Luna
Warrick barely says a word to me after we leave Paradise Acres. He drives me to something called a drive-through and buys me food he says is fast. The burger tastes okay, but the meat would be better if it wasn’t cooked. The best part is a chocolate milkshake, which is unlike anything I’ve ever had in the swamp, that’s for sure.
After we eat, Warrick tosses all the paper wrappers and the waxy cups in a bin and heads for his motorcycle. I follow obediently and climb on behind him, careful to keep my hands to myself, unless he careens around a turn, laying the bike on edge. Then, I grab on.
When he first started driving, it scared me, but once I realized it was just like running as a wolf but faster and louder, exhilaration poured through me. On the way home, I keep my exuberance to myself, though, since Warrick seems to be in one of his grumpy moods. When Mama got like that, it was best to shut my trap and let her come out of it herself.
When we get back to their house, he jerks his head and says, “Get your shit out of my saddlebags.”
I climb down and unbuckle the shiny clasps on the black leather bag. After pulling the bags from the store free, I give him a big smile, hoping to cheer him up. I want him to feel as happy as I do right now.
“Thank you,” I say. “I had a great time.”
“Welcome,” he grumbles. “Tell the boys I’m off to hunt.” I perk up at that. I haven’t hunted since I left the swamp.
“Want company?” I ask, but the question is drowned by the roar of his bike, and then he’s gone in a cloud of dust.
Whatever Callan was cooking, I’m glad I wasn’t around for it, because it doesn’t smell too good in the house. I can barely breathe over the chemical scent. The noise of the washing machine running echoes from the back room. Callan is on his knees, scrubbing the floor, which consists of big squares in black and white. A blue bucket full of water sits by his side, green plastic hand-shaped things cover his hands, and pinkish water pools around his knees.
He pauses when I enter, sitting up and dipping his scrubbing brush into the water. “Like my gloves?” he says, lifting the brush and wiggling the fingers of his free hand at me.
“Is that what those are?”
“Don’t want to get dishpan hands,” he says with a smile.
My brow furrows, and I ask the question I’ve said a hundred times a day since I arrived. “What is that?”
“When your skin gets all wrinkly from being in the water too long,” he says. “How was your outing?”
I heft the bags in each hand. “We got a lot of stuff. What should I do with it?”
“Set it on the table. We’ll figure out where to put it a soon as I’m done here.” He gets back to cleaning, and I saunter over to the wooden table and drop the sacks on top. We’ve all been keeping the house a lot tidier than it was when I moved in, so there’s room on the table now. The wood is shiny and smells like lemons after Callan showed me how to polish it the other day. But the lemon smell is overpowered by the horrible scent permeating the room.
“What’s that awful smell?” I say, waving my hand in front of my nose.
“It sucks to have a sensitive wolf nose right about now,” Callan says. “This is bleach. It’s the only thing I could think of to get the bloodstains off the floor.”
“Is Ethan okay?” I ask, sitting my backside on one of the chairs.
“Other than a bad hangover, he’ll be fine by tomorrow.” Callan grabs a pink-stained towel and wipes the water and bleach from the floor.
Then, he hucks everything into the bucket and stands. “What’s a bad hangover?”
“That’s what happens when you drink too much booze.” “Beer is booze,” I say. “Ethan said it makes you happy.”
“Right,” Callan says. “But too much happiness from liquor can make you sick.”
A thumping noise comes from the back of the house, the one that Callan says happens when you put too many clothes in the washing machine at once. I made the mistake a few times in my first few days, when we were trying to get the house in order.
“Shit,” Callan says. “I’ve got to adjust the towels in the washer. I’ll go empty this bucket, fix the towels, and be right back, okay?”
When he’s gone, I fish out the purple hair color. I can’t wait to try it out.
Callan strides back into the kitchen and grins at me. “What do you think?” he says, sweeping his arm in front of him. “Good as new?”
“Looks great,” I say, returning the grin. I like being around someone who isn’t always an explosion in the making. “Even cleaner than before we left. But I’d rather smell blood than that bleach.”
“It’s pretty bad,” Callan says. “Want to go out on the porch while we look at your haul?”
He must see my blank expression because he gestures to the bags to let me know what he means. He grabs them off the table, and I follow him onto the porch, where we sit down on the wooden swing. Callan ducks inside and emerges with two beers, which he pops open with his lighter before handing me one and settling beside me.
“What’d you get?” he asks, crossing his ankle over his knee and sitting back with his beer. My eyes move over his relaxed posture, his muddy boots and dirty jeans, the sleeveless shirt that shows the bulging muscles of his arms, his skin wrapped with tattoos. A funny flutter presses down low in my belly, the way it did when I was on Warrick’s bike. I wish I could press the feel-good place between my legs against him, like I did against Warrick’s back.
“Well?” Callan says. “You going to show me or just stare at me all night?”
I tap my ragged nails on the arm of the swing and look away.
“Warrick’s pissed at me again.”
“Oh, pet, don’t take it personal,” he says. “He acts like a prick around most people. It’s just who he is.”
I nod, though it seems like that’s not a very happy way to live. I’ll have to think of something I can do to make him happier, especially after all they’ve done for me. I’ve already helped clean the house, but that’s only the
start. If they’re going to take such good care of me, I should take care of them, too.
Callan takes a swig of his beer, and his gaze lands on the hair color in my hands. “What’s that you got there?”
I let him take the box of hair color while I take a drink of the cold, bitter beer. At first, I didn’t like it much, but I’m starting to change my mind. It’s cool on the hot evenings, and it makes me feel like I belong when we all sit out here together with a bottle, even though I usually only have one while they each have four or five.
“That will make me look like her,” I say, leaning over Callan’s arm and pointing to the girl on the box. “Isn’t she pretty?”
“You want purple hair?” he asks, leaning back to peer down at my face.
“I’ve only ever had this color,” I say, picking up a lock of hair. “I
didn’t know you could choose different colors. I guess Mama chose this one for me and forgot to tell me I could change it. But I think I might like to try every color before I pick one.”
“Every color, huh,” Callan says, taking another swig of beer and handing back the box. He has that shine in his eyes like he might laugh soon.