Page 10

10

Pig Dinner

T here is only one semi-fancy restaurant in town, so I don’t even ask Brick where we’re heading. We drive through the quiet streets of Dayton in his gray, old-fashioned Buick. If he weren’t so good-looking, it would look like a car for a serial killer. Except he very well may be a murderer, so it actually fits him in a whole Ted Bundy type of way. I attempt to start a conversation, pointing to an old building as we pass. “It looks like they’re renovating the McClary House. I hope they don’t strip it of all its character.”

He shrugs. “Yeah, we’ll see.”

I study his clean-shaven side profile. The pores on his chin are already dark with his smoky hair, wanting to peek through. He grips the steering wheel, his knuckles white. Am I annoying him already? What’s the point of this dinner if he doesn’t want to talk to me? This is going to be a long date. Maybe if I’m lucky, it’ll be so dull for him too, that he’ll rush right through it and take me home full and unscathed. But even as the hopeful thought passes my consciousness, I know that can’t be my goal. He won’t fall in love with me if I’m boring. I need to stroke his ego, at least. Besides, he’s trying to get something from me as much as I’m trying to get something from him. It should be fairly easy to get him to keep me around.

I abandon my attempts to create small talk on the way to the restaurant. Maybe he gets car sick. Hell, if I know. Just when the silence is about to wither away my last ounce of reserve, Brick pulls into an empty parking spot at, low and behold, Gwendolyn’s, the town's only nice Italian restaurant. Thankfully, the place has a kick-ass chicken parm and a superb wine list, but unfortunately, I’m not drinking tonight. I have to do this date stone-cold sober, and I already could use a drink.

I fidget while stuffing my phone into my small purse and unbuckling my seat belt. I startle when my door opens. I turn to Brick holding the door for me, looking straight ahead instead of my quizzical stare. “Thank you,” I say as I exit the car. He grunts with a nod and leads me into the restaurant.

It’s a Tuesday night, so the place is pretty bare. We’re seated at a white linen table in the middle of the low-lit restaurant and given a small drink menu each. I pretend to examine the contents. Before the hostess even leaves, Brick clears his throat. “Get me a scotch on the rocks.” The young woman, who’s not our server, nods, a slight panic in her eyes. I have half a mind to yell at him and tell him to cool his jets. I used to be a server, and it’s not easy when guests try to order things from the hosts, but I let it slide. He’s desperate for a drink, and I won’t get in his way.

The real waitress comes back shortly, scotch in tow, and takes my drink order of a Diet Coke. Before she leaves, Brick takes a big sip of his beverage and orders another one. Jesus Christ, I hope he’s coherent enough to register the fake information I plant.

I fold my hands before me when we're alone again, trying to gain Brick’s attention. He’s fidgety, scratching at his long sleeves. “Brick,” I call.

He smiles and finally looks me in the eyes. “You know my name isn’t Brick, right?”

“Your name isn’t Brick?” Great, I’m on a date with a man whose name I don’t even know.

He smiles and finishes his first drink with a big gulp. He doesn’t even flinch as the alcohol runs down his throat. “Well, it’s my last name.”

Yeah, that makes sense. I laugh. It seems to shock him, and his eyes grow wide as he takes me in, his gaze flicking from my lips to my eyes. “Okay, what’s your name?” I ask.

“It’s Bryce.”

“Bryce.” I roll the word around on my tongue. It suits him, I guess. “Can I keep calling you Brick?”

“Call me whatever you want.” His eyes sear into mine. The waitress places his next drink beside him, and he takes a sip without breaking eye contact. His disposition changes by the second. One minute, he seems about to jump out of his skin, the next, he holds me with a stare only fit for a man in control. He almost reminds me of a Were on the brink of a Blood Moon. The more I get to know him, the more I doubt we share paranormal ancestry. He’s different, even more different than my furry flavor.

“Do you guys know what you’d like yet?” the waitress asks in a high-energy voice.

I hadn’t even looked over the menu, but I don’t want to make this dinner any longer than it needs to be. “Do you have a special?” I ask.

“Yes, tonight’s special is a balsamic glazed porchetta.”

“That’s pork, right?” Brick asks, his tone all business.

“Yes.”

“No, we’re not getting that.” He looks back down at his menu.

I grab the waitress’ attention, silently pleading for forgiveness for my counterpart's rudeness. I guess he’s deciding what I can and cannot eat. Maybe he’s Jewish and doesn’t eat pork. Fuck if I know. “I’ll have the chicken parmesan, please.” I study Brick, wondering if he will refuse that as well.

He passes his menu to the waitress. “I’ll have the same.” He gives a polite nod and takes another sip of his drink. “And another one of these.” Jesus fucking Christ. This guy is either an alcoholic or about to be hammered.

The waitress tells us our food will be right out, and then it’s just Brick and I alone again. The alcohol must be calming his nerves because now, instead of scanning his eyes around the restaurant, he glues them to me. It’s completely unfair since I’m stone-cold sober and feel every inch of his gaze. While I have his attention, though, I might as well make the best of it. I push out my tits and lean slightly over the table, lazily dragging my finger in a circle on the white tablecloth. “Sorry if I seem tense tonight,” I say, staring at my hands and fluttering my eyelashes.

“Oh.” It’s quick, but his eyes dart to my cleavage and then back to my eyes. Yes, my charms are working.

I sigh, “Yeah, it’s just this girl that I used to babysit when I was in high school, Josie. She will be home alone tonight and refuses to let anyone stay with her.” He doesn’t say anything, so I go on. “I’m so worried that she’s going to be the next girl kidnapped or worse.” This part isn’t that hard to act. I am truly worried for all these girls, even if Josie isn’t home alone tonight or anywhere near her secluded home in the woods.

Brick brings his drink up to his lips. “Can’t you send some people to watch her house?” It’s a good question, potentially a plot hole in my made-up story. My brain scrambles for a lie.

“Everyone’s busy scouting the other young women’s houses. Josie was adamant that she doesn’t want anyone babysitting her and for the pack to use their resources on someone else.” Whether it’s the alcohol or my tits, the lie doesn’t send off Brick’s alarms. He stares at me, leaning forward, a hungry look in his eyes as he traces the rim of his near-empty glass.

I smile and tuck a strand behind my ear. This is the exact reaction I wanted out of him, but I can’t deny the moment's intensity. It takes me off guard, and I have no choice but to flush. My nerves seem to knock Brick out of his trance. He mutters fuck under his breath, so subtly, but I’m watching him too closely to miss it. He downs the rest of his drink right as the waitress brings him his next one and takes a sip from the fresh glass. He looks to the side, annoyance written across his face.

“Wow, what is that, your fourth?” I ask, unable to hide the twinge of annoyance in my voice.

He furrows his brow, examining his drink. “I’m not sure. I don’t normally drink.”

“You don’t normally drink?”

“No,” he says in an annoyed tone. Either he’s a mythical being who can’t get drunk, or he will be obliterated any second now. God, he must fucking hate me if he must turn into an alcoholic to be in my presence. I want to punch him in his stupid stone-cold face, but instead, I pop to my feet. “I need to use the restroom.” I turn away from the table. I planned to drop the fake information and then give him some time alone so he could text the Hunters about Josie. This is as good a time as any. I don’t know if he’ll be too drunk to do it or if he even believed my half-ass story. I'd never forgive myself if this stupid date was all for nothing.

When I return to the table, my fury is contained after a few soothing breaths in the mirror. The food has arrived, and Brick is already going to town on his chicken parmesan. Red sauce is smeared over his face, and he barely looks up at me as he shovels the food into his mouth.

“I love coming back to the bathroom to find my meal,” I say, unfolding a napkin and placing it over my lap.

He darts his eyes to mine for a second, nodding before taking a big chug of his fresh drink. This waitress seriously needs to cut him off. “This is really fucking good,” he says, his words slur with a mouth full of food. Oh no. Here goes his decline. I’m not in the mood to take care of a completely inebriated, enormous man. I’ve had my fill of idiots for a lifetime. I’m starting to doubt he fell for my trap and texted the Hunters. Oh well, new plan. Convince his drunk-ass to give me information.

I take a bite of my food, watching him carefully. A smile lines his face between every bite, and his eyes shine. I’ve never seen him so happy. Who knew that a chicken parmesan could make him a more pleasant person? Or more likely, the swift shift has more to do with the excessive amount of alcohol running through his system. “I’m serious! This is so fucking good.” He leans in as if to tell me a secret. “What do you think they put in this stuff? Is yours as good as mine? Let me try a bite.” Before I can stop him, he snags a piece of my chicken with his fork, bringing it to his mouth. His eyes grow wide as he chews. “Okay, no. Yours is so much fucking better.” He stills for a moment, his smile fading. “Holy shit, are you beautiful.”

I gasp with a laugh, taken off guard by his words. “Okay, buddy. I think that’s enough scotch for you.” I reach over and pull the cup away from him.

He grabs my wrist. “No, seriously. Have you seen yourself?”

I give a clenched-lip smile. “Thank you, Bryce. Is this your way of repaying me for the comment in the office?”

He grabs his face with both hands. “God, I’m an idiot. Why would I ever be mean to you?” He leans over; his head now rests on the tablecloth. “I know why I’m a dick to you, but I don’t want to be. You’re just so pretty. It’s your smell. God, your smell, it makes me so angry.”

“Okay,” I say. So much for liking drunk Brick for a minuscule of a second. I catch the waitress with my eyes, motioning to the food as a silent plea to get us boxes so we can get the hell out of here.

She must have experience with drunk men because she scoops our food up, drops the bill, swipes my card, and gets us out of the restaurant in a matter of minutes. Brick is declining, and I have to hold him up as we walk to his car. He’s fucking heavy. I can lift a car over my head, barely breaking a sweat, but something about this man dulls my powers. That, or whatever he is so much more powerful than I am, and that’s something I don’t want to consider.

I’m able to shove his huge body into his passenger side and buckle him in. He starts giggling again as I drive down the road. I keep glancing at him, amazed at how his usual dominating presence can morph into such a docile drunk. Thank God, because if he turned violent, I could be in serious trouble.

“Shit,” I mutter to myself once I realize I have no idea where Brick lives. I shake his arm. He jolts, banging his head against the window. “Huh?” He sits up straight.

“Where do you live?”

He laughs. “At my house, duh.”

“Okay, I don’t know where that is.”

“Why? I know everything about you?”

“You know everything about me?”

He giggles. “Of course. I know you bought your two-bedroom house four years ago for two hundred fifteen thousand dollars.” So, the man knows how to look up housing records. Weird, but he could have just been researching me before our date.

“Okay, well, I’m not a creep, so I did not look you up.” Honestly, it’s surprising I never did, but I’ve been too busy researching other Hunters over the years.

He turns to me, frowning. “It’s probably because you hate me.”

I sigh. “I don’t hate you.”

He leans against the window again. “Yes, you do. You’ve said as much.”

“Okay, maybe I used to hate you, but we’re turning a new leaf, remember? We’re on a date.”

“A date?”

“Yeah, remember you asked me on a date and then proceeded to get drunk as fuck, and now I’m having to take you home?”

He laughs. “Oh, yeah. Sorry.”

“Whatever.” Even if he wanted to tell me where he lived, I don’t think he could gather his working brain cells together to do so. I drive in the direction of my house. He can sleep on the couch until he sobers up.

“It’s just every time I’m around you, I can’t control myself. And now I’m reminded of those girls.”

“Those girls?”

“We need those girls. It’s the only way.”

“Brick.” I shake his arm. His head bumps against the window. “What are you talking about?” But it’s no use. He’s out. “Fuck.” It’s not a confession, but damn is it incriminating.

I pull onto my small driveaway. He’ll have to get up enough to get inside. There’s no way I can carry him in when he’s completely unconscious. I can only hope that he reveals more about the girls when he's jostled around.

I open the passenger door, and he falls like dead weight. I catch him just in the nick of time and thankfully, he comes to a bit, holding himself upright. “Woah, sorry about that,” he says, his hands braced on my arms. Even in his stupid drunk state, his eyes take me in as if I’m a meal to be savored. I get lost in his stare momentarily, but it’s broken as his body becomes heavier, and he falls into me. “Alright, buddy. Let’s get you inside.”

He stands with a wobble, using me for support. “Oh, we’re at your house,” he says excitedly, looking around as I walk him toward the front door. The porch steps are a bitch, but miraculously we make it through the door. I’m about to steer him to my couch, but one look at my measly purple piece of furniture, and I know he won’t fit. He’ll roll off in a matter of minutes, and although I’m inclined not to give a shit, the stupid good-hearted part of me insists he sleeps in my bed.

His consciousness blinks out the further we get into my house. Thankfully, it’s small, so it only takes a few incredibly strenuous steps until we’re in my bedroom, and I throw him into my bed. The second he hits my comforter, he’s out, his breath heavy as if in a deep sleep.

I stare at him, catching my breath. If he had given me his address, I could have snooped through all his shit while he slept. The only thing I’ve accomplished from this date is a cryptic confession. I feel around his pockets. His phone is in the front one, not under his weight, and I didn’t have to feel up his ass to find it. I don’t know if I’m disappointed or relieved. I click it on but frown once I realize I don’t know his password. He doesn’t even have a fingerprint or facial identification. Annoying. I shove his phone back into his pocket, finally catching my breath.

My mind replays his mannerisms, comments, and gestures throughout the night, each one more confusing than the last. It’s obvious he has an attraction to me. He called me beautiful, after all. It wouldn’t be the first time a Hunter lusted after a werewolf. Just because you hate someone doesn’t mean you don’t want to fuck them. I can work with this.

I lie next to him, examining his unconscious form as I work through my thoughts. When he wakes up, it will be hard for him to continue his aloof act. Knowing him, he’ll try, but if he asked me on a date to apologize for the rude comment at the station, after tonight's train-wreck, he’ll have to propose. Okay, no, gross, but he’s got some making up to do.

This date feels like a complete disaster, but this is technically good. Maybe he couldn’t text the bait, but I dug my claws deeper into his heart. This wasn’t supposed to take one night. Making him fall for me, a woman he hates, obviously wouldn’t be easy. I’m on the right track, though. I feel it.

I watch his chest rise and fall, his lips slightly parted as his eyes twitch behind his eyelids. He’s devastating when he’s not being an ass. If only I could keep him just like this. I’ll probably have to sleep with him to get him vulnerable enough to spill the Hunters' plans. I mull over the idea. Honestly, I don’t think I’ll hate it. He’s big and beautiful, and a hate fuck sounds cathartic. But even as I ponder the notion, something twists inside me, an unknown feeling I don’t want to untangle. My thoughts don’t worry me too much because before I know it, my eyes grow heavy, and my consciousness blinks out.