Hunger Chronicles (Book 1): Life Bites (30 page)

The water is finally boiling when the microwave dings. He gives the macaroni a stir and then checks the hotdogs which go around for another molecule bounce. Another stir, the microwave dings. He pulls the plate out and starts slicing. Next is draining the elbows and prepping them with the cheese mixture. No butter. No milk. But he doesn’t seem to care and adds just enough water to get the lumps out.

And then it’s done and he has a mountain-sized plate of mac and cheese and chopped up hot dog. He settles on a stool behind the bar-height counter and takes a big sniff.

“Ah, home sweet home.”

“Hot dogs and mac and cheese remind you of home?” I settle onto the third stool.

“It’s the ghetto diet, baby.” He scoops up a spoonful, shoveling it in. His eyes close as if he’s in bliss. “Ah. Still as bad as I remember it.”

“Then why didn’t you pick the lasagna?”

“Good question.” His mouth twitches up, but there is something about it that seems false or maybe that’s my newly acquired John radar that senses a correspondent drop in his mood level. Immediately I want to take my words back.

“Sorry, it doesn’t matter. If you like mac and cheese, who am I to question it?”

“So it’s not the hot dogs you object to?” he asks around a mouthful of processed meat by-product. I almost envy him the joy he seems to have in the simple meal. Except, of course, he’s right; I’ve never liked hot dogs. Even before I decided to become a vegetarian. And then when I found out what was in them? Nope, no way I could tough ‘em out again.

“I never understood the appeal of hot dogs and mac n cheese,” I say.

“Not much that appeals, other than it is cheap, easy to prepare and filling.”

I tilt my head, studying him. I realize I know nothing about John and his before. Sure I know he was training to be part of one of the most elite group of soldiers in the United States Navy and that gives me some insight into the kind of guy he used to be, which is not too different from the guy he is now, but I know nothing of his before, before.

“Where was home?” I ask.

His chewing slows, as if the hot dog has turned into rubber in his mouth.

“Sorry, I’m prying aren’t I?”

“It’s okay,” he mumbles around another mouthful. “You’re my teammate. Which makes you pack. And pack should always know where each other’s roots are anchored.”

I wait, not wanting to push. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the teammate thing, let alone the pack thing.

“I was born in New York. My mom was a stage actress, or at least she wanted to be. Two off-Broadway plays where she said all of two lines, and an unexpected present from the director later—that would be me—and she couldn’t even get those two-bit parts. We scraped by on welfare for a few years, living in a neighborhood that is pleasantly described as “rough” on a good day. But she never was able to break back onto the stage. So we headed out to L.A. Guess she got it into her head that she would do better on film than on the stage. She did, if you count being the star of an adult film as better.”

“John,” I lay my hand on his arm, as if I could draw the hurt I feel in his voice out through the touch, “you don’t have to tell me anymore.”

He looks down at his plate where he’d been playing with his food rather than eating. Carefully he sets the spoon down. “Not much more to tell. I had a whore of a mom, no dad, and a steady stream of ‘uncles.’ Finally I got sick of it and ran off. Lucky for me, I landed on the door of a high school friend whose dad happened to be in the navy. I’m not going to say he was the father I never had, but he had a real impact. As soon as I was old enough, I enlisted. Basic training sucked, of course, but once I was out and doing something?” He raises his head, meeting my gaze. “Let’s just say I found my first true love.”

“So you were eighteen when you enlisted?”

“Seventeen. Mom was all too eager to sign me away.”

“How long before you became a SEAL?”

“I never became a SEAL, remember? I was only in training.”

I glare at him, not appreciating how he’s downplaying all he’s accomplished.

“I went into BUDS the day I turned nineteen.”

I look him over, studying the stubble on his chin, the hard planes of his jaw. There are no wrinkles and he’s amazingly free of scars, but, “You seem older.”

He shrugs. “I think it’s the werewolf thing.”

Or maybe the hard childhood. I don’t say this though. Just because he shared his past doesn’t mean he wants to dwell on it.

John stands abruptly and moves around the counter to the sink. He dumps his plates in and then turns back to me. “We should see if this place has a basement. Or at least a room with some good light-blocking shades.”

I blink and look over at the large picture window. It faces south so there is no sun peeking over the horizon, but there is a distinct lightening of the sky.

“I’ll look on the backside of the house if you take the front.” I slide off the stool.

We go our separate ways. I find myself in the bedroom area. A master and two kids. It looks like the place was ransacked. Drawers ajar, hangers strewn in a trail from closet to beds. It’s obvious the house’s previous occupants gathered what they could and fled. In the girl’s room I find a frilly lace coverlet, a dresser topped with makeup, a stack of CDs, and a single picture on her nightstand. I find myself tracing my finger over the silver frame that holds a smiling boy of about seventeen. Boyfriend, I’m guessing. I wonder if he went with them. I wonder if they made it.

“Eva?”

I drop the picture, spin around. John is standing in the door, studying me intently. I pointedly don’t look back at the photo as I cross the room.

“Find anything?” I gesture behind me. “All these rooms have sheer curtains.”

“I found a family room. It has a couch and a nice cushy rug and best of all, no windows.”

“Sounds perfect.”

He holds his hand out to me. I hesitate but then slip my hand into his. Almost immediately, the high-strung tension that seems to constantly vibrate around him eases.

Must be a werewolf thing; the simple desire for physical contact. A brush of bodies here, a quick touch of the hand there. Ever since the revelation in the cave, he’s been unabashed with these little touches. I’d been trying to avoid them, but now that I’ve eaten and am not thinking of lunging for his neck anymore, I don’t see the harm in giving him this.

Hand clasped firmly in his, he leads me to a room deep in the interior of the house. The family room is as cozy as the name suggests. Here too, pictures cover the cozy terracotta walls, and the off-white couch and armchair are cushy affairs with fluffy Afghans draped over the back. Flanking the couch is a recliner complete with a weighted moose that holds TV remotes in it. The flat screen TV that fills the back of the room won’t get any stations, of course, but it fits and makes the place seem even more homey.

“Pick your spot and take a load off,” he says, releasing my hand.

I walk to the couch, test the cushions. Very soft. Like cradle me in clouds soft. I’m so used to sleeping on the ground, I’m not sure I can deal with that kind of comfort. I move over and sit on the plush area rug instead.

“You don’t have a problem with a little bit of fire do you?”

I jerk my head up, alarmed. Fire? Inside the house? Is he crazy?

There is a strike and flame dances to light upon the match in his hand. He dips it into the opening of a glass jar, lighting the wick. The sicky, sweet scent of grocery store vanilla candle immediately permeates the room. He waves the match out, setting it carefully on the candle lid.

“There. That’s better. An overhead light just seems too bright for pre-sleeping.” He smiles, lowering himself down next to me on the rug.

I nod wordlessly. The way the small flame dances, casting light and shadow around the room has just turned this cozy family area into, well, something else.

Heat rises into my cheeks and I have to look away. My imagination is definitely running a one-sided race. He’s being considerate of my sensitive eyes by not bathing the room in fluorescent lighting. Heck, it’s probably for his own sake. I’m sure his senses are as keen as mine regarding light levels.

“There is a question I’ve been meaning to ask you,” John says, stretching out on his side upon the floor, head on hand, elbow bent, so he’s looking up at me.

“Oh? What’s that?” That was brilliant. And totally makes me feel like the tongue-tied class nerd of before.

“When we win this thing, and there are no zombies left, what are you going to do?”

I know what he’s asking. Not what am I going to do, do, but what, or rather whom, am I going to feed off of.

I shift, drawing my knees to my chest and resting my chin on them. I tilt my head as if considering. “Well, since the world hopefully won’t need zombie killers anymore, I’m thinking of a career change. Maybe something with the Red Cross. What do you think?”

His brow wings up, then the outside of his lips follow. He laughs, teeth flashing in the candlelight as he shakes his head. This one is a real smile. One that dimples the cheeks and reaches the eyes. It’s a really nice smile, what I don’t understand is why it’s set off my fight or flight reflexes.

He pats the rug in front of him. “Lay down, Eva. Relax.”

I stare down at the soft rug, the slim few inches of space between us. If I want to lie down on the rug and keep any amount of space between us, either he has to move, or I do. I don’t want to set off those doggy anxiety sensors though, so… “I’m fine sitting for now.”

His eyes twinkle. “Am I making you nervous, Eva?”

“What? No.” Thou doth protest too much. Crap, I am so not good at this sort of thing. Which brings to question, what sort of thing? Yeah, he’s obviously messing with me, but like the touchy feely bit, it’s just as likely a wolfy-pack thing as a come-on. He probably doesn’t get how awkward this all is for me.

I decide to follow one of my dad’s favorite adages: Honestly is the best policy. I clear my throat, revising my statement. “I mean, yeah, you do.”

“Why?”

I glare at him, wishing I could take my Sheriff knife and skewer him on it. I take it back, he gets it. Jerk is enjoying watching me squirm.

“You know why, because of this.” I wave at the scant bit of space between us.

He tips his head, his tongue tucked into his cheek thoughtfully. Then he shifts back, a whole six inches. “Better?”

I can’t help it, he’s made me smile. “Yes, thank you.”

He rolls onto his back, lacing his hands behind his head, eyes closed. I find my gaze trailing over his body before I even know what I’m doing and have to remind myself to keep my focus on his face.

“So, valedictorian.”

“In the running for valedictorian,” I correct automatically.

“Whatever,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “The pixie cut. Was that before or after you were changed?”

I absently touch my hair. It’s grown out enough that it’s no longer spiky. “After…”

“I bet you were pretty with long hair.”

“And I’m not pretty now?”

He opens his eyes, looking up into mine. “You’re beautiful now.”

I scoff. “Whatever.”

“You don’t think you’re pretty?”

I narrow my eyes, trying to read what’s going on in his head behind his chocolate-brown eyes. I’m not sure what he’s leading up to. Just that he is. I think of not answering anymore of his questions, but then I remember his admissions at the dinner table. “Pack, huh?”

“Pack.”

I lay down on my stomach, cradling my head on my hands. I take a deep breath. “No. I don’t think I’m pretty. Cute, maybe. But not pretty, and certainly not beautiful. Those adjectives are for… well… girls that don’t look about twelve.”

“You don’t look twelve.”

“OK, fourteen.”

He shakes his head but doesn’t correct me this time. The silence stretches out. I think perhaps he’s fallen asleep. His eyes are closed again, his breathing even. And then all of a sudden he speaks. “Ever have a boyfriend?”

“A couple,” I hedge.

“Didn’t either of them ever tell you that you’re beautiful?”

“Yes. One.” Raoul. I was his dash of sunlight in a winter sky. His wild rose in a field of briars. Kyle just played the “you’re so sweet. So different from anyone else I’ve dated” card.

John opens his eyes, his brow creased in confusion. “So why didn’t you believe him?”

“He was a liar. A charming, good for nothing, snake.”

“He hurt you bad, didn’t he?”

“You could say that.”

“How? And why did you let him?”

“Because he was a god, and I was, well, me.”

His eyes narrow on me. “You’re going to have to explain that one to me.”

“What’s to explain? Here I am,” I roll on my side, gesture down my body. “And there
he
was… hitting on me.”

“Why does that surprise you so much?”

“Have you looked at me?”

He rolls to his side, propped on his elbow.. Then with great care he drags his gaze over my body, down, then up again.

Heat floods my cheeks and I look away. “Stop.”

“Why? I like your body.”

I snort.

“It’s true. You’re small and lean, but these curves you have?” He leans forward, his hand riding up past my hip and along my side, upward. “Just right.”

“You’re blind.” I flop back onto my stomach, studying the carpet fibers. .

He slaps me on the butt, sitting back. “Stop insulting my girl like that.”

“Your girl?” My voice is high and shrill. And why shouldn’t it be? The jerk slapped my ass and as much as called me his property? And… and… what the hell is going on here?

He cocks his head to the side. “My woman?”

“What are you talking about?” I push up so that I’m sitting, giving him the evil eye. “Since when am I anything more than your teammate?”

He blinks at me, then with all seriousness says, “Since I kissed you.”

I shake my head, completely dumbfounded. “You’ve never kissed me.”

“Sure I did. Remember that first night we cuddled up real close and fell asleep together?”

“We’ve never slept together,” I inform him, curling my fingers around the word slept.

“No, we cuddled, then we slept. As in sleep snore, snore.”