away. Drag Lou in there too, in case we need to feed her something."
"Got it," said the driver. "And George...?"
"We'll let George see his future. Put him in the room with Eugene."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Slaughter
This was a bad idea. A bad, bad, bad idea.
Robyn was angry about the kidnapping, too. Furious. Ally was a great kid, if understandably hostile toward Robyn herself, and Shane would die for her. But rushing off to Tropper like this, completely unprepared, was not the way to handle it.
Not that Shane would ever listen to her.
He'd offered to drive. Yeah, right. Like she'd let that happen. No better way to spend your evening than speeding down the highway and suddenly having your car driven by a wolfman, right?
At least she didn't have to sit next to Crabs.
He was in the back seat, doing what he did best: staring ahead creepily. He was thirty-five or thirty-six but looked sixty. The pale freak didn't look like a single ray of sunshine had ever touched his skin; did he think he was a vampire instead? He liked to have a few days' worth of stubble, even though his facial hair grew in weird patches. He never stopped sweating. When she was introduced to him, Robyn had desperately hoped that Crabs' nickname had come from some sort of family business on a seaport, but, no, it was from a college experience with a prostitute.
She didn't even know his real name. He called himself Crabs, as if he was proud to let the world know that a hooker had accepted his money instead of recoiling in disgust. It was probably on his W-2.
Robyn didn't know of any other werewolves anywhere close to them, but even so, she would never hang out with him if she had any choice in the matter. His presence in her life was almost a deal breaker in her relationship with Shane...but the werewolf sex was sooooo good, and she couldn't get that anyplace else.
Crabs had once made a comment (not a joke—Crabs didn't make jokes) about sharing her with Shane, and she'd calmly but firmly informed him that if he ever put that image in her mind again, she would rip his balls off. She wouldn't transform first; she'd just do it with her human fingernails.
He'd offered to just watch instead.
She hated Crabs.
"What are you doing?" she asked Shane.
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're tearing the seat. Put your hand back to normal."
"It's not 'normal,' it's—"
"It's human. I get it. Stop ruining our car."
"Possessions or sanity," said Crabs from the back seat. "Only one can be pristine."
Shane ran his taloned index finger across the seat, just an inch or so, as if to send the message that he'd tear the car seat whenever he felt like it, then changed his hand back to human.
"I need to stop."
"Why?" Robyn asked.
Shane just looked at her.
"Honey, no."
"I need to blow off some steam or I'm going to lose it."
"We've only been driving for half an hour."
"The amount of time that we have been driving is not relevant," said Shane, emphasizing every syllable, the way he spoke to Robyn's mother in the nursing home. "I need to get this out of my system, and unless you want to be the prey, you'll stop being difficult."
"Don't threaten me."
"I wasn't threatening you."
"That was a treat."
"I apologize, then," said Shane. "But I'm headed for a complete meltdown, and I need ten minutes to unleash this, or I'm going to go batshit crazy right here in this car."
"Intercourse is relaxing," said Crabs.
"What about Ally?" asked Robyn.
"Ten minutes," said Shane. "The next exit—no, the one right after that. There's a homeless shelter."
"You've used that shelter before."
"Not in six months."
"Four months."
"What difference does it make? Do you think they have high-tech surveillance equipment at a homeless shelter? One of the bums there can have an extra serving of soup tonight, thanks to us."
"Bum meat is flavorful," said Crabs.
"All right, all right," said Robyn. "But you have to promise me that it'll be quick. And Crabs
"Got it," said the driver. "And George...?"
"We'll let George see his future. Put him in the room with Eugene."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Slaughter
This was a bad idea. A bad, bad, bad idea.
Robyn was angry about the kidnapping, too. Furious. Ally was a great kid, if understandably hostile toward Robyn herself, and Shane would die for her. But rushing off to Tropper like this, completely unprepared, was not the way to handle it.
Not that Shane would ever listen to her.
He'd offered to drive. Yeah, right. Like she'd let that happen. No better way to spend your evening than speeding down the highway and suddenly having your car driven by a wolfman, right?
At least she didn't have to sit next to Crabs.
He was in the back seat, doing what he did best: staring ahead creepily. He was thirty-five or thirty-six but looked sixty. The pale freak didn't look like a single ray of sunshine had ever touched his skin; did he think he was a vampire instead? He liked to have a few days' worth of stubble, even though his facial hair grew in weird patches. He never stopped sweating. When she was introduced to him, Robyn had desperately hoped that Crabs' nickname had come from some sort of family business on a seaport, but, no, it was from a college experience with a prostitute.
She didn't even know his real name. He called himself Crabs, as if he was proud to let the world know that a hooker had accepted his money instead of recoiling in disgust. It was probably on his W-2.
Robyn didn't know of any other werewolves anywhere close to them, but even so, she would never hang out with him if she had any choice in the matter. His presence in her life was almost a deal breaker in her relationship with Shane...but the werewolf sex was sooooo good, and she couldn't get that anyplace else.
Crabs had once made a comment (not a joke—Crabs didn't make jokes) about sharing her with Shane, and she'd calmly but firmly informed him that if he ever put that image in her mind again, she would rip his balls off. She wouldn't transform first; she'd just do it with her human fingernails.
He'd offered to just watch instead.
She hated Crabs.
"What are you doing?" she asked Shane.
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're tearing the seat. Put your hand back to normal."
"It's not 'normal,' it's—"
"It's human. I get it. Stop ruining our car."
"Possessions or sanity," said Crabs from the back seat. "Only one can be pristine."
Shane ran his taloned index finger across the seat, just an inch or so, as if to send the message that he'd tear the car seat whenever he felt like it, then changed his hand back to human.
"I need to stop."
"Why?" Robyn asked.
Shane just looked at her.
"Honey, no."
"I need to blow off some steam or I'm going to lose it."
"We've only been driving for half an hour."
"The amount of time that we have been driving is not relevant," said Shane, emphasizing every syllable, the way he spoke to Robyn's mother in the nursing home. "I need to get this out of my system, and unless you want to be the prey, you'll stop being difficult."
"Don't threaten me."
"I wasn't threatening you."
"That was a treat."
"I apologize, then," said Shane. "But I'm headed for a complete meltdown, and I need ten minutes to unleash this, or I'm going to go batshit crazy right here in this car."
"Intercourse is relaxing," said Crabs.
"What about Ally?" asked Robyn.
"Ten minutes," said Shane. "The next exit—no, the one right after that. There's a homeless shelter."
"You've used that shelter before."
"Not in six months."
"Four months."
"What difference does it make? Do you think they have high-tech surveillance equipment at a homeless shelter? One of the bums there can have an extra serving of soup tonight, thanks to us."
"Bum meat is flavorful," said Crabs.
"All right, all right," said Robyn. "But you have to promise me that it'll be quick. And Crabs
Similar Books
