He must’ve seen a flash of hurt on my face, because his gaze softens. “I think we can ask her about you being a shifter, and get you to your kin.”
Kin. I can’t even wrap my head around that.
The highway signs flash by. We’re approaching Phoenix.
“What about your pack?” I ask after a few minutes of silence.
“What about them?”
“I mean, they’re like your family, right?”
“Closer than family. Pack is blood. Blood is pack,” he recites.
“Right. Why not get them to help? You know with-” I motion to the bed of the truck, where the gunman is tied and gagged.
“I don’t need them to handle this.”
“But what about Garrett? Don’t you have to report to him or something?”
“Garrett’s busy. One of our pack mates is missing, and he’s searching for her. And no, I don’t need his permission. He’s the alpha, but he trusts me. I’m high enough in the pack, I only answer to him.”
“There’s a hierarchy.”
“Yep. The more dominant your animal, the higher you tend to get in the pack.”
“So where would I be in the pack?”
“At the bottom. You’re small and a weaker shifter.”
I slump a little.
“It’s not a bad thing. All packs need submissive wolves. They hold the pack together. Dominant wolves, we fight all the time, learn our place. That’s why roles in stable packs are strictly enforced. Otherwise we’d tear each other apart. Submissive wolves don’t pose that threat to dominant ones. We want to protect them.”
“Do you want to protect me?”
His jaw clenches, and he doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t have to-I already know. He feels like he has to protect me. But he doesn’t want to. My game of annoying him has been successful. I should be happy, right? This is a ploy I’ve used my whole life. Act weirder than they already think I am. Beat them to the punch of calling me freak. Own it.
Somehow it just makes me feel a little sick at the moment. What kind of woman does Tank prefer? I picture a tall, blonde she-wolf. I want to kill her. Maybe I’m not as submissive as he thinks.
I fall silent, mostly to give him a break.
As we push through Phoenix, Garrett follows the signs to get on I-17 north to Flagstaff. He clears his throat. “In a few hours we’ll be in Flagstaff. Where does your mother live?”
“Um…”
He nods to the GPS. “Plug in the address.”
“That’s the thing.” I wrinkle my nose. “She moves around a lot.”
“Where’s her house?”
“She doesn’t have one. After I moved out, she downsized to an Airstream trailer. You know,” I hasten to explain when Tank looks blank. “Those silver travel trailers that people use to go camping cross country-”
“I know what an Airstream is. You’re telling me your mother lives in one, year round?”
“Mmhmm.”
“What does she do for work?”
“She’s an artist, mostly.”
Tank heaves a heavy sigh.
“I’ll put in her last known parking place. She should be somewhere around Flagstaff. Sometimes she parks near the Grand Canyon to sell to tourists there.”
“On a designated camping ground?”
“Uh, sure,” I say in a tone that means probably not.
Another sigh.
“What are you going to do with this guy?” I hitch a thumb behind me, indicating the truck bed and incapacitated thug.
“Going to question him.”
“He’s been out a while. Maybe you hit him too hard.”
“He’s fine.”
Tank pulls out his phone.
A gruff male voice answers.
“Tank here. Do we still have the safe house in New River?
“Thanks. I’m using it for the next two hours. I’ll explain later.” He hangs up, and, for the next few miles, he looks so grim I don’t dare ask him anything. I hope he’s not in trouble with his pack.
Thirty minutes out of Phoenix, something in the truck bed goes thump. And keeps thumping.
“Uh oh,” I say as Tank swears. “I think the mafia man woke up.”
“Too soon. Didn’t dose him enough.”
“Dose him?”
“Hang on.” The hammering continues as Tank takes the exit.
“This was a damned stupid idea,” he mutters.
I curl up on the seat. “Where are we taking him?”
“A safe house. Private.”
We’re certainly in the middle of nowhere.
The banging has stopped. For now. “Did you really expect him to stay unconscious this whole time?”
“I dosed him.”
“Dosed him?”
“Tranquilizer.”
My eyebrows crawl up to my hairline. “You carry that stuff?”
“Yeah.” He glances behind my seat where his black bag lives, full of duct tape and heavy sedatives. “Werewolves aren’t always in control. Sometimes their wolf… goes funny.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. So we take precautions.”
“Have you… dosed anyone before?”
“Yeah.” He looks uncomfortable.
“Not just wolves,” I guess. “Humans?”
“The world can’t know about us.”
I lick my lips. “Tank? Are you going to tell your pack about me?”
“Yeah. My alpha’s out of town, but eventually I will report to him. I’ll have to. He’ll smell you on me and will want to know what happened.”
“What will he do? Will he let me into the gang?”
“There’s no gang. Just the pack.”
“And?”
“Foxfire, I don’t know. You’re not a wolf, baby. To come into a pack, you need a sponsor. Someone to vouch for you. Otherwise, you’re suspicious. A shy shifter like you-
“I’m not shy.”
“Your fox is shy,” he clarifies. “Shifters have rank in a pack. A new shifter has no rank. That means they’re fair game for dominance attacks.” He cuts a glance to me. “I’ll explain more later.”
“Okay. But, if you tell the alpha about me… couldn’t you be my sponsor?”
His fingers drum the wheel. “Maybe.”