by Linda Palmer
Hmm.
Since I needed a diversion, I decided to go to my parents'
house and look for it right then. I knew they had my health record somewhere, probably in dad's office. It was just a matter of finding it.
The walk to the house weirded me out as badly as the walk to the mailbox. And by the time I got there, I was one big shiver. I blamed Brody for that. Thanks to him, his wolf-y friends, and the whole Preter universe, I now knew just how much there was to fear. Would I ever get a good night's sleep again? I wondered, jabbing my key into the lock.
The house lay in darkness, of course. Iris hadn't stayed nights since I'd turned sixteen. Once I entered through the back door and deactivated the security alarm, I flipped on every light I came to all the way to Dad's office on the first floor. I'd always loved the smell of the room, a heady scent of old books, leather, and furniture polish. I thought of the times I'd slipped in there while Dad worked at his desk. I'd never made a peep, of course, since he'd have banished me from the room. Instead, I slipped behind one of the drapes and stayed there for thirty minutes at a time, listening to him take care of business on the phone. My dad could be charming one second and downright hateful the next...sort of like Brody...except Dad didn't have the excuse of the full moon.
Brody.
I missed him already.
Pushing that thought out of my head, I opened the top drawer of Dad's beautiful wooden file cabinets. I flipped through the folders, which all had to do with his lobbying, before shutting it and moving to the second drawer. This one held files related to Heritage Books. The third drawer didn't hold files at all. Instead, I found electronics: four walkie-talkies, two brand new cell phones in their boxes, an iPod, flashlights, and lots of car and home chargers. I hadn't realized Dad was such a techno pack rat.
I thought for a minute, before tackling the middle drawer in his desk. There I found a gun and some bullets that I didn't touch, but nothing related to me. I next tried the file drawer in his desk, which I found locked. Thinking back to the days when I hid behind the curtains, I headed straight for a gorgeous clock on a shelf behind the leather executive chair. Under it, I found the key Dad kept hidden there. I unlocked the desk drawer and began rifling though the folders.
Jackpot! I found my shot record in a file labeled 'Cassidy'
and made a copy of it on my parents' scanner-fax-copier. As I tucked the original back in my file, I saw a folder with Max's name on it. Nosey me automatically pulled it from the drawer and checked out the contents inside. I found a copy of my granddad's "Last Will and Testament" in there, which rather surprised me. That should've been in the file labeled ‘Wills’ or maybe 'Dad,' right?
Curious—I'd never seen a will before—I sat in Dad's oversized chair and scanned the contents. It took a bit to decipher it, but was worth the effort when I learned that Max's mom, my grandfather's second wife, Marcia Edwards, had brought Heritage Books into the marriage. When she died in an automobile accident, my grandfather inherited the company and the position. Since I’d always assumed my granddad started it, which was a shocker. But not nearly as shocking as what I read next Max did not inherit half of everything from his father when he died. Max didn’t get squat.
Whoa!
My granddad left everything to my dad, including the publishing company that Max’s own mother left behind when she was killed. Stunned, I scanned the document for a reason why. All I found was a paragraph about individual explanation letters that the estate lawyer had apparently passed along to Dad and Max. No copies of these letters were attached to the will.
Poor Max. I couldn’t begin to imagine how he must’ve felt when he heard he’d been disinherited. I’d have been furious if I’d been in his shoes—furious and humiliated. Was that why he’d lied to me about it? Because he was embarrassed? Was he trying to protect my granddad, who was clearly not the man I thought he was? Or was he protecting my dad, who was apparently all about equality except where it mattered most. I'll admit Max’s lie bothered me even though I guessed his reasons. Why hadn't he told me the truth? I’d always had his back, just as he’d had mine. Nothing would’ve changed between us. Surely, he knew that. I shut the file and sat back in the chair, my head spinning with what ifs. Suddenly I needed to see those explanation letters. How else would I ever understand what had happened?
Without an ounce of guilt, I stuffed the file labeled ‘Max’
back into the drawer and began looking for a folder that might contain the letters in question—well, Dad's, anyway. I tried
“Dad”; I tried “Family”; I even tried “Miscellaneous.” No luck. Frustrated, I started with the A’s and rifled through every single folder in the drawer until I found the letter in one labeled “Tax Records.” I quickly scanned the contents and learned that Max had done something awful when he was twenty-two. What, exactly, was never spelled out, but apparently, Granddad had to spend money to rescue him. Then, when Max was twenty-eight, he got into another mess that his mom secretly resolved. Granddad found out after her death when he audited the books at Heritage and was so pissed that he immediately disinherited Max.
Now I was really confused.
What on earth could my uncle have done that was so bad?
If it had been something illegal, he'd have gone to jail, right? I mean, money talked, but not that loudly. Had he knocked up some girl? Wrecked one of Granddad's beloved antique cars?
Gotten drunk and trashed a European hotel?
Suddenly I needed to talk to Brodie very, very badly. I stole just enough time to pull on jeans and slip a t-shirt over my cami before charging out the door and jumping into the Infiniti. I drove to his side of town just a little faster than the law allowed, only realizing how late it was when I glimpsed the clock on my dash: 1:00 a.m. Already Friday. He was probably asleep, as I should've been.
Doubts assailed me by the time I braked on the street in front of his apartment house. As far as I could tell, all lights were off inside of it, but the porch was illuminated. I got out of my car, walked to the front door and knocked very loudly. No one came. I knocked again and waited. Still no luck.
Snap.
Not sure what to do, I sat in one of the rickety chairs to think. Bugs of every shape and size fluttered around the single bulb overhead. I swatted a few from my face, too upset to remember that I hated creepy crawlies. I wondered if I could throw pebbles at Brody's window. That seemed to work in the movies. But what if I picked the wrong one? And what if I broke it or something? I didn't want to get Brody into trouble with his landlord. And just enough wallflower Cassidy remained in me to make that scenario unacceptable anyway.
I heard what sounded like humming. I automatically looked in that direction, trying to make out details of a figure approaching via the shadowy cracked sidewalk. I realized it was a woman just as she turned and approached the porch. Her layered blond hair swung around her face as she walked. I saw she wore tight jeans and a halter-top with sequins on it. A red oversized purse dangled from her shoulder and matched the high heels she wore.
"Hi," she said, pausing to look at me when she reached the top step. "May I help you?"
"Do you live here?"
"Yes. I'm the owner."
Oh. "I really need to talk to Brody Anderson. I've knocked, but no one came. Do you think you could let me in? I promise he wouldn't mind, and I won't stay long."
"Brody doesn't live here anymore."
"What!"
She shook out her head. "He's gone. Sorry."
"But he... I mean I..." I took a deep breath and tried again.
"Did he say where he was going?"
"Afraid not."
"Oh no." Disappointment slammed into me like a wall of water. I felt myself sinking. I had no parents to call for advice, no Max to be there when they didn't answer and no Brody to make all of that not matter.
My eyes filled so quickly that a couple of tears splashed onto my flushed cheeks before I could blink them away. The lady noticed, of course.
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"Are you in trouble?" she asked.
"Yeah." But probably not the kind you think.
"Well that explains why he'd never let me cook for him." I saw a sudden image of a cougar and a wolf, and they weren't fighting. That made me want to puke. "He didn't leave a forwarding address?"
She hesitated just long enough for me to know that he had.
"No."
I got up and walked over to her. "This is very, very important, okay? If you know anything, please tell me. Please. I promise he won't be mad if you do."
She just looked at me for long seconds, and then shook her head. "You've got to watch the silent type, you know." I nodded as if no truer words had ever been spoken.
"Come on." She unlocked the door, led me inside to the kitchen, and took a piece of paper out from under a magnet on the fridge. I looked at it.
"He's at his mom's."
She shrugged.
"Thanks so much." Turning, I charged out the door to my car through sprinkles of rain that promised to become a downpour. I paused just long enough to enter Brody's Mom's address in my GPS before backing the Infiniti into the street and hitting the accelerator.
The night had never looked creepier. Steam swirled from the hot pavement, creating a Hollywood special effect that only needed the appearance of a werewolf to make it horrifying. The fact that I knew such monsters existed didn't help my nerves, which is why I didn't remember Brody's shortcut to Sedona for several minutes. When I finally did, I realized that route would save me so much time that I had to take it. The curves and dips of that dark back road kept me on my toes, as did the rain, now falling in torrents. The wipers couldn't swish fast enough to keep the glass clear, which left me straining to plan ahead.
That's when I saw it. A dog sitting right in my path. I screamed and slammed my foot on the brakes, challenging the anti-lock system and barely staying between the ditches as I fishtailed all over the place. The dog didn't move until my car slid to a halt inches from way. Fearless, it stepped right into the beam of the headlight.
A wolf! A red wolf.
Mine?
Chapter Eight
Please oh please oh please be mine.
I stared at it forever trying to decide what to do. Not just any wolf would stand in the road like that. And it was the right color. I wished I could see its eyes better. I didn't feel safe enough to engineer a close up.
With a hand that shook, I killed the engine and reached up to release the latch to the cargo area. The hatch popped up. I got out of the vehicle and walked around back to lower the split rear seating. The wolf, now standing beside me, hopped right in. I shut the door, crawled back inside, soaking wet, and chilled.
"Brody, please tell me that's you."
He nudged my right arm.
Good enough for me. I u-turned right there and headed straight for home, but we didn't get far. Not two miles later, three black cars overtook me from behind and surrounded mine—one in front, one in back, one close enough to reach out and touch. I tried to see into them, but the dark tint of their windows made that impossible.
I freaked—hyperventilating to the point that my head swam. The car in front instantly braked. I had no choice but to do the same. By the time, I came to a fishtailing stop, I whimpered like a two-year-old. With my engine still running and my foot on the brake, I looked around frantically for a weapon, but found only a flashlight. Well, that had worked before. I scooped it up and tested the weight in my hand, weight that vanished when Brody-wolf snatched the light from my fingers and tossed it out of reach.
I'd honestly forgotten him; terror made me that crazy. Bursting into tears of relief, I grabbed the sides of his furry face and kissed his cold nose. The brownest eyes on the planet gazed back at me.
"What do I do? What do I do?"
Leave.
That thought, exactly opposite to what I could actually accomplish, popped into my head so suddenly that I was sure Brody had somehow put it there.
"But how—?" I asked, my fearful gaze on the Wolf men now piling out of the vehicles, each one highly visible in four sets of headlights. To escape, I'd have to drive on the shoulder of the road, which was narrow and steep. I loved my car and didn't want to wreck it. But I also loved my life. Brody suddenly growled a dangerous sound that said he meant business. Let me out.
I didn't question the voice in my head this time. Instead, I punched the remote hatch release again. The door flew up. Brody-wolf lunged into the night.
Suddenly wolves exploded everywhere. I'd never seen a sight so horrifying, and not because of what they were. The numbers scared me. Five, no seven wolves and four men in masks against one. My one.
Go.
Telepathy? Brody's orders came through loud and clear, helping me focus on what I had to do. I wrenched the steering wheel to the right and slammed my foot on the gas, which shot the Infiniti forward. It nicked the bumper of the Mercedes in front of me, almost winging a wolf, but I got away with the hatchback open and bobbing up and down
Without a backward glance at the wolf fight now in progress, I punched the gas pedal and sprayed shoulder gravel as I fought to steer my car back onto the road. I drove less than the length of a football field before I slammed on the brakes again, got out, and shut the hatch. I slipped back into the Infiniti and sat there for several minutes, trying to figure out how I could help the boy I loved. If I turned around, I might be able to run down a few wolves. But how could I be sure I didn't hit Brody? I thought of calling 9-1-1, but what would I say?
'There's a werewolf fight in progress?' As if. Oh how I wished for a baseball bat or, better yet, my dad's pistol. But shooting at a blur of wolves didn't work for me either, at least not while mine was part of it.
In the end, I did what Brody had told me to do. Run. My heart stayed behind, of course. And even though I kept telling myself that he was their best fighter, I couldn't help but wonder if I'd seen him for the very last time. I burst into boohoos right as I drove into Wolf-Run, tears that didn't stop falling for hours and hours while I paced the living room and porch. Repeatedly, I tried to call Brody on his cell. He never answered. Finally, I pulled off my tee and jeans and put on my sleep pants. I crashed on the couch, emotionally numb with no more tears to cry.
Where is he?
Around five-thirty a.m. on Friday, a soft knock on my front door told me exactly where—at least I hoped that's what it meant. With a gasp, I leapt off the cushions and charged the window so I could peek through the mini-blinds. I saw Brody's truck in my drive. I squealed my joy and threw open the door to find him standing on my front porch with his back to me, gazing out over the yard. He turned when he heard the storm door open. I threw myself at the boy, wrapping my arms and legs around him in a monkey hug.
He staggered back even as he returned my crazy kisses and, in seconds, we were indoors. His hands were everywhere at once, and to make things easier, I yanked off my cami and started tugging on his T-shirt.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!"
I huffed my disbelief. "You have got to be kidding."
"Nope." He set me aside, scooping the cami off the floor and thrusting it at me. "We're not going to do this."
"Oh my God."
"Put it on, Cassidy."
Well hell!
Pouting like some little kid, I slipped the cami over my head. "Better?"
His expression told me 'no'; the set of his jaw said something else. Clearly, the boy was not going to budge on this issue.
Furious with him, I stomped into my kitchen and dug in the fridge for a canned drink. Though I should've asked Brody if he wanted one, I didn't. Damn the guy for having so much willpower.
"It's not that you don't turn me on." His voice in my ear made me jump. "I don't want to hurt you."
"Raincoats are 98% effective if used correctly."
"Who told you that?"
"Read it on the internet."
"When?"
"Earlier tonight."
"Was this before or after you
broke up with me?"
"After."
Brody dropped his head back with a loud groan. "You aren't making this any easier."
"That's the plan."
Now he looked me in the eyes. "Shit, Cass. Could you help me out here? I'm trying, for once, to do the right thing." I gave in with a sigh of disappointment and handed him the drink. When he took it, I snagged another and walked to the pantry to look for food.
"Hungry?" I asked.
"I could eat something."
I glanced at the clock. Almost six. Time for breakfast, though the usual fare didn't appeal to me at all. "Um, hotdogs okay?"
"Sure."
While I placed four dogs in the toaster oven and dug buns, mustard relish, and chips from the shelf, Brody sat down at the table. That's when I noticed the scratches on his chest and arm.
"Are you hurt?" I asked, hurrying over for a closer look. He caught me in his arms and pulled me onto his lap. "I'm fine." He kissed me once, twice, three times. "You know we could—" Kiss. "Do this—" Kiss. Kiss. "For hours—" Kiss. Kiss. Kiss. "If we kept our clothes on."
I could barely answer. " This being make out?"
"Mm-hm." He touched his mouth to mine again, adding a little tongue for flavoring.
Now I could barely breathe. Somehow I wiggled free of his embrace. I saw his surprise that I'd ended the make-out session.
"Ever listen to classic rock?" I checked on our food. My cheeks stung the contact with his whiskery chin, which meant they were probably pink with more than my temper.
He looked puzzled. "Just all the time. Why?"
"Remember that song by Georgia Satellite, 'Keep Your Hands to Yourself'?"
"The one where the girl tells the guy there'll be no more hugs and kisses until he marries her?"