Carl. Carl, that bastard. Took him long enough to figure out I was in trouble. And he called himself an alpha.
“That’s fine. Take as long as you like. Carl can wait.”
Chapter 6
The cops kept me for two hours. They were nice. Very polite. Hardin put me in a bland holding room with off-white carpet and walls and plastic chairs, got me coffee, and patted me kindly on the shoulder. Most of the others gave me a wide berth, staring at me as I walked past. Rumor traveled quickly. The whispers started as soon as we arrived at the station. That’s her. The werewolf. Yeah, right.
Hardin didn’t seem to notice.
I gave her my rundown of what had happened. Just a formality—we recorded the whole show. It was all there on tape. But Hardin kept me around, trying to talk sense into me.
“You sure you don’t want to press charges? We can pin felony stalking on this guy. Criminal mischief, attempted murder—”
I’d made a deal with Cormac. I’d stick by it, and despite everything I trusted him to stick by it, too. I’d been so used to running under the law’s radar—we made our own rules, us and people like Cormac. But if I told Hardin, “We take care of our own,” she probably wouldn’t appreciate it.
Ouch. What was I thinking? Cormac probably belonged in jail.
“Don’t tell me this really was just a publicity stunt,” she
said finally. If possible, her frown grew even more irate.
“No.” It might turn out that way. I might have to thank Cormac. “I think I just want to go home, if that’s okay.” I tried to smile like a demure little victim.
“It’ll be a lot easier to prosecute this guy with your cooperation. I can hold him overnight, but not any longer than that without pressing charges.”
“No one got hurt. It’s okay, really.”
She put her hand on the table next to me and leaned close. “Attitudes like that get girls like you killed.”
I blinked, cringing back. She straightened and marched out of the room. I got to leave ten minutes later.
Outside the door of the police station, Carl and T.J. were waiting for me. T.J. put his arm around me; Carl took firm hold of my elbow.
I thought I would have argued with them. I thought I would have gotten huffy and shrugged away, asserting my independence. Instead, I nearly collapsed.
I leaned against T.J., hugging him tight and speaking into his shoulder in a wavering voice, “I want to go home.” Carl stayed close, his body like a shield at my back, and kept watch. He guided us to his truck, and they took me home.
They just held me, and that was enough. I didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t want to be independent. I could say to Carl, “Take care of me,” and he would. Part of me wanted nothing more than to curl up at his feet and feel protected. That was the Wolf talking.
I had a studio apartment, decent if small, with a kitchen on one side, a bathroom on the other, and everything else in the middle. I usually didn’t bother turning the futon back into a sofa.
T.J. sat on the futon, his back to the wall, and I curled up on his lap like a puppy. Carl stalked back and forth between the apartment’s window and door. He was convinced someone was going to come after me—Cormac wanting to finish the job; some other bozo who had it in for me on principle. I barely noticed—if T.J. was here, I didn’t have to worry.
“What am I going to do?” I sighed. “They’re going to can me. It’s all going to blow up. God, it’s going to be all over the Enquirer.”
“You might make Newsweek with this one, babe,” T.J. said, patting my shoulder.
I groaned.
The phone rang. Carl nearly hit the ceiling before springing for the bedside phone. I got to it first. “Hello?”
“Kitty. It’s your mother. Are—are you okay?”
I had almost forgotten. How could I have forgotten? I was only beginning to deal with this.
I should have called her first.
“Hi, Mom.”