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I will admit, I indulged. I dropped my guard and made silly, selfish decisions. I knew I needed to move beyond my physical needs and constant fretting over the immediate future. I had to look at the big picture. I was stalling like hell from picking up Red-burn’s packet. It was the polar opposite of self-preservation, but I needed this time to process thoughts such as Caleb, you jackassed, half-wit jerk-face, I would dearly love to tap-dance on your testicles. I needed some control over my life. I needed to find my footing and make choices based on preference instead of panic. For so long, I’d based my clothes, my meals, my appearance, on what was available to me. It took some field testing before I remembered how I preferred my jeans cut or which kind of lip gloss I liked best. (Skinny jeans and a violet-pink shade ironically called “Lupine.”)
At least I looked good while I stalled.
Every morning, I would wake up, pack my bags, and practically sprint to the lobby.
I would hitch my bag over my shoulder, prepared to make a blind run to the post office to pick up Red-burn’s package. I could feel the cold fingers of outside air tracing the lines of my cheeks. And instead of walking out into the cold, somehow, my feet changed direction, and I was standing at the bank of elevators, ready to go back upstairs. And every morning, the staff would look at me with increasingly alarmed expressions.
I was angry with Caleb. There was no question about it. But I’d lied to him, pretending to know he wasn’t lying to me, while he lied to me, pretending he didn’t know I was lying to him. Neither of us was the picture of healthy communication.
In my minibar-buffeted den, I mulled my options over and over. Run back to the valley, or start another new life, or go back to Tennessee and straighten out the mess I’d made of my old one. The last was more of a not-even-the-least-bit-likely palate cleanser.
A tiny, twisted part of my brain kept telling me I was damaged, messed up in the head. I couldn’t even cross a parking lot without having a panic attack. Werewolves needed fierce mates who could stand up to the strange, violent pressures of their world. I would fold under the first test. I knew that pack mating rules seemed unquestionable. But maybe whatever magic governed them would make an exception, since Caleb hadn’t gotten me pregnant. Maybe he could go on to have babies with some nice girl from another pack, a girl who didn’t have night terrors and trust issues. And yet the very idea made my blood boil.
I didn’t want him marrying some other woman. I didn’t want her touching him, helping him with cases. Caleb was mine.
Now I just had to figure out how to go about talking to him again without Tasering him.
On the sixth day of my self-imposed Howard Hughes retreat, Red-burn resolved my quandary with a phone call.
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“What do you think about your new ID? My connection worked really hard to make sure your picture came out nice. And I picked your name myself. I always thought you sounded like a Bethel.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your new ID. Haven’t you picked it up yet? Honey, I sent it a week ago, three-day guaranteed delivery. I thought you hadn’t called because you were on the move. Or because you were pissed because your new first name is Bethel. But that doesn’t matter, because right now, there’s an animal clinic in Ottawa waiting for you to take over a vet-tech position.”
Sadly, given the amount of time I’d spent working with both wolf and human anatomy, I was probably qualified for this position. “I haven’t had a chance to pick it up.”
“What’s going on with you?” she asked. “You hassled me for weeks for that ID, and all of a sudden, you don’t have time to pick it up? You sound all weird and distracted . . . wait, is there a man in this picture?”
“Sort of.”
Red-burn snorted. “Honey, either he is or he isn’t.”
“He is.” I sighed. “I have the chance to build a good life with someone. A life I could live as myself.”
“That’s fantastic. What’s stopping you?”
“This insane roller coaster of a life I live?” I suggested.
“Not good enough.”
“For the first couple of months we knew each other, I lied to him about who I was.”
“You’re in the domestic version of witness protection. You get a pass. Not good enough.”
“He lied to me about who he was. And he was a bounty hunter hired by my ex to find me.”
There was a heavy pause on the other end of the line. “OK . . . that would be an obstacle.”
“Why do I hear glasses clinking?” I asked.
“I’m making myself a drink. You do the same, and we’ll talk this out.”
I cracked open a tiny bottle of vodka from the minibar and tossed the contents down my throat in one shot.
