Page 52 of Depraved
She tries to hide her smile but fails as Black hangs up without another word and puts his phone away. For Black, I know that’s a drop in the bucket, but for her—shit, even for me, that’s a lot of money. Is it enough to get her to talk about a dangerous shifter, though? No one else has had the guts to tell us much.
They say money talks … but does it buy the truth? Or is she just giddy because she’s planning to lie to us? My wolf stomps her feet nervously, glancing around. She’s not sure about this. Neither am I, to be honest, but it’s the first luck we’ve had with a lead, and we need to see it through. No matter how my spidey senses are tingling.
Brittany May’s arms uncross, and she starts marching past us towards her warehouse. “Well, all right then. Why don’t you follow me in so I can pack? Because I sure as shit am not gonna let you leave me alone so that Thomas and his goons can come get me five seconds after you walk out of here.”
Whoa. Maybe I read this wrong. Maybe she will tell us the truth.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Black says.
God, I hope this girl has some kind of useful information. Otherwise, Black just spent a shit ton of money on nothing. My hackles rise, but my wolf is too nervous, glancing around. She does not like the idea of stepping into that warehouse … she equates it to wandering into a bear’s den, according to the images she keeps sending me.
Alpha’s orders,I remind her.
She hangs her tail but glances around as we follow Brittany May. The beta woman unlocks her warehouse, sliding open a huge metallic door.
Inside, high rectangular windows glow white with morning sunlight. The beams piercing the dingy space are as bright as alien tractor beams. They land on spirals of dust, racks of copper, giant twisting steel poles, and massive aluminum sheets stacked sideways like file folders.
We weave through that industrial chaos toward some massive worktables and tools I can’t even name. Behind those, though … is a wonderland.
A spiraling stainless steel dragon hangs suspended from the ceiling. Every piece of him, from his sharp teeth to the spikes on his spine, gleams. His tail isn’t quite complete yet; there’s a stump instead of a pointed end. But he’s magnificent already. Breathtaking.
Beneath him is a dragonfly with only a single wing complete. The cutouts on the metal are so small and intricate that it looks like lace.
Fuck.
I’m awed.
I’m impressed.
I’m a little jealous. I wish I had a talent like that, but I’ve never been artistic.
When I glance beyond the breathtaking pieces in progress, I realize that Brittany doesn’t just work here; she lives here. But clearly, she lives and breathes her art because her bed is covered in a dingy quilt, dirty takeout containers are stacked in a corner. The scent from her coffeemaker tells me she’s burned a pot or two on the old hot plate and never cleaned it up.
It makes me like her a little more, seeing that she’s not perfect. Actually, I kind of hope she’s not a liar now. Brittany May has definitely chosen a unique path in life. And she survived Thomas Stone. I can’t help it admire her. And I’d like to keep that feeling.
She opens her donuts, rips a chocolate glazed one apart, and shoves a quarter of it into her mouth, then proceeds to go over to her tool chest. She yanks open drawers and starts piling items I could never hope to identify into a canvas bag. She hums as she works, stopping several times to grab more donuts, completely unconcerned with the fact that her fingers are smeared with black grease.
At first, Black and I wait in silence. But after her phone dings and she leans over to check it, then holds up the screen, saying, “Transfer went through. Guess you do got a couple coins to rub together, Alpha Maddox,” he puts a hand on my shoulder.
I look up at him in question, and he jerks his head in her direction. Guess it’s time to start the questions then.
I clear my throat and take a step forward, moving slowly, so I don’t startle her. She’s been all but ignoring us. “Brittany? I have a few questions if you don’t mind.”
“Yup.” Her response is unconcerned, as she holds up two metal grinders and narrows her eyes, examining each of them before setting one back down and packing the other.
“How old were you when you dated Thomas?” I start with an easy question—one we already know the answer to. Black’s coached me on questioning people. Start off by establishing a baseline. Ask questions you know the answer to so that you can see if someone’s telling you the truth.
“I was eighteen. But I’m pretty sure you knew that; you know when we dated. It’s why you’re here, right? Why don’t you ask what you actually want?”
Sassy. I start to smile. It might not be a bad thing for Brittany to move up to Colorado. I could use another woman in the pack who doesn’t always bite her tongue but isn’t as overbearing as the alpha women.
“Okay then.” I decide not to go right for the kill but instead ask a few more pointed questions. “Was Thomas particularly violent with you?”
“Alphas are always violent.” I can’t argue with her assessment, so I change topics.
I hope to throw her off by bouncing around. “Did you initiate the relationship, or did he?”
“First off, I wouldn’t call it a relationship. Secondly, hell no. I wouldn’t’ve approached him with a twenty-foot pole. Back then, I was scared of my own shadow.”
