Page 36 of Freak Camp (A Monster By Any Other Name #1)

Chapter Eight

J ake woke up the morning of his eighteenth birthday buzzing from the twin highs of monster asses kicked and pain medication.

Yesterday had been his first truly independent hunt.

Dad had been away on a job—one of the jobs that he wouldn’t tell Jake about, muttering that it was something he had to do himself—so Jake handled it.

Using public transport to get to the big, downtown library for research had been embarrassing, but it was all worth it for the adrenaline of the successful hunt.

Jake had called Dad before he went after the ogres, leaving a voicemail. If he didn’t survive, Dad would know where he had gone and be able to take care of the problem after him.

He hadn’t expected Dad to show up at the last minute to drag him away from the wreckage of the quaint little waterwheel—Jake was still appalled that of all the dark places the ogres could have settled, they chose a minigolf course—but it was okay that Dad had been there in the end, because Jake hadn’t really needed him.

Though he had to admit, it had been nice to ride away covered in a blanket in the front seat of the Eldorado rather than trying to wheedle his way onto a bus without getting an ambulance called on him.

Jake stretched experimentally to see what hurt, yawned, and blinked open his eyes, not sure he could trust them. Leon was sitting on the other bed, watching him with a thoughtful, almost soft look on his face.

“Hey, Dad,” Jake croaked. He pulled himself up to lean against the headboard.

“Hey, Jake. Feeling okay?”

His head hurt, and his shoulder ached—not broken, thankfully—where he’d gotten smacked by a hamlike fist, and he had bruises everywhere (fucking golf-ball-throwing sons of bitches), but he felt good. Really good, on a level that had nothing to do with bruises and broken bones.

“Awesome,” he said.

Leon looked down at his hands, and then back up. “You did good out there, son.”

Jake blinked and grinned, a new kind of high burning through him.

He knew he’d rocked that hunt—two dead monsters, no civilian casualties, and minimal collateral damage in the form of a minigolf course that looked like a tornado had ripped through it—but there was a world of difference between the satisfaction of a job well done and one of Dad’s rare compliments.

“Thank you, sir.”

Leon nodded. “Eighteen today.”

Jake blinked. “Sir?” He had only killed the two monsters last night. Unless Dad was counting the ghosts he’d helped burn, in which case it was a hell of a lot more than eighteen.

Leon smiled at him, and Jake basked in the pride on his face, even if he still didn’t understand. “You’re eighteen. An adult.”

“Oh. Yeah, I forgot, you know, with the hunt? But whatever. I can smoke, fuck, vote, and . . .” Jake smirked. “Dad, I’m already doing all of those that I want.”

Leon laughed. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.” He sighed. “Jake, I know I’ve missed a lot of them, but happy birthday.” He held out a thick letter and a hard-cover sunglass case.

Jake took both warily. He especially didn’t like the look of that letter. It could have anything in it, from a new set of lock picks to a letter from Mom. Under Leon’s eyes, he slit it open with his knife.

He read the papers, and then looked up, eyes wide. “You got me an ASC license?”

“Yeah.” Leon’s face broke into a broad smile. It looked strange on his usually tense, focused face. “I put in the paperwork for you months ago, way before this hunt. And then you just went out and did the job . . . I’m damn proud of you, Jake.”

Jake looked down at the paper. Hawthornes, especially eighteen-year-old ones, did not tear up. “Thank you, sir.”

“Go on, open the next one. I figured now that you’re official, you might like some wheels.”

Jake popped open the sunglass case. Yeah, a car would be damn nice sometimes, if only so he didn’t have to ride the bus like a loser or try to walk home if he broke a bone or something on a hunt, but .

. . he didn’t really want a new car. Nothing would be as sweet as the Eldorado, and being in the Eldorado meant he was home, that Dad was back, and they would be okay.

Even without Mom, even without food, even with Dad working his way through a bottle, it was home.

Hard to give that up forever by opening a sunglass case with peeling faux leather.

And then his jaw dropped. He looked up and gaped, his mouth working, while Leon grinned at him.

“These are for the Eldorado!”

“You love that car,” Leon said, then winked. “I know you’ll keep the rust spots off her.”

“Holy shit.” Jake jumped off the bed and gave Leon a crushing hug. He couldn’t remember the last time they had hugged, but it felt right when his dad had just given him the best gift possible.

When they broke away, Leon was still smiling and kept his hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Knew I had to hand it over to you sooner or later, the way you love that car. I’d tell you to take good care of her, but I’m pretty sure you’ll get her cleaned up before yourself.”

Only later, after Jake had rushed out and turned the key in the Eldorado—which was his , all his—did it occur to him to wonder what Dad would be driving if Jake had the Eldorado.

A few months later, Jake found himself chasing ghosts in Massachusetts. Literally chasing ghosts, because there was some kind of stupid haunted livestock truck, and it was just so stupid.

And so far from Nevada.

He hated the truck too. Dad’s big black truck.

The truck that he used to disappear on Jake more often, getting farther and farther away.

Sometimes he left a note, sometimes just a phone message a couple of days later.

If Jake had known when Dad gave him the keys to the Eldorado that Dad would be gone more , that he would have such faith in Jake that he wouldn’t even give him a heads-up before disappearing .

. . Well, Jake didn’t know that he would have thrown the keys back in Dad’s face—damn, he loved this car—but he might have started researching ways to sabotage Silverados, Tundras, F-150s, and worked his way down the list. As it was . . . Fuck. Just fuck.

Black was fine, and Jake supposed that a truck was practical at least, and it had special iron/silver spiked bumpers and reinforced-steel sides and a fancy, mechanized artillery trunk— how long were you planning this, Dad? —but the Eldorado could take it in a knife fight any day.

Sometimes when he saw the hulking monster truck—for hunting monsters, haha, not funny—in the parking lot next to his, his damn Eldorado, he still had a half-smothered urge to slash the tires.

He knew he wasn’t exactly being mature about this, but Jake was pissed, and when Dad wasn’t there to be pissed at, it all just built up until Jake wanted to smash something. Preferably a certain fancy-ass piece of slag steel.

It wasn’t until Dad was gone again , leaving Jake in another ass-backwards town without a single hot chick or dude, that Jake realized he didn’t have to just sit where Dad had left him and mope and drink and fuck.

He had the fucking Eldorado, and where there were roads he could drive them, and where there were bridges he could cross them.

Leon fucking Hawthorne—who clearly didn’t give a damn, who had his truck to keep him company—could find him if he wanted to. Dad could find anything.

Jake could drive anywhere. He could drive to Freak Camp and see Toby if he wanted to.

Like a silver bullet finding a werewolf’s heart, that thought hit home. Jake grabbed the Eldorado’s keys, paid the hotel bill—fake credit card again, Dad had taken most of the cash—and hit the road humming at the thought. I can see Toby any time I want.

***

T obias was scrubbing fresh stains off the floor of the barrack showers—on his knees with a brush, the astringent cleaning solution stinging his hands, searing like acid in his fresh burns and cuts—when a guard walked in behind him.

Tobias glanced back through his bangs, saw it was Crusher, and then focused on his job.

It was a bad place to be. Maybe Crusher would cut a deal, go for the blowjob, and Tobias wouldn’t have to risk fighting him off. A handful of other guards were getting too close for comfort, but Crusher always had that edge of crazy that scared him in ways no one else did.

“Get up, Pretty Freak. Hawthorne wants you.”

Tobias kept the first sharp rush of relief off his face. Relief so intense that his hands shook and he felt lightheaded. Crusher would see the shaking and think it was fear. Might even get off thinking about it later, with some other poor bastard mouthing his dick.

That image reminded Tobias of what he had done. Of all the times—

He didn’t have to fake the sick look on his face when he stood up.

How could he face Jake, look him in the eye (and Jake would tell him to look him in the eye, he always did, he’d always tilt Tobias’s face up, so gently, the calluses on his fingers brushing down Tobias’s jaw) when he had been about to blow Crusher to get out of a beating?

Tobias didn’t want to go. For a breathless, insane second, he considered saying, “No, I won’t see him,” punching Crusher, running until they caught him and he fell beneath their clubs.

Letting the pain and blood wash away the scalding shame that burned his insides worse than anything he’d swallowed.

Better that than being in the same room with Jake, looking at Jake, contaminating the only good thing in his world with the filth he did every day and didn’t even feel any more.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t walk into that room.

But running was suicide. Of all the ways Tobias could kill himself, saying no to a hunter was not the one he wanted to pick.

They would probably just drag him to Jake anyway, dump him bleeding on the floor.

They might apologize that Tobias couldn’t suck Jake off with his jaw shattered like that, but at least he still had an ass, right?