“You’re not talking,” the man continued. “Strong, silent type. I get that, but you’re going to have to talk to me sooner or later.” God, the image of an overeager puppy wouldn’t go away. He reminded Bruce of Josh on Christmas morning, when the kid had been hopped up on sugar and excitement.
And because that image was so strong, Bruce reacted as he always had with his little brother—he wrapped his arm around the guy’s neck and put him on the floor. Not because he didn’t like happy people, but because in his home, bouncy, excited puppies got kicked. “You need to calm the fuck down.”
He expected a struggle. Josh had always squirmed and twisted while Bruce slowly, inevitably pressed him into the floor. There were usually obscenities and sometimes tears, but this guy was too perky for that. Sure, he squirmed, but he was no match for Bruce’s skill. And he never stopped talking.
“Oh! Oh! I know that voice. That’s the ‘you need coffee’ voice. I bet you like thick-as-tar coffee with like eight teaspoons of sugar.”
“You are really freaking annoying, you know that?”
He snorted. “You think you’re the first person to tell me that?” Then he pushed on Bruce’s arm. “Come on. Let me up. It would be undignified if I was found like this, with my ass waving in the wind.”
Yes, it was, though it was a very cute ass. Bruce eventually let him go; then he smiled as the man scrambled to his feet and tugged down his shirt as if he was trying to cover the important bits. He didn’t.
“Have you gotten over your grumpy mood?” the man asked as he walked over to a nearby car. “I’m really sorry about the shock collar. I had no idea it would do that to you. But I had to, you know?”
Bruce felt his humor fade. How many times had he heard that pathetic excuse? It was what his father had always said after a particularly brutal “training” session.
Sorry about punching you, Bruce, but you have to learn how to take it and keep fighting.
Sorry your ankle’s too jacked up for football, but I’m teaching you how to keep going, even when you’re hurt.
Sorry I turned you into a bastard to your only brother, but I thought he was a monster.
That was the hell of it. Bruce was only now realizing that his father somehow knew Josh was a werewolf. He kept calling Josh a monster, and then he taught Bruce to keep Josh meek. It had taken moving away from home—and years of self-reflection—for Bruce to realize that it had been his father who was the monster, and Josh the innocent victim.
Until Bruce discovered that Josh was a werewolf. Now he didn’t know what to think.
“Who the hell are you?” he said, his voice low and threatening.
The guy looked up from the trunk of the car. “Still grumpy, huh? Okay, I can work with that.” He popped it open without breaking eye contact. “My name’s Laddin. That’s short for Aladdin ’cause my grandmama said I was magical. I know it doesn’t make sense because Aladdin’s lamp was magical, not him, but whatever. Mom was hopped up on painkillers at the time.”
Bruce stared at him. “Do you ever shut up?”
Laddin blinked. “You asked me a question.” He leaned against the car bumper. “Look, I can take grouchiness, but you’re just being illogical.” Then he reached into the trunk and unzipped a bag. A moment later he’d pulled out sweatpants, which he tossed straight at Bruce’s face.
Bruce punched them aside with a swift stab of his fist, only belatedly realizing what they were.
Laddin watched him with an expressive eye roll. “They’re clothes, Bruce. So you don’t have to stand here in your birthday suit.” Then he reached inside and pulled out another pair and yanked them on with swift movements. “And in case you’re wondering, my ass is bare because you bit through my jeans and had me spurting arterial blood everywhere.”
Bruce’s breath caught at that, but he had only the vaguest memory of what had happened more than five minutes ago. It was fuzzy, confusing, and he didn’t like thinking about it. And he really didn’t like the idea that he’d bitten through this guy’s leg, whoever the hell he was. To cover his confusion, he grabbed the sweatpants and tried to pull them on with his usual efficiency.
The moment he bent down, his head started to spin. And though he grabbed on to the sweatpants with a solid grip, that did nothing to keep him upright. He stumbled for balance. He knew this feeling—he was a firefighter and a paramedic, for God’s sake. He should have recognized the symptoms of low blood sugar and dehydration long ago. But no, here he was, about to faint and hurl at the same time.
“I got ya, big guy. Come over here and sit down.”
For such a small guy, Laddin had strong arms. And though it was humiliating, Bruce had seen too many macho men take a header, so he allowed Laddin to guide him over to an old blanket draped across a straw bale. He half sat, half collapsed, down. And when a barn cat hissed at him and dashed off, he barely had the strength to give it an annoyed glare.
“Don’t be like that,” Laddin said, and it took Bruce a moment to realize he was talking to the cat. “Drink this.”
Again, Bruce didn’t know who Laddin was talking to until a warm sports drink was shoved into his hand. When he stared at it, Laddin unscrewed the top and guided the bottle to his mouth.
“Drink,” Laddin ordered. “Shifting takes a lot of energy, and you were cooped up in the van for a long time.”
Not to mention the day Bruce had spent shadowing Josh, then taking a fairy-induced nap. He mentally scrolled
