Page 22 of House of Wolves
“I’m fine.” My smile fades.
Brick clears his throat and stands. “Okay, well, we should get going.”
I want to say that we have all the time in the world since he so rudely decided to show up early. Thankfully, for his sake, I’m always ready a bit early. I’d like to have more time with Red and Cameron to discuss the plan for this dinner or even just some time to decompress, but nope. Brick is set on making my life difficult. Instead of lying and saying I’m almost ready and hiding out with Red for some time, I nod, plastering on a small smile. “Yep, let’s get going.” Besides, I don’t want Cameron to reveal everything before the plan starts. He’s a mess with the baby on the horizon. One second, he’s about to kill everyone in sight; the next, he’s cuddling Red like a lost puppy. He’s not on his A-game, and having Brick around him for any more time is a risk.
I step closer to Brick, taking in his strong, musky scent. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever smelt before—his own personal fragrance. If I had to name something similar, I’d say smoke, but that could just be because everything about him reminds me of smoke—harsh, illusive, something for secrets to hide in. I stare up at him, still impossibly tall even in my heels, and I’m not very short. He stares down at me. His gaze intense and hard to read. He doesn’t scan me over like I did when I first caught his new look. Instead, his eyes tether to mine as if looking away would be too dangerous. But then his eyes drift to the top of my head. He reaches out, and my breath stops. He grabs a strand of my hair between two fingers. “Did you burn your hair?” he asks, a smile inching up the corner of his lips.
I’m knocked out of whatever the hell he just pulled me into. I take a step back, my hard exterior dropping back in place. “Red did it.” Is all I muster, biting my lip from saying more. No compliments on my appearance or kind gesture, just scrutiny. How very Brick of him. I’m still convinced he’s attempting to draw me in as much as I am to him, but he’s not trying very hard. Or maybe he’s just doing what I’m doing—not wanting to lay it on too thick to seem unbelievable. Only one of us can win at this game, and there’s no universe where a wolf doesn’t outsmart a pig.
10
Pig Dinner
Thereisonlyonesemi-fancy restaurant in town, so I don’t even ask Brick where we’re heading. We drive through the quiet streets of Dayton in his gray, old-fashioned Buick. If he weren’t so good-looking, it would look like a car for a serial killer. Except he very well may be a murderer, so it actually fits him in a whole Ted Bundy type of way. I attempt to start a conversation, pointing to an old building as we pass. “It looks like they’re renovating the McClary House. I hope they don’t strip it of all its character.”
He shrugs. “Yeah, we’ll see.”
I study his clean-shaven side profile. The pores on his chin are already dark with his smoky hair, wanting to peek through. He grips the steering wheel, his knuckles white. Am I annoying him already? What’s the point of this dinner if he doesn’t want to talk to me? This is going to be a long date. Maybe if I’m lucky, it’ll be so dull for him too, that he’ll rush right through it and take me home full and unscathed. But even as the hopeful thought passes my consciousness, I know that can’t be my goal. He won’t fall in love with me if I’m boring. I need to stroke his ego, at least. Besides, he’s trying to get something from me as much as I’m trying to get something from him. It should be fairly easy to get him to keep me around.
I abandon my attempts to create small talk on the way to the restaurant. Maybe he gets car sick. Hell, if I know. Just when the silence is about to wither away my last ounce of reserve, Brick pulls into an empty parking spot at, low and behold, Gwendolyn’s, the town's only nice Italian restaurant. Thankfully, the place has a kick-ass chicken parm and a superb wine list, but unfortunately, I’m not drinking tonight. I have to do this date stone-cold sober, and I already could use a drink.
I fidget while stuffing my phone into my small purse and unbuckling my seat belt. I startle when my door opens. I turn to Brick holding the door for me, looking straight ahead instead of my quizzical stare. “Thank you,” I say as I exit the car. He grunts with a nod and leads me into the restaurant.
It’s a Tuesday night, so the place is pretty bare. We’re seated at a white linen table in the middle of the low-lit restaurant and given a small drink menu each. I pretend to examine the contents. Before the hostess even leaves, Brick clears his throat. “Get me a scotch on the rocks.” The young woman, who’s not our server, nods, a slight panic in her eyes. I have half a mind to yell at him and tell him to cool his jets. I used to be a server, and it’s not easy when guests try to order things from the hosts, but I let it slide. He’s desperate for a drink, and I won’t get in his way.
The real waitress comes back shortly, scotch in tow, and takes my drink order of a Diet Coke. Before she leaves, Brick takes a big sip of his beverage and orders another one. Jesus Christ, I hope he’s coherent enough to register the fake information I plant.
I fold my hands before me when we're alone again, trying to gain Brick’s attention. He’s fidgety, scratching at his long sleeves. “Brick,” I call.
He smiles and finally looks me in the eyes. “You know my name isn’t Brick, right?”
“Your name isn’t Brick?” Great, I’m on a date with a man whose name I don’t even know.
He smiles and finishes his first drink with a big gulp. He doesn’t even flinch as the alcohol runs down his throat. “Well, it’s my last name.”
Yeah, that makes sense. I laugh. It seems to shock him, and his eyes grow wide as he takes me in, his gaze flicking from my lips to my eyes. “Okay, what’s your name?” I ask.
“It’s Bryce.”
“Bryce.” I roll the word around on my tongue. It suits him, I guess. “Can I keep calling you Brick?”
“Call me whatever you want.” His eyes sear into mine. The waitress places his next drink beside him, and he takes a sip without breaking eye contact. His disposition changes by the second. One minute, he seems about to jump out of his skin, the next, he holds me with a stare only fit for a man in control. He almost reminds me of a Were on the brink of a Blood Moon. The more I get to know him, the more I doubt we share paranormal ancestry. He’s different, even more different than my furry flavor.
“Do you guys know what you’d like yet?” the waitress asks in a high-energy voice.
I hadn’t even looked over the menu, but I don’t want to make this dinner any longer than it needs to be. “Do you have a special?” I ask.
“Yes, tonight’s special is a balsamic glazed porchetta.”
“That’s pork, right?” Brick asks, his tone all business.
“Yes.”
“No, we’re not getting that.” He looks back down at his menu.
I grab the waitress’ attention, silently pleading for forgiveness for my counterpart's rudeness. I guess he’s deciding what I can and cannot eat. Maybe he’s Jewish and doesn’t eat pork. Fuck if I know. “I’ll have the chicken parmesan, please.” I study Brick, wondering if he will refuse that as well.
He passes his menu to the waitress. “I’ll have the same.” He gives a polite nod and takes another sip of his drink. “And another one of these.” Jesus fucking Christ. This guy is either an alcoholic or about to be hammered.
