Page 61 of The Wolfing Hour
“And she’s okay with it?”
“Only when Autry does it.”
Ronan and I took my Mini to El Rancho Grande, picked up the tacos, and headed to the pub. I let KLXX choose the songs, but they were all chill and didn’t feel targeted directly at me for once. Just some great seventies country hits by Crystal Gayle, Tanya Tucker, and Ronnie Milsap.
“I never thought of the seventies as being so musically diverse, but they really were,” Ronan said, as we pulled up in front of the pub. He’d shifted before putting on his pub T-shirt and was entirely human again.
In appearance, anyway.
“That’s part of why Mom and I loved them. Well, I mean, she loved them because they were the songs of her growing-up years, but there really was some good stuff out there. Progressive rock, disco, outlaw country—lots of good stuff.”
We locked up the Mini and took the food inside. Ronan greeted customers, handed tacos to a couple of the regulars, then motioned me into his office.
“Just need to grab my laptop, and we’ll head up to my place. It’s more comfortable to eat up there.”
“Sure,” I said, as if I hadn’t had lunch in his office several times already.
Just one more example of the weirdness between us. Ronan and I’d made small talk on the drive over, toeing the edges of sensitive subjects but not jumping in. Although not uncomfortable, it had felt insincere.
We needed to talk.
Ronan laid out the tacos, lime wedges, and a bowl of salsa fresca. He grabbed a couple of cold Coronas from the fridge and opened the bottles by hand—I’d have needed an opener.
“This is all I have up here—unless you want room-temperature water.”
“This is good,” I said, as we conversationally danced around each other. “I prefer a lighter beer with tacos. Don’t want to overpower the star player here.”
The tone of our conversation from that point on was flat and kind of irritated. Lightly offended. As if we were purposely reacting the wrong way to everything the other person said but keeping quiet about it.
Ronan ate eight tacos to my two. When we were finished, we took our beers to the sofa and sat facing each other. I unzipped my heeled boots and tossed them aside, drawing my feet up under me.
“I hate this distance between us. Fighting blows.”
“Yeah, it does,” he replied. “Want to talk about it?”
“What if we didn’t? Or what if we just acknowledged that neither of us meant to hurt the other and that we’re acting out because we’re worried?”
His head dipped in a short, decisive nod. “We are, but that’s not enough. You need to tell me what’s really going on with you, Betty. All of it.”
“That’s a great idea, Ronan. Let me burden you even more. I mean, it’s not as if your birth father is trying to kill you or anything. Not as if one of our people was just viciously attacked by his wolves. I’m sure you have all kinds of emotional bandwidth right now, right? More than enough to handle my bullshit on top of everything else.”
My hands shook too badly to hold onto the beer, so I set it on the coffee table. Then I didn’t know what to do with my hands, so I kept rubbing them on my thighs. If I didn’t settle down, my tacos were going to make a reappearance.
Ronan watched me fidget for a few seconds then set his beer beside mine and pulled me across his lap, where I buried my face in his neck. “It’s worse when you don’t tell me. I know there’s something wrong, and it’s eating at me. I want to know. Even if it sucks, and I hate it.”
“It sucks, and you’re going to hate it,” I said, voice muffled.
“Tell me anyway.”
“Okay.” I rearranged myself astride him to better see his eyes.
He rested his hands on my thighs and waited for me to speak.
“Demon Betty almost killed Bronwyn Jonas today.”
Ronan nodded, a little too calmly in my opinion. “Margaux said the situation there had you upset.”
“Killed, Ronan. Not fumed at. Not yelled at. Not even slapped.” I threw up my hands. “You don’t get it.”
