Chapter Twelve
Blasts from the Past and Busy Dinner Tables
Elliot
The Werewolf sits on the couch, flipping channels, his legs stretched out and resting on the coffee table. Mom glares if anyone tries that with her beloved antique table while she’s around. But she’s not here. She’s never here. Just The Werewolf.
I curl up on the small chair in the corner, chin on my knees, body folded tight. Like my barrier of chicken limbs will protect me. Nothing can. Not the doors, not the locks.
I tried staying in the bathroom once, the door firmly locked. Just made him angrier. People die when The Werewolf is angry. So I sit here. Waiting and counting minutes.
He slowly turns to me, a cynical smile pasted on his face. Not the gleeful one he has when he’s hurting people, both lips stretched wide, sharp teeth full on display. This one is slighter, the left side stretched up higher than the right, eyes gleaming with hate. A jolt runs down my spine.
“Your mom was telling me about this camping trip you’re doing with your father. Sounds fun,” he says and goes back to watching some sitcom he’d landed on.
I still. I was excited about the trip. A reason to get away, maybe talk to Dad, where I know he won’t be listening. A tiny hope. That was my biggest flaw. My downfall. Hope.
“I canceled it. It sounded boring. They’re boring,” I say in the surliest teenage voice possible.
“Hmm. I don’t know. Can be fun, a little bonding time. It’s not healthy for kids to not like their parents,” he comments lightly.
I don’t let my breath get short, not a single sign of the panic that’s wracking my nerves. “They are fucking annoying,” I mutter.
His smile gets wider. I still don’t know why he hasn’t killed them yet. I try my best not to show any care for them, but he has to know. He’s not stupid. So, it’s only a matter of time, isn’t it? All I can do is try my best for as long as I can.
“Your Mom doesn’t seem annoying. She loves you so much,” he says slowly. Pointedly.
My heartbeat goes fast then, and his smile becomes gleeful.
I jerk awake mid-shout. My throat feels raw.
My pillow is wet with sweat and tears, and my heart is going a mile a minute.
I blink. The darkness in the room is all-consuming, like it’s swallowing me.
I breathe harder, but my chest still feels tight.
I take another breath, and it goes out just as fast. I feel dizzy.
I pat around the bedside table until I find the lamp and switch it on.
The sudden light blinds me, but I force my eyes open. I can still see those teeth when I close them. The yellow walls seem unfamiliar, alien. I turn on my back and stare at the ceiling. Plain, white. I take a long breath, this time, it fills my lungs.
“Fuck,” I murmur and sit up. I gulp the glass of water. Some of it trickles down to my T-shirt, but it hardly registers.
It takes a few minutes for my heart and my mind to calm down. I’m home. I’m safe. I talked to my mother just yesterday. She’s fine. So is my father. Everything is alright.
I hate that I care. I hate that he couldn’t change that. It would have been so much easier if he had. I can imagine what life would be like if I stopped caring. It feels so close. I could reach out and grab it.
But I can’t. If it hasn’t happened yet, it won’t. And the worst part is, I probably hate him the most for that. For not breaking me completely. For leaving behind the part I could’ve easily lived without. Preferred it, really.
Red fills my vision, and I almost snap the glass in my hand.
I slowly place it back down with a trembling hand.
Then drag myself out of bed and to the bathroom, peeling off my clothes on the way.
I need a shower, or I might go on a rampage.
That may be the final straw to break my already torn conscience.
***
After a disastrous workday in which three clients asked me if I was sure I should be working today because I looked like I was about to faint at the slightest wind, I did not want to be back here.
No, that’s an understatement. I’d rather watch one of those reality shows Nicholas likes so much than be here. But unfortunately, duty calls.
The club’s noise spills into the back alley, grating on my mind like metal on a board as I head toward my now-regular meeting spot with Drew Blue.
I see him smoking, looking relaxed. Casual. All the while, another man lies six feet under somewhere because Drew thought he could do whatever he pleased. And why wouldn’t he? People like him famously get away with shit all the time.
I take a deep breath, fighting the urge to stab him with my knife right here. Wouldn’t be so smug then, would he? I approach him slowly, my body wound tight, itching to do something. Anything. Other than standing there and making small talk.
I lean against the wall beside him and swallow down the sudden need to smack him right across his face. “We have to stop meeting like this,” I say instead, smiling straight ahead.
He snorts. “You forgot your cigarette again?” he asks, pointedly looking at my empty hand.
“I may be subconsciously trying to quit," I finally turn to him.
He doesn’t, his eyes are trained on the woman near the club’s back door, scrolling through her phone.
My hands clench into a fist. What is he thinking?
If I let him live another day, will he hurt her?
There are so many vulnerable people around us.
How do I know he won’t decide to swipe his claws and end their lives, too?
He has no issues doing it. How many other people has he hurt while I was following my plans and covering my ass?
I shove my hands into my pockets. One hits the small Swiss knife I carry everywhere, and I clutch it hard. It might not kill him, but it will injure him long enough for me to reach the bigger one at my ankle.
Drew’s head snaps to me, following the movement of my hand.
My jaw tightens enough to crack a tooth or two with the effort it takes to move my hand over to a cigarette packet in the pocket.
I take it out and swipe one. “I guess I’ll try again tomorrow,” I laugh.
Some sense of self-preservation must be lingering under all the anger, frustration, and fear to keep me going with the plan.
He smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Alright, man,” he says, reaching for my jacket pocket, transferring the stuff.
I follow his lead and pay him.
“Might need more for a party. Know where I can get it?” I ask casually, getting to the point. If I can’t kill him, I don’t want to spend anymore time around him.
He nods, blowing smoke right into my face. “Meet me this Saturday, eleven pm at Wendy’s off Sunset in East Hollywood.” He drops the cigarette and crushes it with his shoes.
I salute with my cigarette. Then he’s off toward the woman.
I stay plastered to the wall as they walk inside together. Everything in me screams to follow them. Just do it. What’s the worst that could happen?
That thought hits me like a bucket of icy water to the face.
I could go to prison. Because no one would believe me when I explain why I killed a man in cold blood at a nightclub.
And I’ll never be able to watch another werewolf taking their last breath while regretting every decision they made ever again.
I crush my cigarette, too, and walk into the club. When I don’t see Drew anywhere, I head straight to my car and drive away.
Saturday. The day when Drew will regret ever believing he’s above justice. The day Drew Blue takes his last breath.
I sigh an aggrieved sigh. His stupid name ruins even the most dramatic internal monologues, damn him.
Saturday. The day I have to face a werewolf who has murdered at least one human and can kill me with a swipe of a finger. But before that, I have to suffer through dinner with two of my friends who are grossly in love.
I can’t tell which one is responsible for the shiver down my spine.
***
I knock on Oliver’s door, preemptively exhausted. And I still have a murder to commit after this. Saturdays shouldn’t be this eventful in your thirties.
“Elliot’s here,” Matt shouts over his shoulder when he opens the door. “Hey, Oliver is just finishing up in the kitchen,” he says to me, thankfully in a decibel that won’t blast my eardrums. Aren’t werewolves supposed to be sensitive to sounds?
I smile at him and let him lead me in.
“You drove straight from work?” he asks, grasping for small talk. Matt and I never found a common ground to connect over. Not that I have much with Oliver either, but the man is just better at strong-arming people into becoming his friends.
“Yup,” I say, following him to the kitchen.
Oliver is shoving a large casserole dish into the oven. He walks up to me when he’s done and wraps me in a hug. I’m caught off guard, but I manage to pat him on the back twice before he peels away and takes a step back. “Why the fuck don’t you ever answer my texts?” he complains.
I roll my eyes. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Because you wanted free food,” Matt points out from the other end of the counter, where he’s shoving what looks and smells like homemade garlic bread into his face. What the fuck, Matt? That wasn’t very awkward small-talk bro of you.
“Exactly,” Oliver says victoriously.
I tilt my head, scowling at Matt. “Aren’t those supposed to be eaten with dinner?” I point at the tray Matt is clutching protectively. Two can play this game, Matt.
“Matt. Those are supposed to go with dinner.” Oliver walks over to him and snatches the tray back. Well, let’s be honest, Matt hands it over to him. But you wouldn’t know that with all the sulking his face is doing right now. Even his shoulders droop a bit for added effect.
Oliver ignores him. I’m proud of him for that because it takes a man with strong bones to say no to a six-foot-five broader-than-a-doorway werewolf who’s curling in on himself. “Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes, you baby.”
I smirk.
Oliver pours three glasses of wine and hands one over to Matt, which placates him. I grab the other one, and we take our little cranky party to the couch.
“When was the last time you slept, man? You look like you spent the entire week in the clinic,” Oliver says once we’re seated. Matt and Oliver on the big couch, and I sit on one of the small ones facing them. Our placement unfortunately means I’m the center of attention again.
Oliver isn’t far from the truth, though. I’ve been spending a longer-than-strictly-necessary time in the clinic lately, only leaving when I have just enough energy to drive home without crashing the car mid-way.
Not that it helped. I still can’t get any sleep. I feel too restless whenever I try, my skin buzzing with the need to act.
At least things will get better after tonight.
“Just one of those insanely busy weeks,” I wave him off. “How is living together going?” I change the topic not-so subtly.
But it works. “I’d say we’re fine to keep it going for now,” Oliver shrugs casually, but the effect is completely ruined by the smile slowly spreading across his face.
Matt laughs. “That’s weirdly close to what you said last night,” he says.
Oliver goes red so quickly, I’m worried he’ll faint, and when I glance at Matt, he’s not looking any better.
Good, because gross. “I really, really don’t want to know. I’m not a curious person. In fact, I would love to scrape out most of the things I already know about this and you,” I tell them honestly.
Matt turns to me and smiles. “Wow, now I know how to get more than monosyllabic responses from Elliot.” He looks at Oliver. “Did I just crack some kind of code?”
I roll my eyes again. Really not loving how quickly our little Matty is getting comfortable around me. “I’m just as surprised as you are, Matt. Didn’t know you had a twenty-one-point word in you.”
Oliver snorts and sprays wine on the table. Huh. I’d only ever seen that in movies before. Matt’s eyes go wide, and his mouth hangs open. That makes Oliver laugh harder. But he quickly gathers himself when Matt gives him a betrayed look.
Then Matt smirks. “I know I’m hot, El. But I can be smart, too. Jokes about pretty people being dumb are even older than you,” he says.
I narrow my eyes. “Oh, I wasn’t going with the stereotype. The comment was very specific to you as a person, Matt,” I explain.
Oliver watches us with a restrained laugh.
“Well, I’m flattered,” Matt bats his eyes. “But my brother won’t be happy if he knew you were complimenting me so hard,” he adds casually.
Wrong time to take a smug sip of wine. It goes down the wrong pipe, and I break into loud coughs. Nothing to do with the image of the said brother that he sprung on me. Just a normal reaction to someone trying to out-snark me.
Oliver gets up to pat my back. Good, I’ll risk him over Matt damaging my spine with his hands the size of a saucepan.
When the cough fit finally subsides, I take another sip, and Oliver sits back down. A glance at Matt confirms he’s still smirking, announcing himself the clear winner of this round.
But then his smug face turns into a frown. A distinctly guilty-looking frown. “Fuck,” he murmurs.
I narrow my eyes.
Just then, the doorbell rings, and a bark from the door makes my eyes go wide.
Oliver turns to Matt. “You told him, didn’t you?”
My heartbeat picks up without my permission. I suddenly feel cornered. I didn’t know Matt was that mean. This is straight-up savage. Because mentioning the brother was one thing, but sneakily springing the living, breathing man on me is pure cruelty.