But where should we go?
I keep us headed for the four-oh-five, but decide that instead of going west to Santa Monica, we’ll go east, through Hollywood to Los Feliz. Jacques owns several safe houses, and I pick one at random. They’re all sturdy and secure, but Connor helped Jacques buy this place, so maybe my choice wasn’t entirely random.
For the first time since I lost him, Connor’s memory doesn’t gut me. Instead, I get a bittersweet twinge because yeah, one time a real man cared about what happened to me. Rather than ruminate on the change, I glance at my passenger. “So who’s after you?”
He gives a “tsk” of disgust. “Who’s after you?”
I shake my head, tapping the brakes to avoid hitting a Prius with a speed problem. “No one I know about.”
We sit in silence for the better part of two miles. “Yeah, you’re right,” he finally says. “It’s probably me. I’ve got”—he turns his face to the ceiling, and for just a moment, there’s a crack in his armor—“family stuff.”
I barely keep myself from laughing at the cliché. Of course, the son of the American Were Authority Alpha would have family stuff. He needs to stop with the vulnerability, though. His one or two glimmers of sadness give me a perverse need to comfort him.
David’s phone chirps, and he glances at it and fires off a response. “Wants me to live in her goddamn back pocket,” he mutters. Straightening in his seat, he glares at his own knees. “Might be hard to believe, Guido, but even in the twenty-first century, some people don’t think a gay can be an alpha.”
His bitterness burns. When his phone chirps again, once, then twice, he ignores it.
I’m not sure if I should respond to his last crack or not. After a beat, I decide to shift our direction. “Let’s not narrow our options too quickly. I’ve been thinking—”
“Be careful, hero. Don’t hurt yourself.” He flaps both hands like he’s waving off smoke from my overheated brain. He’s not quite smiling, but the bravado is back.
And just like that, I want to punch him in the mouth. “At any rate,” I continue, fighting a grin, “Jacques knows we’re together. Maybe he’s got an agenda, either to make trouble with the wolves”—though if Jacques is taking a swing at the American Alpha, I’m not the only one with a death wish—“or take me out”—always a possibility—“or kill two birds with one exploding room service tray.”
“S. M. H.” David rolls his eyes. “I can’t believe you fell for the old exploding-room-service-tray trick.” His giggle edges toward hysterical.
With a sound that’s half groan, half laugh, I merge into the high-speed lane on the freeway. “You’re right about one thing.”
“What’s that?” he asks absently. He pulls out his phone and turns it around in his hands.
“Someone could know where my condo is. We’re heading for a safe house.”
“Mm? Where?”
Watching him inspect his phone is distracting me from the road. “In the hills above Hollywood. What’s wrong?”
He gives me a bleak look. “They could be tracking me through my phone.”
Before I can respond, he flings it out the window.
“Now they can’t.”
The silence returns, but shorter this time.
“I’ll call Sheena and ask her to take you to get a new phone in the morning.”
He blinks a couple of times, his youth showing through the bravado. “Thanks. If I go too long without responding to my sister’s texts, she’ll get the whole pack agitated.”
We wouldn’t want that. Keeping my mouth shut and my eyes on the road, I steer us to safety.
OXO
When a vampire is powerful enough to start siring other vamps, the results are halfway between family and a murder of crows. The sire is responsible for everyone’s security; therefore, Jacques’s string of safe houses with vampire-ready rooms.
I’d tried to talk Jacques out of buying this particular house, a big Spanish barn on the end of Wild Oak Drive. The neighbors are too close, for one thing, but he likes the view of the Hollywood sign and the rumors of a notorious history involving pretty young boys and lines of cocaine.
David surveys the marble floor, wrought iron trim, and spacious living room as if hiding out in million-dollar homes is his standard. We drag his bags to the closest bedroom, the only one on the main floor.
I wonder how long it’s been since he had something to eat. “The kitchen should be stocked,” I say, pointing him down the hall. “Well, there won’t be much fresh stuff, but you should be able to scrounge something.”
“Not hungry.” He kicks off his shoes, slides off his hoodie, and crosses the living room. There’s a lanai running all along the front of the house with a view down into the canyon. We’re isolated, but not isolated enough.
I stop him when he tries to open the door to the lanai. “Don’t go out there.” The living room doesn’t have near enough furniture for the space, but rather than crowd him, I pause next to the large leather sofa.
“Why? No one knows we’re here.”
He’s right, but no one knew we were going straight from the airport to that gay bar either. “Don’t want to give anyone a target.”
Knocking the door frame with the side of his fist, he gives me a disgusted once-over. “I was supposed to get laid tonight, and instead, here I am with a guy with blood on his shirt.”
I tug on my wrecked crewneck. At least my wounds from the nail-bomb have healed. “I’ll go change.”
“Where’s the remote?” He gestures to the flat-screen television opposite the windows taking up most of the wall.
I shrug, irritated by his demanding tone. “Somewhere.” I leave him in the living room, muttering curses. Those curses turn to laughter when I return wearing Mickey Mouse. A gift from Sheena, I brought the faded T-shirt for sleep, and it’s the only other thing in my bag that hasn’t been shredded.
“Well, look at the badass vampire now.” David points the remote at me. “You look gay enough to watch Dancing with the Stars with me.”
Great. He’s found the remote. I should have disconnected the cable. The dancers on the big screen are spinning fast enough to make me dizzy, or maybe it’s the volume, so loud the bass is pounding on my sternum. “I still need to call Sheena.” Any excuse to escape.
“Can I borrow your phone first?”
“Why?”
“To text Abby, my sister.” He stretches both arms over his head, showing off tufts of soft brown hair, and I’m caught by the urge to nuzzle against him, to burrow into his sweet and earthy scent.
“Might as well have hung onto your own phone.” I hold out my iPhone. The last thing I wanted was a string of text messages from every member of the Collins Pack. “Have her delete this number after she sees your text.”