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“Fine,” Yordan grumbled. “What do you want?” He stuffed a huge bite of casserole into his mouth so he wouldn’t be able to answer whatever question came at him.
God, this casserole was delicious.
“What behaviors make an asshole?”
“Wha—?” The word was cut off as he swallowed his food. “What?”
“This word is used often by you and others. There are synonyms if you would prefer to define one of those. Dickhead. Asswipe. Prick. The linguistic obsession with anatomy proximal to the pelvis is well-documented.”
“I know the synonyms,” he grumbled. Then, as a way to delay, he fumbled through a closet in the corner. It was filled with Wulf, Inc. attire, and Yordan pulled on a pair of sweatpants. The clothes he’d worn here would have to be burned unless he wanted the Swamp Thing moniker to stick. Which he didn’t.
Once he was dressed, he paused a moment and pondered his options. He could find some excuse to delay, but Gelpack was well-known for following recalcitrant people everywhere. The bathroom, the bedroom, the middle of a fucking battle. He’d stand exactly one foot away day and night until the “subject” broke. One stupidly stubborn werewolf had started punching the creature. But beating on a thing made of gel was worse than useless. Gelpack absorbed all blows, sealed up all cuts as if they’d never been, and worse, his residue ate like acid on the skin. Fire didn’t even seem to harm him.
Which meant Yordan’s choices were to give in to the creature’s questions or live with a gel shadow forever. Unless distraction worked.
“Did McBastard send you in here?”
“Who is McBastard?”
“McNabb. He just left. Did he send you to me?”
“Alpha Gummy put you on my calendar.”
Oh yeah. Gummy had said he was going to do that. “And he called me an asshole?”
Silence.
“What did he say about me?”
Silence.
Fuck it. He knew this game. He’d used it many times on new puppies. You stood there while they twisted in the wind with delay after evasion. Eventually, they got tired and answered the question.
Which was what Yordan was going to have to do.
“Fine. What do you want to know?”
“Please define the behaviors that make an asshole.”
There were a lot of smart-ass responses he could make, but once again, Gelpack could out-patience a rock. Yordan decided to give the question a serious answer.
“Anything that intentionally hurts or endangers another person.” And he wasn’t so sure on the intentional part.
“How many such actions are necessary to become an asshole?”
Again, there was no emotion in the question. It could have been asked by a computer. Maybe that was what Gelpack was. Either way, Yordan had no answer.
“How the fuck do I know? It depends on how often and on how serious the asinine things are.”
Gelpack didn’t respond, but then again, he didn’t really need to. The next question was obvious. Had Yordan done things without regard to other people’s feelings or the injuries that might occur? Of course, yes. Had he intended for Joey to get thrown into a tree? No. But he’d lit a fuse when he’d poked at Fuse. And never had a guy’s handle been more accurate. Then he’d sat back and laughed as Joey had landed hard against a tree and their day’s work had turned into fighting gators in a swamp.
And that was the most recent example of him being a dick.
All during the long drive up from Florida, Yordan had stewed on what he’d been doing. Gummy was right. He’d never been this reckless before, and yet the last three months had seen him becoming increasingly obnoxious.
The question was, why?
“I’ve been feeling twitchy lately,” he finally confessed. “Like an itch right at the base of my brain. Don’t ask me why because I don’t know. I just keep thinking about everyone who has died.”
