7. Val
Val
It just feels wrong, living apart from the pack.
Especially when it’s probably going to be for life, either mine or Harley’s.
I wish I’d gotten the picture of Harley from Nathan before he and Marcus left so suddenly, but it’s okay.
I’ve got his apartment number, and I know his place is beside mine.
I’ll see what the man looks like soon enough, I suppose.
The movers were humans, and noisy ones at that.
I wish I had my full shifter senses back, but like my wolf, they’re suppressed, either permanently or temporarily.
Will they return full-force once my wolf comes out of the dark place it’s hiding in me?
I hope so, though I know I’ll never regain the sight in my left eye.
That damage isn’t just relegating my sight to that of a normal human being’s.
I’m fucking blind, period. At least my right eye still works well, even if my wolf’s sharp acuity has dimmed significantly.
Sitting around moping about it isn’t going to do me any good either.
I wave off the movers’ offer to help me set up the place.
I just want them gone. They’ve no doubt been paid for their extra efforts, but I’m in no mood to be around people.
One of the movers, Hank or Hal or some other H-name, seems to be flirting with me, even.
It makes me uncomfortable and probably bitchy, or tactless at the very least. I’m willing to bet the guy won’t come back around again.
I look at the boxes and furniture and sigh as I start rubbing my left thigh. The damn thing aches, and a hot shower sounds ideal, except before I can take a step toward the bathroom, I hear the sound of a door opening and closing in the hallway.
As close as it is, I know it has to be Harley Johansen.
I turn from where I have my back to the door and instead press my face to the warm surface as I peer through the peephole.
Maybe it’s just because it’s been a while, or maybe it’s because the guy is hot, I don’t know, but my dick hardens so fast I wouldn’t be surprised if it drilled through the damn door.
Harley Johansen, if that’s really him, is a sexy little stud, and he’s obviously going out looking for a fuck dressed in those tight clothes.
His honey-blond hair has a slight wave to it and falls almost to his shoulders.
I squint through the hole and think I catch a glimpse of green eyes, but I can’t be sure.
Harley—it has to be him, he came from the right apartment—turns and strides for the stairs. His tight little butt is a temptation that makes me want to run out the door and fuck the man right there against the wall.
I scoff at myself. Yeah, that’d be keeping myself in the shadows, jumping Harley’s bones. Besides, someone who looks like me would never be of interest to Harley Johansen. I’m big, rough, scarred—and a shifter. I can’t forget that. Harley hates us, so I need to keep my horny thoughts to myself.
But as Harley enters the stairwell, I realize I don’t need to stay here while he goes out prowling.
Who knows what dangers are waiting for the guy?
There could be other shifters wanting to eliminate him as a threat to our species, or some ass just waiting for a small, delicate-looking guy like Harley to fall into his hands.
Joshua Dobson isn’t the only sadistic bastard in the world.
Well, isn’t is probably the correct terminology since the fucker is dead.
The point is, I know there are plenty of mean men who’d get their rocks off on hurting someone like Harley.
Even the brief glimpse I got of him tells me Harley is damaged.
Maybe I’m superimposing my own opinion on him because I know Dobson hurt the little human.
Sure, I don’t know the details, but Harley was abused in some manner. I guess he could be over it and—
“And I gotta stop this shit.”
I pat my pocket, feel my keys there, then leave my place, locking it up before heading to the elevator. I’m not quick enough, or quiet enough probably, to take the stairs. Besides, if Harley hangs around and sees me coming out of the stairwell, that’ll likely seem suspicious.
The elevator dings in seconds and I enter the car, smiling slightly at the elderly woman inside it. No need to scowl and scare my neighbors. I mentally roll my eyes at my rambling thoughts.
I wait for the lady to disembark, then do the same. I spot the stairway door and note that Harley isn’t on the ground floor of the building. Did I miss him? Or is he still making his way down? Hell, for all I know, Harley could have a thing going with someone in the apartment building.
Scowling, I walk to the doors. I step outside and move into the shadows.
If Harley doesn’t come out in a few minutes, I’ll track him up the stairs, see if my sense of smell is at least usable still.
Of course, since I didn’t try to parse out Harley’s scent on our floor, how will I know what the guy smells like?
“Idiot,” I mutter just as the doors open.
The man I’m certain is Harley Johansen steps outside and promptly shivers.
“Hey, Harley, need a cab tonight?” a taxi driver calls out.
Well, I’ve got my answer about who I’m following, don’t I? I glare at the driver and silently will Harley to say no. There isn’t another cab out, at least not near that I can see, and I can’t keep up with a freaking vehicle.
But I can try tracking Harley if I have to, right?
I close my eyes and concentrate on smelling, on drawing in one scent out of the many in the area.
The bitter burn of chemicals from the cab’s exhaust fumes makes it next to impossible to smell much of anything else.
I think I catch a whiff of something delicious, something warm and sensuous that makes my semi-erect dick firm fully again, but then it’s gone and I open my eyes just in time to see Harley getting in the cab.
“Scoundrels,” I hear Harley say before closing the cab door.
The driver pulls away and I stare at the taillights stupidly for a few minutes until the car turns. The visual loss spurs me into doing my actual job.
I find the address for a club called Scoundrels on my phone, then call for a cab.
Belatedly, I glance at the clothes I have on and groan.
Dirty jeans and sweaty shirt, scuffed boots.
I slap at my pants, trying to knock off some of the grunge.
It’s not too bad, really, just moving dirt.
I haven’t been rolling in mud or anything, but I have been hot and sweaty, and yeah, I probably have that man-scent down too well.
Maybe I could have the driver stop at a gas station or somewhere so I could grab some deodorant—
No, I don’t need to bother. I’m not out cruising for cock. Hopefully my appearance discourages anyone from coming near me. I can’t imagine having to fight off horny men, not in the state I’m in now. All I need to do is keep an eye on Harley, that’s it.
I move over to the curb to wait for the taxi.
After a few minutes, my skin prickles with the creepy sensation of being watched. Every fine hair on my body is on alert. I silently curse my blindness on the left side. I can’t help but turn my head to look that way, which makes it obvious I’m looking.
And I can’t see a single suspicious thing.
I growl softly then promptly bite the sound off. If someone’s following Harley, it has to be another shifter, and one with senses that aren’t fucked up all to hell and back like mine are. Every sound I make, everything I feel if I don’t control myself, can roll off me in scents of anger and fear.
I put my best acting effort forward and sigh heartily. I rub at my left eye, lifting the patch and actually relishing the cool air on my skin there. I look left, right, left again, making it obvious, then check the time on my phone and tap one foot.
Maybe I’m overacting, but I’m still being watched, I’d bet everything I’ve ever owned on it.
I use my restlessness and irritation over my own limitations, conveying, I hope, impatience at the length of the wait for my ride. Whoever’s watching me never moves on, not even when the taxi finally pulls up.
I get in and quickly scan the dark area where I felt my watcher hiding, off to the front left of the vehicle. The headlights cast away some of the shadows, but I see no one lingering. Whoever it is most likely ran when the cab showed up, knowing the lights would expose them.
“Where to?” the driver asks.
I lean back in the seat and rub my thigh as I give the address. I hope whoever was out there isn’t from my pack. Maybe, if they aren’t, they won’t have caught on to who or what I am.
It’s the only bit of hope I can dredge up right then.