Page 27 of Ruthlessly Mated
“You need to tell me what’s in the container,” Conroy says.
“I’m not telling you anything yet. I don’t want you involved. I can drop you off at this truck stop and we can all connect later.”
“That’s not an option, Kita,” Tailor’s voice comes from the back seat. He really does seem well recovered. He also seems like he’s almost as annoying as Conroy. I really like Damon. Damon is my favorite. Damon doesn’t ask questions, and he doesn’t judge me as far as I can tell, and right now he’s napping, which is the sensible thing to do. I wish the others would fall asleep.
We’ve joined the main drag now, the major highway that runs up through the center of the country. There’s a lot more traffic, a lot of trucks, a lot of cars and vans. I like that. It’s making me feel as though I’m camouflaged.
The off-ramp exit is easy enough to take, and we stream off toward the small complex where there’s gas to be bought, food to eat, and a small store that oddly contains the same sorts of things anybody who needs to change their appearance would need.
“What are you doing?” Tailor asks the question as I exit the shop with an armful of things.
“It’s going to be a lot easier if you don’t constantly ask me what I am doing,” I tell him. “Go and get some cake.”
He gives me a long look down his nose, a sort of inspection that I know is probably a cross between an attempt at intimidation and a genuine attempt to understand me.
I go into the bathroom and bleach my hair, and give myself a haircut. Short to my chin. I slip in a pair of colored contacts to get blue eyes—not from the shop, but something I got earlier in preparation for just this moment. These guys are getting caught up in something they never asked to be part of, and a big part of me wants to give them the slip to save them from the consequences of my actions. While I’m thinking deep thoughts, I ditch the goth aesthetic clothes in favor of pink sweatpants and a bejeweled tank top. I look cute, but not too cute, and definitely not too recognizable.
My mates are in the trucker diner. I walk past them and go and order myself something to eat. Pancakes and bacon with a chocolate milkshake. The lady behind the counter is lovely and warm, the sort of person sent from the heavens to make weary travelers feel better about their often lonely lots.
They’re all knee deep in meat of course. Sausages, steaks, pepperoni, bacon. They’re proper men. Proper wolves. They’re everything a good little wolf girl should want, and I am pretty sure I am going to ruin them if they stay with me.
I sit in the booth behind them, wondering if they’ll recognize me or not. I kind of assume they will, just by scent. But I have to check. If I can fool them, I can fool the vamp and his minions.
A hand reaches over and snatches a piece of bacon covered in syrup and powder. Damon pats my head with his other hand, and flickers me a wink as he slips down into the booth.
“Why aren’t you sitting with us?” Conroy growls the question. He growls most things.
I have fooled nobody.
“Cute… everything,” Conroy says as I pick my food up and go around to sit with them.
“That outfit is… heinous,” Tailor says.
“Heinous,” I grin. “I know. It’s perfect. Isn’t it?”
“And the hair,” Conroy says.
“The hair,” Tailor says, in a different tone. “You’ve made yourself look…”
“Generic,” I say. “I look generic. That’s the point. In this part of the country, girls dye their hair blonde and generally have blue eyes and they dress like this. So this is how I’m dressed.”
“We need to talk,” Conroy says.
“About what?”
“About your bratty little attitude. We’ve been driving all day, and I know that there’s been so much going on, and there’s been a lot of attitudes all around, but you need to understand that we are your mates. You have to understand that. You have to acknowledge that.”
“I’m sorry, is me trying to survive bratty now?”
“I’ve whipped your ass in public once before. Don’t think I won’t do it again,” he warns me. I think he just likes threatening me.
“Is this like, foreplay for you?” I squirt a great deal of the contents of the whipped cream can the waitress left with me onto my pancakes. I like a two-to-one cream to pancake ratio. “My attitude is the least of our problems.”
“I am your alpha,” he reminds me.
“Your port just burned down. You want to be the alpha of the truck? Well, you can’t be the alpha of that either, on account of it’s mine. But maybe you can be alpha of something else. What about this?” I slide the can of cream over to him. “You can be alpha of the whipped cream.”
Conroy’s eyes darken.
