How to Run with a Naked Werewolf (Naked Werewolf 3)

Story of my life.

Caleb was resting his forehead on the steering wheel when I opened the truck door. I climbed into my seat, and there was a long, awkward silence after I buckled my seatbelt. I could only look around the newly neat interior. Who knew that the floorboards were maroon? I was contemplating whether I could get away with buying one of those little plug-in air fresheners at the next rest stop when Caleb finally raised his dark head, his features completely wooden as he deadpanned, “â??‘If you wait a minute, I’ll show you my boobs’?”

I shrugged. “It worked.”

The tiniest hint of a smile quirked his lips, but he schooled his features into a more serious expression. He pulled the truck out of the mostly deserted motel parking lot and onto the quiet street. He grumbled, “I told you to stay at the motel.”

“Funny thing. It turns out that I have free will and won’t just stay put when you tell me to heel,” I said, throwing my hands into an exaggerated helpless posture.

He frowned at me and slid his phone out of his pocket to make arrangements for Jerry’s transfer.

Jerry was silent for most of the ride, because, well, he was unconscious.

As we drove, Caleb called his clients and made arrangements to drop Jerry at a small bush-pilot operation about three hundred miles away. Caleb’s clients, who remained unnamed for reasons I didn’t question, would be waiting at the hangar there for us. I chose not to think about what would happen to Jerry once they had him. But given what I’d read in his file—which I had filched from Caleb and read with a pen light while we waited—Jerry wasn’t a terribly nice person, with a history of petty and not-so-petty larceny, grand theft auto, and assault. Torn by my strange connection to Caleb and my feelings of solidarity for another “runner,” I didn’t feel good about the part I’d played in Jerry’s capture. I’d acted out of instinct, wanting to help Caleb, to stay in his good graces. But now, the farther we drove, the more I wanted to yell for Caleb to stop the truck and let Jerry out. Or maybe just let me out.

When he finally woke up, Jerry wailed and cursed and grunted for the rest of the drive. I thought Caleb would do the Dog the Bounty Hunter thing and lecture Jerry about the bad choices that had led him here. But all he said was “You do something this stupid again, you know they’re going to have me right back at your door.”

Note to self: Stop making comparisons between Dog the Bounty Hunter and Caleb. He wouldn’t find them amusing, and I couldn’t stop picturing Caleb with a libido-killing haircut. Also, I liked to think I was above calling him Wolf the Bounty Hunter—even behind his back.

“Inspiring,” I told him, and we engaged in a battle of dueling body language.

I jerked my head toward Jerry. Caleb shrugged his shoulders. I tilted my head and poked out my bottom lip in the prettiest pout I could muster. Caleb sighed, glanced over his shoulder, and added, “Eat your vegetables. Say your prayers before bedtime. And give a hoot, don’t pollute.”

I shook my head. “Really?”

Caleb shrugged. “What?”

Unimpressed by Caleb’s life coaching, Jerry seemed to exhaust himself thrashing and growling muffled insults at us and fell asleep. It seemed impossible to sleep in that position, but given his steady snores, he was apparently comfortable enough. I napped off and on, only feeling slightly guilty that I’d had more sleep than Caleb in the last twenty-four hours and he was the one who was driving. Since he’d sort of banned me from driving, he could just deal with it. Funny, I’d had intermittent insomnia ever since I’d filed divorce papers, but I was able to nod off in a moving vehicle with a werewolf and a fugitive.

Sometime around midnight, Caleb stopped for coffee at a run-down all-night diner halfway to our destination. I woke up enough to check on Jerry, who was still unconscious, and reassemble my hair into something like a ponytail. I offered Caleb a grateful smile when he handed me a large orange juice. At that point, I wasn’t sure if I could handle caffeine or coffee breath.

“It occurs to me that other than your upsetting fondness for plastic restraints and preserved meat, I don’t know much about you,” I said, sipping the juice and welcoming the rush of blood sugar.

“I’m an open book,” he said, and gave me a sunny smile that was just obscene at that hour.

And by the way, werewolves were anything but open and honest. The CIA could take lessons in discretion and misdirection from a werewolf pack. They tended to live in insular communities, separating themselves from the outside world. If humans noticed something “off” about a werewolf, the wolf was a master at redirecting the questioning until those humans were so confused they were no longer sure what they saw. For every odd behavior, they had a dozen plausible explanations. They shared their secrets with a few select, trusted humans, usually the ones they mated with. And for a misguided human who betrayed a werewolf clan . . . well, I don’t know what happened to them. I never saw one twice. The problem with dealing with large predators is that they usually know how to hide a body from other large predators—even if those large predators include state troopers.

“And what do you do in your spare time?” I asked.

“Hunting,” he said. “Hiking.”

“An outdoorsy type, huh?” I asked, having just a little too much fun with the I know something you don’t know game.

“You could say that,” he said. “And what about you? Any hobbies I should know about? Taxidermy? Exotic piercings?”

“How did you go from taxidermy to body piercings?” I asked. “Also, FYI, piercings are not a hobby.”

“I never know with you wild tattooed women,” he said. I shot him a dirty look. He grinned. “So what do you do for fun?”

I pursed my lips and resolved to do penance for my teasing with a healthy dollop of truth. “Dye my hair. Obtain illegal identification. Forge government paperwork.”

Caleb’s expression waffled between uh-oh and wow. I didn’t know whether he believed me or not. I wasn’t sure whether he wanted to believe me or not. Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “Well, you are an interesting girl, aren’t you?” I shrugged my shoulders, all innocent eyes and fluttering lashes. “What are you running from?”

That put a damper on the fluttering lashes. “Columbia House Music Club,” I said, recovering my snarkiness quickly. “Oh, sure, they say they’ll sell you six CDs for a penny, but they’ll hunt you down like the hounds of hell if you miss the payments.”

“Stop kidding around.”

“I’m not. A Wilson Phillips CD ruined my life.”