk to Emerson? Ever since you ran into her again, you’ve been an ass.
Yeah, well Emerson can do that to a guy, he shot back mentally.
Emerson was your friend once, Lassiter, and don’t give me shit about it. I was there, numbnuts. All those nights you talked about her, all those nights when you said you wished she were just a little older. You liked Emerson, Lassiter. She liked you. Now you won’t even talk to her. You won’t even tell her what’s really going on here. It’s bullshit and it’s bullshit of your own making.
Lassiter sighed in resignation. Looking down at the dog, he thought, I am talking to a dog…
His world had narrowed to not much more than Bud and the mission to find what he was looking for. Companionship, especially of the animal variety, seemed to suit him best. If he didn’t have to do much else but feed them and throw them the occasional bone, things worked out just fine. A pet didn’t require sharing himself or emotions, something Lassiter didn’t do easily. Except when he’d been with Emerson… He couldn’t afford to think about Emerson now. No matter how much he wanted her —and he wanted her.
Wolfmates: Ruff & Ready Page 5