Bad Wolf (Wild Men 4)

His breathing is shallow, quick, fast beats, like he’s been running. His face is pale. His eyes are dry.

“Did you call Sebastian? Is he coming over?”

He shakes his head slowly. Licks his lips. “He won’t answer the phone,” he rasps.

“We’ll try him again later. Hey, come on. Let’s go. Nothing more you can do here. Your mom’s in a better place now. With the angels.”

He sort of laughs, then chokes and coughs. “There are no angels.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You’re the only fucking angel I know,” he says, and hauls me into his arms, buries his face in my neck and holds on tightly.

My mom moves around the kitchen, her crutch thumping on the flo

or with every step. She has refused to stay seated. Her only compromise is allowing Merc or Jarett to carry her upstairs at night so she won’t strain her ankle too much.

“This should warm you right up,” she says, placing two mugs of hot tea and a plate of homemade cookies on the table.

“You shouldn’t be on that leg, Maggie,” Jarett tells her. He’s sitting there, pale and still, hair in his eyes.

“I want to mother you,” my mom says. She loves mothering people, and that’s the truth, but even more Jarett, especially when he’s looking lost and sad like this.

“I don’t need mothering,” he says faintly.

“Nonsense. Everyone does.” Mom glances at me helplessly, but I don’t know what to do, either. “I’ll leave you kids alone now, Paul’s coming to pick me up. But give me a hug first.”

She slings one arm around his shoulders, and he puts an arm around her waist, his face blank.

That blankness scares me. I need to chase it away, make him acknowledge what he feels. Accept some comfort.

“If you need anything,” Mom says, “call me. And Gigi, get some tea and cookies into this young man. He needs to eat.”

Jarett doesn’t even blink.

Mom hobbles out, and the doorbell rings a minute later. I hear the happiness in her voice, Paul’s deeper voice. Then they’re gone.

I drag my chair closer to Jarett and put my arms around him. “Tell me about her.”

“What?” he whispers. His deep voice still has that faint quality about it, as if he hasn’t been able to catch his breath all day.

“About your mom. Tell me about her.”

His body is stiff like a board where I’m holding him, his muscles strung tight with tension. He stares at me like he doesn’t understand my language.

Then he wraps an arm around me and hauls me up and onto his lap. I hug him, and he props his chin on my shoulder. “She was great. Tried to make me fit in, but once a misfit, always a misfit, you know? She tried to get me to quit smoking, to avoid fighting. Told me to call her Mom, but I never did.”

“She sounds great,” I say, muffled by his shoulder. “A good mom.”

“She was. I dreamed of her this morning. She told me… she said to remember.”

“Remember what?”

“Everything,” he whispers. “Remember everything, so I could turn my life around. That was her last gift to me.”

“I have to go,” he says, shrugging on his jacket. “I have to, Gigi.”

It’s late at night, and we’ve spent hours curled together on the sofa, watching mindless TV. His hands are warm now, his face not so pale. He looks much better.