Page 9 of Bred Mate
“I was trying to kill him.”
Karl’s answers are blunt and honest, and somehow they still reveal absolutely nothing. That is a wild trick.
“Can I ask why?”
“No.”
“Okay.” I look out the window and I watch the world slide by. I’ve fucked up by asking Karl Dulac for his help. I could have done anything else. I could have done an online fundraiser. I could have baked cookies and sold them at a roadside stand. I could have done literally anything except this.
He’s one fucked-up man. Even for a shifter, he’s fucked.
When he fucked me, he made me feel like I was the only female he had ever wanted. There was a hint of softness in his brutality,a little spark of something I convinced myself was kindness. I don’t know if it is anymore.
Orion Dulac’s reputation was always brutal, but everyone always said he was smart. He did a lot of business in New Orleans, and with the surrounding packs. He was a real leader, a politician. A gentleman, by all accounts. A ladies’ man. And he tried to kill his fifteen-year-old son with an axe.
I look over at Karl. He’s staring at the road, no sign of softness anywhere on his hard, scarred face. I wonder if he’s known a moment of kindness in his life, either giving or receiving.
“Need gas,” he grunts as we pass a sign indicating a gas station isn’t too far off.
“Yep,” I say, not sure what I can add. Guess there’s nothing really to add.
We pull into the forecourt, and while he pumps gas, I go into the station, pee, and buy a couple of drinks. When I come out, he’s back in the car.
Karl looks at me with some surprise as I hand him some cream soda.
“For me?”
“For you,” I say. “You looked thirsty.”
“And you think I’m a cream soda man?”
“Sorry,” I say. “You don’t have to drink it.”
“No,” he says after a brief moment that makes me think he really doesn’t like it. He cracks the can and drinks.
Karl
The drink’s sweeter than I usually like. I don’t drink soda as a rule. I usually drink water, coffee, or alcohol. But there’s something in her eyes, something like disappointment and the kind of pain I guess I don’t want to inflict. She tried to do something nice for me. I don’t really know why. Is she trying to suck up to me? Does she think if she acts nice, I’ll be nicer to her?
I’m already doing something nice, so it can’t be that.
“Is this because of the scar? Are you feeling sorry for me?”
She looks at me. “I thought you were thirsty, asshole.”
I don’t know why being called asshole makes me feel more comfortable than a girl getting me a drink, but it makes me crack a smile.
“Alright,” I say. “Thanks.”
“That’s what you’re supposed to say, by the way, when someone does something human for you. You’re supposed to say, ‘thank you, that’s nice of you.’”
“You want to teach me about manners?”
“Someone should,” she says. “I guess you never learned about them, being parented by an axe.”
I laugh at the unexpected joke that actually tickles me really deeply. She’s funny.
“I got snacks too,” she says. “You want some jerky, or do you just want to be a jerk?”
