Chapter 8

EIGHT

Asha

This diner is a rundown waystation for truckers and other less discerning travelers to fill their bellies without worry of judgment. It belongs to the men and women of the road, a restaurant at the edge of the world, living in the margin, outside society’s reach. So why do I feel so comfortable here? I guess I’m becoming one of their kind, falling through the cracks into a demimonde of misfits, alike only in their distaste of the norm.

The wafting scent of grease and sizzling meat patties cuts my philosophizing short. My stomach grumbles and I realize how hungry I actually am. Ravenous, as it turns out.

Our talented server arrives with a half dozen plates balancing on her arms, and still manages to place each before us without spilling so much as a single fry. “Enjoy,” she says flatly, before flashing a smile at the other side of the table, one to share between Orson and Braxton.

Max and I both take notice, sharing a moment of mutual eye-rolling before we dig in. I mean, I know the waitress is only looking at them because Max radiates a leave me the fuck alone air, one of the few things we have in common, but I don't think Max is the least bit worried about his sexual prowess.

Even if her ogling the guys irritates me a little.

We tear into the meal with the ferocity of our inner wolves, but none as much as Orson. He’s shoveling his country-fried steak and mashed potatoes into his mouth like it’ll run away if he gives it the chance. I pause to watch and after a few seconds of my fascinated observation, he catches my eye.

His cheeks redden, and he smiles back at me. “When you’re in prison, you learn to eat quickly.”

“Prison?” I repeat, unsure I got that right. The Blackwell brothers shift uncomfortably in the booths, eliciting awkward squeaks from the ancient vinyl upholstery.

Orson, on the other hand, seems unabashed by his past. “Yeah, I did some hard time. The experience leaves its mark on you. Indelible, it seems.”

Perhaps propriety would dictate I not ask the question at the forefront of my thoughts, but instead it slips right off the tongue. “What’d you go to prison for?”

Without missing a beat, he replies, “Murder.”

Logical. “That would do it.”

I guess I should be scandalized, but after everything I’ve seen and the company I keep, I’m just not, really. Instead, what shocks me is the excuse my mind immediately makes for Orson. As I look back at him, I think to myself: he had his reasons. Without knowing the context, nor any of the details for that matter, I make the split-second judgment in his favor. Orson exudes an ingenuous aura, more like a golden retriever than the one hunkered down under the table.

That scares me.

My defenses soften in his presence, but I have to keep my guard up. This world is unforgiving of my kind and any weakness might pave the way for ruin. I already fear how close I’ve gotten with Max and Braxton, but I feel I know them. Even if I can’t trust them one hundred percent, I can trust them to be themselves. Orson remains a mystery, perhaps deceptively forthcoming. I can't tell if he’s completely honest or if honesty belies his true motives.

Even though I haven't sorted my thoughts, I feel like the whole table is waiting for my response, so I just answer without being sure what I'll say. “I know the Enforcers have a lot of murderers among their ranks, but I find it hard to believe they’d trust one that killed pro bono.” Murderers like Grim and the rest of his team.

He chuckles, which could be read as either congenial or sinister. I leave that question unanswered and ask another, “What do they want with you, Orson?”

“I’m good with tech.”

Weird. I can't see how that will help us.

But I don't say that. “Some kind of computer whiz?”

He smiles. It’s disarming. Alarmingly disarming. “Yeah, something like that.”

And now I can't imagine this guy behind a screen. Nothing about him, actually, makes sense.

“Huh.”

“What?” he asks, studying me.

I hadn't realized I'd said anything aloud until he responded, but now I have to explain myself. Fun.

I shake my head. “I just wouldn’t have expected that.”

“What did you expect?” he asks sweetly.

I smile back at him and answer honestly. “With you, Orson, I’m beginning to expect the unexpected.”

“Well, I hope that doesn’t continue to be the case. I’d prefer to be reliable.”

“Oh, you’ll be reliable,” mutters Braxton. “Or you’ll be pulling that orange jumpsuit out of the closet again.”

“Actually, an inmate only wears orange during intake. Once they’re classified, they usually receive a tan outfit with a white undershirt.” He scarfs his last bite. “And I don’t have a closet. Just the bag and computer.” He laughs. “And actually neither of those, either. Everything’s on loan from the Enforcers.”

“You should be grateful,” Braxton mumbles under his breath.

“Braxton,” Max chides, followed by a sigh.

He rubs at his chest, a shadow of pain making his skin paler. I reach out and almost place my hand on his chest. Our eyes lock, and I pull away confused and embarrassed by my actions.

But also upset at myself because I hadn't thought about what he went through as much as I should have.

He was the one attacked by my brother and injured. I was the one who slept while he handled everything. Max is… something else.

A pang of guilt rings through my heart.

“No, it’s true,” says Orson, after a moment of silence. “You plucked me out of hell and gave me a new shot at life. I am very grateful.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Max says, a little flustered, and he's rarely flustered.

“Regardless, you’re as much a target of my gratitude as the faceless high command.”

I pull my focus and guilt from Max, and concentrate on the new man. This conversation is simpler, and the feelings around it far less charged. This, I can do.

“And they brought you on because you’re… good with computers?” I clarify.

He slurps from his coffee, then settles the mug back down on the table. “Yep.”

Time to just say it. “How will that help the team?”

To my surprise, he winks. “You’ll see. What about you? Forgive me, but you’re not like any of the Enforcers I’ve met. Though that’s an admittedly limited pool.”

I frown. “Because I’m a woman?”

He furrows his brow and shakes his head. “Because you’ve got spunk. And wit. And something gleams in your eye. I’m not sure what it is, hope, optimism, life, but it’s missing from everyone else.”

“You’re saying I don’t have a gleam, Orson?” Max asks wryly.

Orson smiles. “Not like her. Every Enforcer I’ve come across seems, well, frankly, a little dead inside.”

Braxton glares at him, but Max laughs dryly. “You’re not wrong,” says Max.

Orson leans over the table and stares directly into my eyes. I’m mesmerized by his two-tone gaze as he asks, “So, what special skill do you offer the Enforcers?”

I fight against the impulse to open myself up to him, which is a strange and uncomfortable impulse. Opening myself up to people is usually something I avoid like the plague, but as I search myself, I sense a possible explanation for the unexpected desire. My wolf likes this stranger, and her feelings are weaving in with my own, confusing me. That’s something I’m going to have to figure out.

Severing eye contact, I lower my gaze to the empty plate before me. “I’m simply good at catching targets.”

“Members of the Blood Pack,” he clarifies.

“That’s right,” I confirm in a low voice.

“How many have you killed?”

My eyes flick back up to his, and anger bleeds into my tone. “Should I tattoo a tally on my arm like some thoughtless jughead?”

He cocks his head back, surprised at my response. “No!”

“Is that why you’re here? To become more prolific with your hobby?”

“Asha, I’m sorry, have I upset y?—”

I stand from the booth. “I’m done eating. I’ll wait for you all outside.”

Outside. With people not trying to murder everyone I love.

Stupid Enforcers.

I storm out of the diner, hoping none of them will be dumb enough to chase after me. If they do, I'll make them regret it. I need a minute alone to cool down. This rage came on fast and unexpectedly.

They compromise and send Trouble to watch over me, even though Braxton had been wildly excited when the diner let him come in with us. I hear his paws tapping against the floor as he rushes to catch up. When I open the door, he passes through it first, then turns back to watch me follow him. “Fine,” I say, and stomp off along the shoulder of the road.

After thirty seconds, my pace slows and my anger abates, and now I just feel kind of stupid for making a scene. Stopping, I turn around and look back at the diner. Through its dusty windows, I see them, Max, Braxton, and Orson, chatting amongst themselves. They’re probably explaining to Orson right now what I am. The maligned shifter-sanguivore, leashed for the purposes of eliminating the rabid threat of her kind. A woman who would soon feed on him like a blood smoothie, using him to strengthen my powers before fights.

I watch Orson’s face closely, but can’t make heads nor tails of his responses.

He was going to find out sooner or later. I shouldn’t have stormed out like that. I should be the one explaining everything to him. Why did I blow up like that?

Trouble nudges his snout against my leg, and I grudgingly offer him pets. I suppose my footing is a little unsure now within the team dynamic. Since fucking the brothers, I feel vulnerable, and I lash out when I feel vulnerable. The world has trained that response into me.

Trouble yaps, then growls. I look down at Braxton’s pet and see his hackles raised. “What’s up your ass?” He starts for the diner. “Alright, alright, let’s go back.”

I follow after him, but suddenly feel unnerved by a sensation like eyes on my back. Except, when I turn around, I don’t see anyone, only the desert sprawl dressed in half-light. Still, the feeling persists. Simon? Could he be out there, stalking us?

Or could it be something worse?