Daughter on the Run (Sons of Gulielmus Book 2) Page 5

  He gave his head a hard shake and dragged a hand down his face.

  All right, wake up, Wolff. Get it together.

  The lady’s expression was as blank as the white paint in the guest bedroom he hadn’t let his momma loose in yet.

  “Just tell me,” he said wearily. “Is this all an elaborate joke?”

  Julia didn’t respond except to blink at him. She was being serious, apparently.

  He gritted his teeth for a few beats and tapped his foot with impatience. His brain was like sludge at the moment. Every query he tossed into its recesses for it to sort out splattered on impact.

  Tact was out of the question. He didn’t know how to be that anymore.

  “Okay, talk this through with me because you said a lot of unbelievable shit, Prairie Fawn.”

  “I am aware of how it all sounds.”

  “Okay, good, because here’s the thing about what you just said. Demons don’t exist, and neither do vampires, contrary to what certain television networks would have young girls believe.”

  Her cheeks were starting to turn red, so he preemptively put his hands up, palms-out, in a calming gesture.

  “Lady, is there somebody you want me to call? Your family, maybe? Your real one? I mean, I seriously doubt they’d let you go if they knew what kind of stuff you’re telling folks. I knew my luck had to give out soon. Figured I’d be okay holed up like this, never seeing the public, but I guess The Fates are getting their goddamned chuckles by sending trouble right to my front door. Naturally, trouble would have to look like a fantasy come to life, huh?”

  He hadn’t meant to say that last part aloud, but what was said couldn’t be un-said. He owned his words.

  She was stunning. She was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen on two legs.

  Or four.

  “I don’t know how to convince you,” she said in a watery tone. “I don’t know much about this at all. I’m as stunned by it as you are!”

  Ah, hell, she’s gonna cry.

  He scrubbed his face again and groaned.

  He never knew what to do with criers. Wolves weren’t generally so emotional, at least, not in that way. They were good at rage, but not so much with vulnerability.

  And alpha wolves certainly were expected to keep themselves zipped up and steady. The smallest sign of weakness for him could get him challenged for his position or worse—killed.

  “King Arthur wouldn’t believe that story,” Calvin said, “and you know what kind of company he kept. Or at least, I assume you do. Given that obviously backward upbringing of yours, who knows?”

  She just looked at him blankly.

  But then her face crumpled, her shoulders slumped and her face kind of crumpled.

  She was even gorgeous when she was about to cry.

  Calvin felt his resolve slipping. Whether it was the man part of him or the wolf, he didn’t know. He just knew he felt like a shit for hurting her feelings.

  Julia sniffed wetly, but as Calvin opened his mouth to tell her not to take offense to anything he said, she set her shoulders and raised her chin. “Okay. Fine. It doesn’t matter.” She grabbed her bag and took several tentative steps back to the door.

  Apparently, she really did mean to flee.

  You moldy-brained fucker, the wolf in him snarled in that sharp, clear voice again, and suddenly Calvin’s mouth was calling out, “Wait!”

  She stopped abruptly. It wasn’t one of those “I’m stopping because all I wanted was attention in the first place” stops, either. It was a “Too scared to go farther because that sound he made wasn’t human” stop.

  There’d been a little too much fry, a little too much wolf’s growl in that one-word command.

  He was standing center-stage in a shit-show and was one of the leading players. His normal inclination would be to immediately exit stage-right, but the fucking wolf part of him wouldn’t let him. There was something unusual about the woman.

  And once more, before he could stop them, words were tumbling past his lips and his inner wolf was gripping the metaphorical megaphone.

  “You’re hired,” Calvin said. “Fuck, you’re hired. Don’t go.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Frustrated, Julia worried the collar of her borrowed flannel overshirt and stared at the computer screen.

  Two weeks on the job, she couldn’t keep avoiding the frustrating machine.

  The first time Calvin had tried to introduce her to the device, she’d accidentally uninstalled his security camera software. The second time, she’d tried to use a web browser and had put in some benign search phrase, only to end up in an endless loop of pornographic pop-ups.

  Mortified, she’d called out to Calvin for help, and he’d entered the home office, leaned onto the back of the chair, and muttered, “Lord have mercy, she’s flexible, isn’t she?” He’d laughed, and after getting rid of all the windows, he’d teased, “Doing research?”

  Her face had burned so hotly that her ears popped.

  Fortunately, he’d disappeared for a few days after that, and she didn’t have to keep reliving the humiliation every time he looked at her.

  She didn’t know where he went. He’d marched solemnly to the door with his mouth set in a grimace. His breathing was sharp and erratic like he was itching to start a fight. All he’d said was, “I’ll be back.”

  During the first couple of days, she was fine. She got to know his house a little without worrying about him watching her explore. And she managed to finally shake off that niggling anxiety that by escaping the compound, she was destroying any chance for her mother and remaining siblings to thrive.

  But she’d decided that above all, they’d want her to be safe and happy. She wasn’t going to feel guilty anymore about having decided to change her circumstances.

  After a couple of days of Calvin’s absence, however, she’d started to worry he wouldn’t return and that she wouldn’t be able to stay.

  On the fourth day, she’d gotten panicked enough about his unknown whereabouts and all the mysterious and creaky sounds his lofty cabin was making that she’d been prepared to make a run for it or to try to call some of those “only for emergencies” phone numbers her brothers had given to her. As an extra layer of protection, they’d told her to avoid making any internet or telephone record links between her and them. They wanted her to be as invisible as possible out in the real world.

  She’d had on her shoes and had her bag strapped to her back when Calvin finally returned in the same wrinkled sweat clothes he’d left in.

  He’d given her a confused look like he didn’t know who she was or why she was there. After a minute, he’d recovered and muttered about needing a shower.

  Mostly he avoided her.

  And mostly, she carried on like she knew what she was doing when in truth, she didn’t. Not with the work, and certainly not with Calvin.

  She’d whined to Charles about that when she’d managed to reach him on his cell phone one eerie night when the sounds of the woods were starting to play tricks on her mind. She’d told Charles everything—about the squabbling, Calvin’s snapping at her, and his mysterious retreat.

  After a minute of silence, Charles had said, “Without being there, I can’t say for certain what’s going on. If he thinks you’re not of sound mind, just wait it out if you can.”

  “What’s going on?” she’d asked. “It’s hard not hearing from you. I’m not used to this.”

  “I know. You kind of walked into a rodeo without knowing you did and are still expected to jump on a bull and hold on tight for a hell of a lot longer than eight seconds. I hate to say it. That’s just how our world is.”

  Eventually, she’d have to accept that.

  “We’re trying to see if there’s any possible way John could actually take you in. You know that we’ve been worried that with the two of you having similar genetics and energy, your proximity will make both of you more susceptible to supernatural harassment.”

  “There’s no way of kn
owing? No way at all?”

  Charles had expelled a dry laugh. She was coming to learn that her brother wasn’t much for laughing. When he did, it didn’t usually bode well. “Unsurprisingly, there isn’t any research on this shit. I guess we’re sort of a test case. You all right otherwise? Tell me the truth.”

  “Just lonely, but yes.”

  He’d grunted. “Yeah, I don’t imagine you were built for solitude—not the way Claude and I were. Listen, call back for any reason if you need to. I mean it. If you want to eject, we’ll come to get you and we’ll figure out something else on the fly.”

  She’d given Charles a weak “Okay” and disconnected.

  On-edge as she was, she didn’t call again.

  Her brothers were not only trying so hard to keep her safe, but to also extract her mother and younger siblings from the compound. She wouldn’t be so selfish as to interfere with their work in that regard.

  The safety of her siblings was far more important than any minor discomfort she felt around Calvin Wolff.

  I’ll endure. Just like always.

  Calvin shambled out of his bedroom and stood in the office doorway, giving her what seemed to be an unseeing look.

  Straightening up, she hid her phone inside her shirt and carefully typed in the snoozing computer’s password.

  “You answer my fan mail?” he said in an expulsion of sounds that was more grunting than language.

  She opened her mouth to ask how, precisely, she should do that.

  Before she could get the words out, he turned on his heels and headed off.

  A moment later, his bedroom door slammed.

  She blinked at the empty doorway, perplexed and more than a little annoyed.

  She was used to ill-mannered men—she’d grown up navigating all sorts of conversational landmines with them. Calvin was on a whole other plane of rudeness.

  Groaning, she gave the little baseball-shaped stress foam she’d found in the guest room nightstand a hard squeeze. It went everywhere with her. It’d become her one vice in that big, lonely house that she technically wasn’t alone in.

  “At least it’s comfortable, I guess,” she muttered as she rolled up her sleeves and gave the computer a business-like stare. “Count your blessings. Now, let’s get to work. Come hell or high water, I intend to become your master, Internet.”

  She smeared a bit of dust off the sleek monitor and took a moment to admire the high-end machine. The computer she’d used once or twice back at the compound was a big plastic thing that took up half a desk, and it only had two functions. One was for the bookkeepers to track supplies and family allotments in the clunky spreadsheet program. The other was to screen brainwashing videos to the occasional wayward devotee.

  Julia had been one of those wayward devotees once. Technically, she’d been caught with her skirt hiked up and her legs wrapped around the thighs of the milk delivery driver.

  She’d been twenty then, and still dependent on the leader’s largesse to make her a match. Even if he had found someone for her then, no doubt it would’ve been someone old and lecherous and she would have just run off sooner, with or without her brothers’ help. The milkman, Loren, had been practically a cliché—tall, dark and handsome—and he’d been flirting with her for months. He was so patient. Sweet, even.

  He’d stirred things in her she’d always been taught not to stoke. He was young, worldly, vital, and he’d looked at her out of all the others. Naturally, she’d been flattered. When they became a threat to the middle-aged set, young men at the compound usually were sent away the same way they’d tried to send John away.

  Julia had tried to avoid Loren at first, but how long was she supposed to accept not being looked at that way—not being touched when she wanted it? By whomever she wanted to be doing the touching? What the hell did people expect? Seemed like a basic human need to her, but the cult had preached that she should err on the side of caution and covet nothing.

  Sometimes, the line between needs and wants blurred.

  After that, they’d tried to reprogram her, but it hadn’t worked. She’d always been a secret skeptic, unlike her vocal brother John. Unlike him, she’d had no choice but to toe the line, because she was just a woman with no education. If she were thrown out, who would want her? Who’d hire her?

  “No one. That’s who,” she murmured.

  She clicked the email program open and, holding her breath, let her gaze drift. Her stare landed on the framed picture next to the computer.

  It hadn’t been there before. Calvin sometimes moved things around at night when she was asleep. She’d found his nighttime redecorating proclivities strange at first, but they’d become just one more idiosyncrasy about him that she filed away and tried not to think about. If she thought about him, she’d spend too many minutes trying to figure him out, and that made her head hurt.

  In the picture, a trio of baseball players in pinstriped uniforms embraced and mugged for the camera. Calvin, at the far right, looked to be in his early twenties. The good looks were there, but the weariness that now resided at the corners of his eyes hadn’t settled in yet.

  What had made Calvin so tired? He couldn’t possibly want for anything, living in a place so grand. The house she’d lived in back in the compound had been large, but her stepfather had a merry-go-round of wives to shelter. Besides, that place had been no-frills and uncomfortable. Didn’t even have fully plumbed bathrooms.

  Does Calvin miss baseball, maybe? His friends?

  Did he even have friends? As far as she knew, none had come by since she’d been there, and she hadn’t yet left, so she’d know.

  How strange.

  She pulled the frame closer and tipped it back to remove the glare. His number was 28. He played for some team called the Land Sharks.

  Maybe good-looking was an understatement. He’d, literally, taken her breath away when he opened his front door. He was nearly sinful to look at. His hair was so dark it was nearly black, and he wore it a little long, but not nearly as long as Charles, whose appearance was redolent of the inscrutable heads-of-households in old gothic novels.

  Calvin didn’t have many books on his shelves, but he had a tablet with a reading app, and one night when a storm had raged and the satellite connection had gone out, he’d tossed it onto the foot of her bed and said, “It has 4G access. Buy what you want.”

  She’d gone on a twenty-dollar e-book buying spree.

  Calvin had marvelous hazel eyes, though one looked a little darker than the other; that’s why she’d stared that day on the porch. His lips always seemed to be on the cusp of either a grin or a smirk, and she wasn’t sure which she liked more. Even if he was teasing her, it was okay, because it meant he’d smile.

  Not that she’d seen that smile in days. She’d seen more of his dirty dishes appearing in the sink than the man who’d soiled them.

  She was starting to wonder if her actual fated existence with the man for her to be ignored.

  Claude said he would love me. Of all people to be such an optimist…

  She scoffed.

  “Well, hello to you, too, Prairie Fawn.”

  At the sound of Calvin’s vexation-tinged voice from the office doorway, Julia hastily set the photo back into place. The last thing she needed was to be caught ogling it like some kind of lovestruck child. She’d already told him she was no fan of his, and she intended to act like it. That was the only strand of power she had—not letting him think his past successes intimidated her. In her estimation, he wasn’t interested in accomplishing much of anything anymore, except hiding and brooding.

  Mr. Broody crossed his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow. “I’ve been thinking. If you want to go shopping or something, get you some shirts that don’t have Calvin Wolff taint, I can call you a cab.”

  “A…cab?” She looked down at the red-and-blue plaid and hooked her fingers beneath the hem. She’d been wearing it over her blouses and dresses pretty much every day because it was warm and had be
come part of her uniform, in a way. “You want your shirt back?”

  “I’ve got lots of shirts. Clean ones, too, thanks to you. You don’t need to iron them, by the way.” He stepped into the room, leisurely, and stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets. “Ironing’s for fancy people. I don’t go anywhere where I would need it.”

  “I don’t know where you go when you leave,” she murmured, and immediately hated the snarky tinge to her tone. Cult girls weren’t allowed to be unpleasant, especially not about the things their men did or didn’t do.

  If Calvin noticed the disgruntlement in her tone, he didn’t address it. He simply leaned against the other side of the doorframe and dragged his tongue across his lips. “Nowhere that ironing would be expected. That’s all that matters.”

  “Well. I’m sorry if it bothered you. I was taught to always iron my clothes. I assumed you’d want the same.”

  He nodded. “Fancy.”

  “Fancy and off my rocker, hmm?”

  The slow smile that had been spreading on his lips faltered.

  “I guess I can’t blame you. Sounds ridiculous, right? Succubus?” She scoffed, but it was no joke to her.

  Neither of them had broached the topic in two weeks, but to Julia, it’d always felt like the elephant in the room.

  Noncommittally, he nodded again and hooked a thumb toward the living room. “Why don’t you take a break? Bloodsport is on. Everyone should see it once.”

  “I ain’t your pal, dickface,” she recited on impulse and immediately clapped her hand over her mouth.

  “Dickface” wasn’t a word that well-raised young women used.

  Rolling her eyes at herself, she dropped her hand. She could hardly be considered well-raised. Being reared well wasn’t supposed to resemble brainwashing.

  He raised both of those expressive eyebrows. “You’ve already seen it?”

  “It was on my favorite channel last night, last thing before the infomercials started.”

  “Infomercials start at three a.m.”

  She shrugged. She didn’t keep track of the time so well at that part of the night. There was no huge difference between one dark part of the day and another.