“Hope? I’m going to let you go before I drop off. Call me later.”
“Okay. Drive safely.”
Another flash of lightning streaked across the dark horizon up ahead. It had been nothing but blue skies until I hit Dallas. As soon as I’d passed the casino in Oklahoma, the sky turned midnight blue, and headlights lit up the highway in both directions.
Now there was no highway, just miles and miles of trees along the two-lane road. I’d only seen two cars in the past thirty minutes, and there wasn’t anywhere safe to pull over. Every so often, I passed a run-down home with dogs chained up in the front yard.
I reached for the map and flattened it against the steering wheel. Where the heck does this guy live? What if he’s a lion Shifter or some crazy rogue who lives in the woods and decorates his cabin with dead squirrels? For all I knew, I might have been meeting with a Mage or a Vampire, and the thought of some guy sucking my blood or my energy for a high and leaving me on the side of the road left me with a sinking feeling.
Too late to turn back now.
“Good grief. Where’s a gas station when you need one?”
I didn’t have enough light to see the map, not without driving off the road.
“A sign would be helpful,” I muttered. “I’ve passed two intersections with no signs. It’s like they want you to get lost in this state. Welcome to Oklahoma.” I made a sweeping gesture with my arm. “Stay. Forever.”
When “Spanish Eyes” came on, I turned down the volume. Fat drops of rain hammered against the car like wild applause.
“Uh-oh,” I sang. “Please don’t hail.”
Uncle Will loved me, but that was likely to change if his Jeep came home resembling a golf ball with dents all over his beautiful red finish. Men loved their cars, and borrowing a man’s car was like borrowing a child. If anything happened to it while in my care, even an act of God, I would never hear the end of it. Not that he would yell at me, but Uncle Will had a quiet way of getting his disappointment across that was far worse than verbal confrontation.
I reached another intersection and slowed to a stop. The cross street was marked Private Property on both sides, but to the left were several taillights flashing in the distance. The sign also had a paw print in the corner indicating that Shifters were welcome.
A thunderclap made me jump in my seat. “Detour,” I said, turning left.
The meeting wasn’t for several hours, and I suddenly felt like Dorothy on my way to Oz. What I needed to do was stretch my legs, chow down, and study that infernal map. Maybe a few local Shifters would point the way since they knew the territory better than I did. Shifters owned a lot of land in Oklahoma, more than any other Breed—especially in the rural areas.
My wipers frantically swiped across the windshield as I squinted at an orange light. I would settle for any man-made structure. Gas station, corner market, bingo hall… strip club. The woods didn’t bother me so much as the unfamiliarity of a territory where I didn’t belong.
“Oh, thank God.”
The sign actually read Burgers & Fries and had an arrow pointing down. I didn’t care whether that was the name of the restaurant or the only items on the menu—I just wanted to sit down and get my head together before I wound up driving down the wrong road and getting stuck in the mud.
Unable to see any painted lines on the concrete, I parked next to a pickup truck and grabbed my oversized black-and-purple purse.
The second I stepped out of the car, a shower of rain engulfed me. Instantly drenched, I shrieked and ran toward the entrance. I stumbled onto the wooden porch and yanked open the door, the cold air triggering goose bumps all over my wet arms. Cigarette smoke made me wrinkle my nose. Yep, it was definitely a Shifter establishment.
Everyone at the short bar on my left turned to look me over.
Everyone.
Had a DJ been playing instead of a jukebox, I was certain I would have heard a record scratch followed by silence.
Water dripped from the ends of my hair, which fell just past my shoulders. Lucky for me, I’d chosen to wear a loose black tank top instead of a white T-shirt. Not that I had anything newsworthy going on in the northern hemisphere, but it would have made the already-awkward situation even more uncomfortable. The men stared at my patchwork jeans—a favorite pair of mine. Pieces of black fabric patched up the holes and matched my top perfectly. Maybe they think I’m a model.
The thought was enough to make me laugh like a hyena. These guys were undoubtedly sizing me up as a city girl, and based on their indecipherable expressions, that could be either a good thing or a bad thing.
The odds were that most of them were Shifters, and the last thing you did around a Shifter was behave submissively by casting your gaze low to the ground. So I sucked in a breath, held it, and gave everyone a jaunty smile as I strutted in, shoulders squared. My mother used to work in a bar, so she taught me a few tricks of the trade. Never bend over, because that signals to other wolves that you’re interested. Never look submissive, and always hold eye contact. And most of all, never put up with insults. If you let it slide once, they’ll think it’s okay.
And it’s never okay.
I searched for an empty booth and reached the jukebox in the back. A divider wall on my right separated the bar area from another room. When I rounded the corner to see what the seating situation was on the other side, I felt the penetrating stare from dozens of men who filled the booths. With that, I turned on my heel and decided to investigate the dark room behind the bar. I peered through the open doorway and saw nothing but pool tables. Nope, not a chance in hell.
I used to love pool as a kid, but when I was fourteen, my father put a stop to it after he caught a young Shifter licking his lips while I leaned over the table and took a shot. That was when my mother sat down and taught me about the birds and the bees and the wolves. Bending over or showing my back to a Shifter had a meaningful connotation among adults—one that was part of the dance when seeking out a mate.
I pivoted on my heel and lingered by the jukebox before settling on a stool near the end of the bar. Through the mirror behind the bottles, I noticed eyes swinging away as the men lost interest.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.
I set my purse on the bar along with the map. “I’m famished. I’ll have the burger and fries. No pink meat.”
He had a peculiar grin, showing more of his bottom teeth than his top ones. “What to drink?”
“Root beer.”
“Did she say root beer?” a man barked. A few cackles sounded from that direction.
I glared at the man sitting three stools down while unfolding my map. Hope had warned me that the rural areas had pockets of Shifters who were lawless and uncivilized. They considered most outsiders interlopers and treated them accordingly.
The bartender spoke quietly with him, and their direct stares bored a hole into my skull. When he returned with my root beer and popped the lid, someone snickered. Ignoring them, I sent Hope a text.
Melody: I’m in hell.
Hope: I thought you were in Oklahoma.
Melody: It’s raining. Had to pull over.
Hope: Where?
Melody: A tiny bar in no-man’s-land. The roads here are confusing.
Hope: You must be in Shifter territory. They’re not all marked. You okay?
Melody: Just wish you were here. Reception is iffy, so don’t panic if I go quiet for a while.