I waited for Will to argue, but he didn't.
"The fewer werewolves for the Weendigo to kill and eat," he said, "the less power he accumulates."
"And if he doesn't have a hundred by the night of the blood moon, I'd say he's screwed." I glanced at Jessie.
"Works for me," she said.
I glanced at the window. The sun was coming up. "Too late today. But tonight - "
Jessie nodded. "Tonight we have some fun."
Neither one of us noticed Will going into the bathroom, but we saw him come out. He held Jessie's blood-spattered uniform in his hands.
"What the hell is this?"
We exchanged glances. I shrugged. He was all hers.
"What does it look like?" Jessie headed for her bedroom. I assumed to get dressed. I know I never like to argue while wearing a towel.
Will followed her. "What happened?"
"Relax, Slick; it's not my blood."
"I'm so relieved."
He didn't sound relieved. He sounded pissed.
I retrieved my gun and slipped out the door. I didn't want to listen to them argue. I definitely didn't want to be around when they made up. Just the thought made my body remember what I'd been doing with Damien about twenty-four hours ago. I wanted to do it again.
That I couldn't only made me want to more.
I drove home as daylight burst over the horizon. I enjoyed sunrise, the end of night. All the dangerous beings with fangs gone to sleep or returned to human form. What wasn't to like?
For the first time I could remember, I pulled into an empty parking lot. Where was everyone?
I climbed out of the car, taking my guns along. Upstairs I set the weapons on the table, took a quick look-see around my apartment. Didn't appear that anyone had been in here lately, except for me. I considered taking a shower and climbing into bed. Then I heard the music.
The notes flew on the early-morning breeze and shot through my window. Not jazz for a change, but a hoof-stomping country tune. Toby Keith singing about the red, white, and blue. I loved that song.
I loved country music. I liked the slow ones and the fast. I liked the easy southern cadence of the words and the long-drawn-out stories they told.
Who was playing country music in an empty bar? Only one way to find out. I went downstairs.
The door was open. I stepped inside.
Half-afraid I'd find Cowboy, I wasn't any happier to see Damien. Well, who had I expected? Elvis?
A huge boom box perched on a table, a stack of CDs at its side. Damien swept the floor with his back to me. I tried to inch out, but he straightened. "Wait."
Toby was informing the world we'd put a boot in their ass; it was the American way. You can see why I like him. He's a man after my own heart.
"I... can't." I kept moving backward. He turned. The anguish on his face stopped me in my tracks.
"What's wrong?"
He shook his head. "Nothing. You're right. You should go."
I should, but now I couldn't. He was upset. Seriously upset. I'd planned to avoid him, as best I could living in his front yard. I'd definitely decided we shouldn't be alone together. I knew what would happen if he came anywhere near me. I had no self-control around him. I'd already proven that.
But he was hurting, badly. I couldn't just run upstairs and go to bed. Even if he did turn down the music.
I inched closer. Toby wanted to talk about me, I, number one. I wanted to talk about Damien.
"Bad night?" I murmured.
He shrugged and returned to sweeping, though the floor seemed pretty damn clean to me.
"Not really. I accomplished what I set out to."
I frowned. "What? Selling more whiskey than rye?"
"No, more beer than tequila."
I couldn't tell if he was joking or not.
"Why are you still here?" I asked.
"Nothing better to do."
Damien and I had a lot more in common than I cared for.
He glanced up. "Where did you take off to in such a hurry before?"
I'd torn out of here after Jessie's call, which had followed my horrible daymare. Just the memory of it made me cold and clammy.
"I had to meet the sheriff."
The truth. Wow. I could tell it.
The music changed. Toby was done and a sweet, swaying ballad began. Trisha Yearwood wondered how she could live without him. How would she ever survive?
I used to love this song as well. Until it hit too close to home.
Suddenly Damien stood directly in front of me, without his broom. He was close, invading my space. I took a step back and stumbled over my own two feet.
His hand snaked out; his arm pressed against my spine. Now I couldn't breathe along with Trisha.
"Damien - " I began.
"Dance with me," he whispered. "Just once."
I could have refused, should have. But he smelled so good - like wind and trees and summertime, with a hint of tobacco that should have been unpleasant but was, instead, tempting.
His skin was warm, his breath balmy against my cheek. When he touched me like this I remembered everything that had happened between us. It had been sex, not love, but I could pretend, and right now I needed to.
I melted against him and we began to move with the music. He was a good dancer, unusual in a man his age.
My grandfather had shown me the waltz, the polka, the fox-trot. No one knew how to dance like a civilized human being anymore. Except Damien. Someone had taught him, just like my grandfather had taught me.
The music swelled, seemed to both surround and fill me. My feet moved next to his in perfect rhythm. As I laid my head on his chest, he pressed his cheek to my hair.
I hadn't realized how lonely I was. My life was full. Of death, sure, but that's the way I wanted it. I didn't have time to miss all I'd lost. Not much anyway. Whenever I did, I moved to another town, shot a dozen more werewolves, and refused to listen to the sobbing little girl in-side of me who missed her mama. I was heap big werewolf hunter; I didn't get to cry. So why did I want to?