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"I miss them, too. But we'll get back as soon as we can."
I looked over to see Clay propped up on his elbow in bed, watching me. I nodded and said nothing, just put the phone down. He reached over and fingered a couple of bruises on my hip.
"You okay?" he said.
"That?" I managed a smile. "That's nothing. I'm sure I did worse to you."
"So you're okay? Not too battered and bruised?"
"I'm fine."
"Good." He scooped me up. "The water pressure in this place sucks. We're sharing a shower, and you're going to forget that phone call."
"Is that an order?"
"Nope, that's a challenge. For me. And one I will happily meet."
WE HAD BREAKFAST a few blocks down at the Snow City Cafe. A white chocolate and vanilla latte, pumpkin pancakes and side orders of smoked salmon and farmers sausage. Heaven.
On the way to the cafe and on the way back, Clay tried to bring up the subject of what else was bothering me. Again, I almost answered. Again, I chickened out. A letter from a former foster parent had nothing to do with our current situation, and even admitting that it was bothering me gave it too much power. We could talk about it later.
AT EIGHT-FORTY we were outside Joey's office waiting for him to arrive. We stood across the road, under the shadow of a crab shack awning. As Clay scanned the streets, his face was immobile, but I knew what he was feeling--dreading the horrible news he had to break to Joey, yet looking forward to seeing his old friend.
"He's coming," I said when I caught a werewolf scent on the breeze.
Clay pivoted, searching. "That's him. With the bald guy and the older lady."
If we hadn't been looking for Joey Stillwell, I would have never noticed him. He blended with everyone else on the street, one of those cookie-cutter businessmen who filled every American business core at this hour.
He was average height. Slender, though softening at the edges as he settled into middle age. I knew Joey was only a few years older than Clay, but he really could pass for fifty. He was bespectacled and serious, with frown lines that said serious was his usual expression. His brown hair was shot through with even more gray than Jeremy's, making me wonder if he dyed it trying to look his true age.
"Go on," I said to Clay.
"Come with me. We should--"
"Go. I'm in charge now, remember?"
&nb
sp; He smiled and loped off. We'd decided earlier that Clay should approach Joey alone. It seemed right--he came from a part of Clay's life before me. Even if Dennis had told Joey about me, I didn't need to complicate the reunion.
"Joey!" Clay called as he jogged across the road.
Joey should have heard him, but he kept walking as if not recognizing the old diminutive.
"Joseph!"
Now even his companions heard, both turning, the older woman catching Joey's elbow as he kept walking. Her lips moved, telling him he was being hailed.
Joey glanced over his shoulder. He saw Clay. No sign of recognition crossed his face. I'd met Clay a few years after Joey left the Pack, so I knew Clay hadn't changed much. Hell, other than aging, he hadn't changed at all, from his hairstyle--close-cropped gold curls--to his fashion sense--jeans, T-shirt and leather jacket.
Joey kept walking. I tensed. But Clay only broke into a jog again, not slowing until he was close enough for Joey to smell him. He laid a hand on his shoulder, in a quick squeeze.
"Joey," Clay said. "It's Clay. Clayton Danvers."
Still Joey's expression didn't change. In a voice so soft I could barely hear it from across the road, he said, "I'm afraid you have the wrong person."
Clay grinned. "Sorry. It's Joseph now, isn't it? A bit old for Joey. You never much liked it as a kid either."
