Bad Wolf (Wild Men 4)

She blinks.

“You still work at that taco place down the street?” Ocean asks. “I thought you’d stopped.”

“Can’t do that, man. Need the money for the rent.”

“Isn’t Rafe helping you with that?”

“He is. He has helped me more than enough. I need to start taking care of myself now. I’m a big boy.”

I grin so widely my cheeks hurt, and I know Ocean isn’t fooled, but fuck him. I’m telling the truth. I feel shitty knowing Rafe is still paying for my rent, even if it’s not that much. Not to mention that the need to carry my own weight is eating at me. I need to be able to pay my rent on my own.

But that’s not the only reason I need more money.

“Rafe rocks,” Ocean mutters, and I nod in agreement. He does, and I’m grateful to him as I am to Zane who’s taken me as his apprentice. Can’t thank those guys enough.

Also can’t deny that moving out of the apartment I’m sharing with three other guys would be so fucking great.

Shit, I’m not ungrateful. My roomies aren’t bad guys, but there’s only so much testosterone that can live peacefully under one roof, and I need some quiet. Some place where I can wake up howling from a nightmare without waking everyone up, or jerk off in the shower without one or the other walking in on me.

Yeah, I jerk off a lot. Hey, I’m a horny boy, and I like getting off. Takes my mind off the crap that sits on my mind.

Can’t ignore the fact that I’ve been jacking off more often lately, especially now I have a certain prickly chick on my mind. Damn her curvy body and the heat in those angry blue eyes. Makes me hot as hell, which just goes to show. My body wants her, even if my brain knows I can’t have her. She hates me, and even if I don’t know why, it hurts.

The more it hurts, the more my dick stiffens when I think of her and the more I want to crack that shell of hers.

Yeah, I’m a fucked-up son of a bitch.

As I turn around, taking the tray back to the bar and grabbing my next order, I wonder how long it will take until this nice group of people who do their best to like me realize the truth and run away, just like everyone else in my life.

Zane shows up at the taco joint where I work, his spunky girlfriend Dakota in tow, soon followed by Dylan and his supermodel-lookalike chick, Tessa.

I didn’t expect to see them. They used to come by before Megan got me the job at the café. I guess someone must have spilled the beans to them about me keeping this job.

Zane is giving me one of those looks that say he wants us to talk, or rather he wants me to talk, and hell to the no. Besides, there’s nothing to talk about. Everything’s cool.

Too cool to be true, in fact.

Yet, as I look at them standing there, talking and laughing while ordering their street tacos and tortilla soups, I allow myself, just for a moment, to believe things will remain this way, that this illusion of stability and peace won’t shatter into a million pieces come tomorrow. That I won’t fuck it up.

Yeah, right.

Automatically I reach for my leather band, to rub it as my ritual goes, but of course it’s not there.

Lost it. The one thing I have from her. From Helen. So instead I put my hand on my right pec, over my demon tat.

I know I promised to try, Helen, and I am giving it my best shot, I swear.

“How’s everything, fucker?” Zane drawls. Figures he wouldn’t waste any time asking. “Your roommates? I see you haven’t killed each other yet.”

“Then that’s all you need to know,” I tell him cheerfully and turn to the next customers—an old man with a pretty girl who has to be his daughter. “What can I get you?”

They order their burritos and drinks, and I pass the info to Mel at the back, who’s whistling a Metallica song completely out of tune. The pan sizzles with chilies and onion. Damn, it smells good.

“That all?” Mel growls and throws the meat into the pan. “Not much traffic tonight, is there?”

“Nope,” I agree and try to memorize what he’s doing. I wish I could cook up something like that, but the kitchen at the apartment is like a war zone, full of minefields.

Not that I know the first thing about cooking. I don’t even remember setting foot inside a kitchen up to a year ago, unless it was to nick something to eat and leave before I get caught. My efforts to create something edible have most times backfired, quite literally.