by Amanda Milo
Kelly makes a hissing noise.
My smile is grim. “It’d make me mental. No matter how awesome he is, he’s not for me.”
***
By the end of my shift, I’m dead beat. At one point today, I stepped into the kitchen to grab someone’s fried pickles that didn’t make it onto their plate. The moment I latched on to the fryer handle, lava-hot oil spat up at me good, burning my cheek and my arm and staining my blouse with grease.
I didn’t think anything could kill my love for fried pickles. Apparently, I just need to wear their juice around for about six hours.
The highlight of my afternoon—heck, my month, maybe more—was getting the text from Charlotte with the most heart-melting picture of Maggie asleep on her new best friend.
I’d laughed for a full solid minute at what she did to his fur.
And then I’d profusely thanked the Good Lord and struggled not to tear up as I mentally ran a montage of all the worried, angry, frustrated text messages and calls I’ve gotten from my girls who are stuck under the fickle rule of women who I pay to boss my kids around unfairly and abuse their employment.
It’s only day one, I know, but man—there are babysitters so bad, I’ve wished I could fire them within the first two hours and would have if I weren’t stuck at work with no way to do my job, bring home the paycheck and be the one at home to watch and protect my kids.
Pulling up in front of the house, I do a double-take when I see the vehicle near my spot. I guess you can say of the garish paint job that it’s recognizable. Finn’s car. I park on the street right behind the blindingly purple and acid green monstrosity. I don’t wonder why Finn is here. He said his job was to watch out for Deek while he’s here, and it’s the first day. It makes sense to me that he’d be here at the end of his workday.
Which also happens to be at the end of mine. With a groan, I shove open my car door and put weight on first one foot, then the other. They hate me for it, but nobody is going to carry me inside, so they’re just going to have to suck it up. And they’re not the only things that are complaining. My body is hurting all over—the PMS fun has begun. Lower back tightness and pain, bloating, and a slight headache, all present and punishing me for having a uterus. I’ll mark it on the calendar when I get inside later that all the warning symptoms have joined the party. (And I do mean all: stabbing shocks to the ovaries, aggressive cramping, and the most public fun of all, gas.) Note to self: Bleeding will commence in about a week. Joy.
Also note to self: the werewolf living with us will notice the special time of the month. All the werewolves at the pub do—it was probably the hardest thing to get used to, to know that they know. They know when it’s coming on and they know when you’re bleeding. It’s awkward. But they’re also really great, with someone stocking the breakroom fridge with chocolate silk pies suspiciously around the week I’d kill to have chocolate the most. Also? A lot of wolves tip waitresses more if they’re on the rag. The sympathy somehow makes surviving your whole crampy, bloaty shift a little easier. Weird but true.
Anyway, for the rest of tonight, I don’t have to hardly be on my feet, and a heating pad and some shuteye does wonders for my monthly woes. For the rest of tonight, I don’t have to worry about taking orders, messed up orders, closing out tabs, busting ass for tips, or counting tills.
I’m home.
My keys are in my hand and I’m reaching for the lock when the front door opens, and Finn steps out. “Welcome home, a stór.”
“Hey, Finn,” I smile wearily. “You here to check on Deek?”
Uncharacteristically, Finn’s face looks troubled and his gaze sinks to the level of my thighs. He brings a hand to the back of his hair and shoves his fingers through it, sort of half-scratching, half clutching. “Um, Sue...”
I’m staring at him, my fatigue being rapidly replaced by concern. “What’s wrong? Did something happ—” I don’t even finish asking him. I push against his shoulder, shoving past him into the house.
“Sue, it’s going like clappers—wait, no, you can’t use that phrase in regards to children. Let’s see. It’s going all good, rather. Wholesome good!”
I hold up a hand in his direction, not even sparing him another glance. “I don’t even want to know what you just said.” I point to Ginny, and watch her eyes go wide—she wasn’t expecting me to pick her. “What happened?” I ask.
Charlotte raises the remote and kills the TV, the glow from the screen ebbing from their faces and the room.
Still wide-eyed, Ginny looks behind me at Finn. “My—”
Maggie sighs and shoves off from the couch. “It all started when Deek needed help at the park. He lost his clothes. And the key fell out of his pants. I carried his shirt,” she thinks she’s explaining, “and then I made him five sandwiches,” she stresses, “I brushed his hair but couldn’t braid it and—”
“Maggie,” I start. “Did I ask Ginny—”
“—then Deek bit Miss Connolly on the leg and he held her mouth so she’d stop screaming and then he put her in Finn’s car before Finn told Ginny we’re werewolves too,” Maggie finishes. She looks up at me wearing a hopeful expression. “Mom? Can I have a cookie?”
“WHAT?” I shout.
Maggie’s face crumples. “Please?”
I clap my hands over my now pounding temples, shaking my head violently. “Wh-whoa—just!”
Finn’s arms come gently around me, and his hands close over my arms. “Although that was technically an accurate summary of the day, allow me to assure you that it wasn’t as bad as it sounds.”
“And we’re not werewolves,” Charlotte says to Maggie. “Just Ginny.”
“No,” Maggie insists. “Ginny, and Miss Connolly, and Deek, and Finn and now us!”
Charlotte crosses her arms. “Not us, Snow Pea. You’re wrong.”
Maggie gasps and straightens, bracing her hand on Deek’s tall lupine shoulder so that she looks like some tiny fairy queen who commands a Dire Wolf. “I am not! Ask Finn! He said so!”
“He did not.”
“He did TOO!” Maggie shouts.
I pull out of Finn’s hold and catch Maggie. “You do not need to get louder to be heard. And,” I take her chastised face in my hand. “I’m sorry, honey, but we are not werewolves.”
Maggie’s expression turns ravaged. She also turns this look on Finn. “Then why did you call me your pup?”
Finn’s eyes pop wide. “Oh!” He laughs self-consciously, and throws a look at me and Charlotte before squatting down until he’s nearer to her face level.
Immediately, Deek flattens to the floor.
Staying lower than the alpha, I realize.
Finn absently pats him on the head, and his shoulder brushes mine as he takes one of Maggie’s hands. “That word means… well, when I used it, I was really telling you that you were being uppity but cute.”
“Uppity?” Maggie asks.
Finn continues to murmur an explanation to her. I stand and rivet my attention back on Ginny—and on Charlotte. I spread my hands. “Explain the day to me.”
They do, their retelling ending by Ginny getting emotional as she explains that Finn took her mom to the Pack, where she’ll detox and get rehab by trustworthy individuals who know what they’re doing.
I move to take the seat beside her on the couch, and tug her to my chest, cupping my hands over her head. “Oh, honey. I’m sorry about your mom. I hope this really helps her.”
Sniffling into me, she cries, “She’s tried rehab before and it never sticks! B-bu-but F-ff-Finn says she doesn’t have a chu-choice this time. They’ll make her clean up for good—or else!” she sobs.
I send a shocked, scathing look at Finn.
For the first time, his roguish charm is not on display. His features are serious, edging into stern. “Susan, you know I think the world of you. Respect the hell out of your spirit. But you aren’t Pack. You don’t understand how and why we operate how we do.” He nods to the broken girl in my arms. “She�
�s going to learn, and her mam is about to too.”
Deek, still low on the floor by Maggie, somehow manages to ambulate without standing—he crawls with the speed and agility of a centipede, snaking quickly into the kitchen and slamming into the basement door.
Maggie makes a sad little worried noise. “Hang on, Deek. I’ll let you down there to hide.”
Finn throws him a mildly disapproving look. “You’ve got the six-year-old looking out for you like a battery counselor, Jaysus.”
I stare at him.
Finn sees my look and holds up his hands. “That was a joke. We do not batter our wolves.” When I don’t thaw, he drops his face into his hands and groans long and low. “This night has gone so tits up it isn’t funny.”
“I’m ruining your work shirt,” Ginny whimpers to me, still crying. Charlotte passes her a Kleenex.
“It was already ruined, sweetheart. Don’t worry,” I tell her. I reach over her and rub Charlotte’s arm, because she looks as if she’s about two seconds from crying for her friend. Maggie returns from letting Deek in the basement to escape the drama.
“This is jus’ grand,” Finn says, and he squeezes the bridge of his nose before dropping his hand and pinning me with a look. “I need you to shelve the máthair béar for me. All right?” He gestures to Ginny. “Her mam shows up at your house today demanding Charlotte send her out. She starts hollerin’ and makin’ a right show of herself. Now if she wasn’t werewolf, if our girl Ginny here wasn’t wolf, guess where this night would see them?”
A rock rolls into my stomach, because I know exactly what would have happened if Finn and Deek hadn’t intervened. Ginny would have to go with her mom. The only way to avoid that would be to involve the authorities—Child Protective Services will make a record of everything Ginny tells them.
But two outcomes come from hauling in the police and CPS: Ginny makes her mom mad and potentially gets sent to a temporary foster home until it gets legally sorted out and decided on, or Ginny is sent home with her angry mom… and Ginny’s mom’s angry boyfriend.
I circle Ginny’s arm and slide my fingers down to her bruised wrist. Wordlessly, I hold her hand up, and over her head, I pointedly look at Finn. What about the jerk who did this to this girl?
Finn’s smile is a slash of shocking cruelty—and satisfaction. “Awf, you don’t have to worry about that bleedin’ tick. He’s done.”
I can’t drum up a lick of remorse if Finn is saying he hurt him. I really like the idea. I give Finn a grateful bowing of my head.
His shoulders relax, dropping below the level of his ears, and his smile turns much less feral. “All right, that set the mood. Now here’s the rest of it: all werewolves are Pack. Like tribal courts for Native Americans, we have civil and criminal jurisdiction over all our Pack members. For us, it doesn’t matter where it goes down or who-all else is involved—if a werewolf gets mixed up in it, Pack steps in and the law sides with whatever we decide.”
I clear my throat. “That’s some power.” I rub Ginny’s back.
Finn watches me comforting her, and nods. “Yeah, it is. And we also exercise jurisdiction when it comes to custody issues for all Pack children.” He tips his head at Ginny. “Now that we know she exists, she’s ours. We get full say over where she goes and who has access to her, her own mother included.” He takes a breath. “If you want to take her on as your own, you can.”
Out of my periphery, Charlotte’s head whips to the side, her eyes slamming onto my face. Imploring.
Against me, Ginny has gone still, her arms gripping me like I might shove her away otherwise.
“Ginny has always been welcome to stay, and if she can legally make it binding, then it’s up to her if she wants to move in officially,” I tell him, and her, and Charlotte. “What’s the ‘but’?”
Finn tips his head one way, then the other. “She’s going to need to visit the Pack regularly. We think she’s going to Change, and if she can, she’s going to need training.”
At this, Ginny sits up, looking at Finn. “What if I don’t want to go there?”
Finn holds her gaze. She doesn’t drop hers, although he stays silent long enough it’s obvious he’s waiting, or maybe testing. “On that, my dear, you don’t have a choice.”
With this, Finn crosses to us, makes it clear he’s going to make room for himself on the couch if we don’t scoot—
The three of us scooch over, and Finn throws himself back into the couch, body brushing the side of mine and he groans, sounding exhausted. “Bleedin’ Mary and Joseff, I’m knackered!” He rolls his head so that he can eye me. “If you told me right now that I could get a leg over, I think I’d be too flahed to give it a go,” he shares sadly.
I pat his knee. “Poor baby. If you wanted to give it a go after I’ve sweated and marinated in fried-pickle clothes all day, you’d deserve what you get.”
He smiles tiredly. “You underestimate your appeal.” The back of his hand is suddenly brushing over my cheek. “At the end of today, any day, I’d have you. And Sue, I’d take you flavored with fried pickles any time.”
CHAPTER 15
SUSAN
Finn squeezes my hand, then excuses himself, saying he’d better make his way to his own gaff for the night. He tosses me a wink as I close the door behind him, and then it’s just me, a shell-shocked Ginny, a worried Charlotte, and an oblivious Maggie, who is concentrating on picking up her scattered hairbows.
“You know what this night needs?” I ask them.
“No. What?” Charlotte asks as gamely as she can, her smile strained.
“Please tell me it’s ice cream,” Ginny says hollowly.
Maggie stops hunting her lupine emasculation devices. “Ice cream?!”
I smile at them tiredly. “Beet ice cream and a surprise.”
“WHAT?”
“No, Mom, that’s gross.”
“Ewww…” Then, “What’s the surprise?”
This last from Maggie.
I walk to Ginny and Charlotte, catch them by the hands to haul them up, and drag them into the kitchen. “Maggs, grab me the roasted beets from the fridge, please. Charlotte, can you be a doll and get me Grandma’s recipe book?”
With a look of skepticism, she retrieves it, and Maggie plops the Ziploc bag of beets on the counter.
“Ginny,” I open the book, flipping until I get to ice creams, “could you please find the whole cream and a lemon? Charlotte, we need mixing bowls. Maggie, do you know where to find the candy thermometer?”
“Yes,” she replies. She screws up her face. “We should be making fudge instead.”
“Nah. You’re going to love this. Grandma made this for me whenever I needed it.”
“Like a punishment?” Ginny asks, bewildered.
I huff a laugh and drag over a barstool. “No, it takes your mind off of everything else.”
I reach into the cupboard for the blender, plop myself on the stool’s seat, and peel open the bag of beets, releasing a waft of geosmin.
“I’m going to throw up,” Maggie complains, slapping a hand over her nose and a hand over her mouth.
Ginny shudders. “I can’t believe you’re really going to ruin ice cream with beets. Here. Take the cream.” She shoves it toward me along with a giant lemon.
“Guys, it’s good!” I insist.
Charlotte passes me a mixing bowl with eyes that speak to the depths to which she does not trust that root vegetables can be good in dessert.
Laughing, I pour the beets into the blender. “I need apple cider vinegar, please.” When that gets plopped in front of me, I add it to the blender and push purée.
“Why do they smell so bad?” Maggie wails over the sound of the blender.
“You can’t even smell them anymore,” I contend. “And it’s not bad.”
“It’s not good,” Charlotte intones.
I turn to Ginny. “You’re my tie-breaker.”
She gives me an apologetic face. “I’m sorry. It reeks in here. It sme
lls like—”
“Earth,” Deek supplies, making us all jump.
He twitches when we all turn to look at him.
“Hi, Deek,” I greet.
He gives me a cautious smile. “Hey.” He indicates the army of bowls and supplies with a chin tip. “Can I help?”
I give him the warmest of smiles. “Do you like the smell of Earth?”
“I do,” he agrees. He casts a considering look at the other three females in the room. “You’re all nuts.”
“Oooh!” I crow, and clap my hands. “I like you—you are now my favorite helper.”
“He’s about to be your only one,” Charlotte mutters, and I see all three girls are gearing up for mutiny.
I tsk at them. “Give this a chance, you bunch of whiners. Okay, first up: who wants to make the mascarpone?”
We spend a good hour making mascarpone and the sugary beet slurry that we then combine to make ice cream.
“Now what?” Ginny asks.
“Now we put it in the freezer and get to the surprise part of the evening,” I announce, shoving the quart of pink goodness onto the freezer rack. “To the backyard, let’s go!”
“If I were home, that charge would have ended with ‘you mutts!’” Deek shares.
I point to him. “I like that.” I wave at the children. “Let’s go, you mutts!”
Chuckling, they tromp to the backyard where, under the patio table that we never bothered to untarp this year, I managed to hide a box.
“I was going to ask you what this was,” Maggie says. “Deek and I found it today when we were playing hide-and-go-seek.”
I waggle a box cutter. “Let’s find out, shall we?” I hand it to Deek.
Momentary surprise eclipses his thoughtful expression, but he takes the box cutter, slices through the crazy-thick cardboard, and reveals…
“A bunch of poles?” Charlotte asks, bemused. She nudges the box, and it bursts, spilling humongous springs.
“Mom, what was it supposed to be?” Maggie asks, wincing like maybe whatever I ordered arrived horribly broken.
“It’s going to be—” I start.
Ginny claps her hands on her cheeks. “OH! I know what this is!” She turns to me, thrilled. “Can I say?”