Wolf Box Set

Chapter 2: November-1

Chapter 2: NovemberStep. And pause. Step. And pause. Lower head to ground and paw at the dirt.

The scent should not have been so strong. Why was the draw so insistent? Why did it call again and again, time after time, urging him back to stare through lit windows and watch the man behind the glass? Why did this man make his teeth itch and his spine twitch?

Hunger of a kind he did not want—could not want—lurched inside his guts. It was the kind of frustrating need that made him want to lift his head to the sky and let loose a wretched wail. And as he did just that, and the echo of the howl bounced over the hills and the rock, another’s reached out and harmonized along with him.

* * * *

It wasn’t that Randy spent the next two days watching for Lyle to show up; it was more that he spent the time hoping Lyle would, or even that Vaughn might, for some reason, insist that Lyle do so. Apparently, Vaughn didn’t. Instead, the O’Connells resumed their elusiveness immediately. Though it was inevitable that their paths crossed occasionally, and even though Randy continued to try and catch their attention with the occasional wave, the family carried along as if they didn’t even notice.

It was the sound of the school bus that had Randy hovering at his bedroom window, not his pondering over the whys and whats of his neighbors’ oddities. While he knew that wise men shouldn’t stand at their window grinning at kids fumbling out of their home with backpacks half on and their jackets askew while munching toast or waffles, he couldn’t help himself. The change in the kids always made him smile. Sure, they left the house like church mice, closing the door just so and stepping down the stairs, but the minute they crossed the street and rushed up the metal steps of the bus, their real personalities came bursting out. The girl appeared to be a real talker. In a heartbeat she’d pop into a seat beside one of the other girls her age, and with their heads close together, they’d start chattering like squirrels on a sugar rush. The youngest boy was a study in contrasts when compared to his sullen father and moody older brother, often shoulder-checking and seat-jumping while his backpack lay abandoned at the rear of the bus.

On more than one occasion, Randy had found himself musing over the fact that the two of them must live for their time away at school. For some reason, he was pretty comfortable with his assumption that lively conversation and stimulating family fun were not exactly running rampant at the O’Connell residence.

He stood at the window long after the bus had ground to a stop, had accepted its passengers, and then had driven off in a trembling, grumbling puff of exhaust. A frost had settled the previous night and everything as far as the eye could see looked like it had been painted with ice. Crystals sparkled off windshields and lampposts, bare trees and pine needles had been whitewashed, and the pumpkins he’d dragged home for Thanksgiving, sitting by the walkway in what he hoped was an artistic pile, wore glassy flushes. It gave the yard a Norman Rockwell feeling of nostalgia, and it was a nice feeling. It felt like he was doing something normal for a change instead of just existing.

For the most part holiday decorations were out of character for him, and had his parents not mentioned their interest in coming up on the long weekend, the trend of not throwing money away on useless flair would have continued. Besides, nobody but Randy would have got the chance to see it anyway. There were no guests; his friends were miles away, and even on the days when one could have all but guaranteed random visitors, he’d been disappointed. Not a single child had walked up his driveway on Halloween.

Randy turned away from the view in frustration. Once an outside, always an outsider. Once a city brat, always a city brat.

Had it been a normal morning, Randy might have decided to merely turn back to his bed, climb in, and sleep the morning away. There was nothing like a four-hour nap after a twelve-hour sleep to silence the woe-is-mes. But since pumpkins were all he’d found that would be considered a suitable complement to a Thanksgiving dinner, especially one worthy of The Honorable Judge Carleton-Connor and husband, he was going to have to make an appearance in the town of Dayton, at the very least. He’d debated going farther, into Sheridan, but the thought of driving through the city (albeit as small as it was and not nearly as chaotic as DC.) already had him shuddering. Dayton would do. And if there wasn’t a single fresh turkey to be found, they’d eat chicken. And if that was insufficient, or if it caused his mother to curl her lip disdainfully, then so be it. His dad would be happy, regardless.

The shock of the temperature change from inside to outside had Randy catching his breath and snugging up the leather jacket he’d pulled out of the closet. It was downright cold out, and Old Man Winter was, if not already settling in for a long stay, tapping everyone’s shoulders to advise he was on the way. Randy considered switching the jacket for something warmer but gave in to vanity. It might not be the best choice for the weather, but it looked damn good. Besides, he’d be in the truck. It had heat.

His breath was a pleasant distraction; each puff released a luxurious drift of vapor that danced against his face before swirling away to reunite with the bulging clouds. Jubilant crows called from tree to tree, braying out hilarious announcements and completing each one with a brusque haw-haw-haw. Evergreen trees twitched in breezes too high to be felt and filled the air with the sharp, fresh scent of pine. The sun, though too weak to warm, was still bright enough to shower brilliance over rimed surfaces. He was humming as he tromped out to the driveway, relishing the sound of crispy grass below his Converses.

The door to the truck was stuck, but nothing a good solid pull couldn’t fix, and he slid himself across to the leather seat. For all of one second. Then he was bracing against the floor in an effort to keep his ass off the arctic textile. Randy clucked his tongue with distaste; surely denim should have more of an ability to keep in heat, even ones as thin as the pair he’d selected.

He turned the key and the pickup roared itself awake, then ran through its process of revving up, then down, then up, then down. He flipped on the heat, set it to blow against the heavily patterned glass, and then blew on his hands while he waited for the vehicle to defrost. The side window was the only one that afforded a view, so he turned in the seat to catch a few moments of peaceful introspection. The radio droned an old country song, the station the only one that seemed to come in clearly without satellite, but it was better than nothing, and he was getting used to the genre. If there was one thing Randy could relate to at this point of his life, it was the lonely and the uninspired.

It took two of those songs to clear the windows enough to see. It took so long in fact, that Randy lifted a hand to the vent and frowned at the cool air that pumped on to the glass. Biting the inside of his cheek and hoping it was a short-lived problem, Randy shifted the truck into reverse, and turned his attention to the rear window. Proper vision was paramount for trying to manipulate a vehicle down the narrow driveway, and even after months of driving the truck, Randy wasn’t completely comfortable with such an awkward chunk of machinery under his direction. He pressed on the pedal, the truck grumbled an apology, and then followed it with a sick bubbling noise.

Randy’s groan of the word, “No…” was both multisyllabic and rich in whine.

With a long string of expletives and a couple of poorly placed kicks, Randy opened the driver’s door. The sound was even worse outside the truck. So, he did what he’d seen every well-educated, intelligent man do in that situation—he popped open the hood and stared at the engine with an absent, confused expression for a long, long moment. And he came to two conclusions: yep, it was definitely an engine; and yep, it was definitely making noise.

He ran his hand through his hair, taking a moment to compliment himself in silence on how sleek it felt. He reminded himself how great he’d felt when he slipped into the jacket and kept his breath calm and even. Yes, he reasoned, he should have made a point to get into town earlier in the week instead of waiting until the day before his parents were expected. No, he couldn’t possibly have been expected to know something was going to happen to the truck. Granted, yes, it would probably be difficult to get a mechanic to work on it over a holiday weekend. Still. He was going to stay calm. It would be a good day.

Strength. Control. He was fine.

Perhaps, he considered, just perhaps, some people might get upset while staring into the bubbling, spewing mess of an engine that he’d only had for three months. Some folks might be concerned that they were going to get hosed up the kazoo (in an entirely unpleasant way) because they were the new kid on the block and didn’t have anyone to look out for them. Not him, though. He was staying calm. He was remaining rational. He might end up having to serve his parents cream of mushroom soup for Thanksgiving, but he was not going to lose it. He would probably have to humiliate himself in front of a local mechanic, and knowing his luck, it would wind up being some grinning, grease-covered, money-hungry leech. But he was fine.

Randy closed his eyes and steadied himself against the open hood, leaning over the dissentious pile of mechanical mayhem, refusing to acknowledge the headache that was starting to pound in both temples when the engine suddenly cut off. Silence filled the yard, right down to the overtly vocal crows.

He backed away, staring wide-eyed at the quiet engine, trying to ignore the voice in his head telling them that he’d f****d it up real good. As if it would somehow help, Randy reached up and slammed the hood shut, breathing with the hard rush that suggested rising panic, and caught the apathetic gaze of Lyle through the windshield.

Lyle sat in the front seat, half in and half out of the cab. He held up the keys and smiled a smile that did nothing to light the rest of his face. “Probably not a good idea to leave ‘er running.”

Heat rushed over Randy’s skin. Be it the embarrassment of being caught in a moment of weakness, or the mortification of living up to the preconceived notions of helpless newbie, all Randy could hope for was the possibility that the ground would give way and allow him direct admission to Hell. Or a sudden, brutal heart attack. Either one would be acceptable, and welcomed.

“Lyle.” Randy ran a hand over his face, although whether he was checking for angry tears or trying to hide color, he wasn’t sure. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

“Mm-hmm.” Lyle slid out and handed Randy the keys, keeping far enough away that Randy had to reach for them. “So, you got yourself some trouble?”

Lyle’s eyes trailed over Randy’s outfit, the jacket and the sneakers, and Randy didn’t need to think that hard about why Lyle’s assessment made him feel like even more of an i***t. Lyle didn’t have to say what he was thinking; the words were written all over his face. Stupid city brat.

Randy spoke without thinking, “I’m sorry.”

Lyle frowned, lifting his eyes to catch Randy’s gaze. “For what? Breaking your truck?”

“For…“Randy’s voice trailed and his tongue fumbled as the rest of him got caught up in the intensity of Lyle’s eyes. The yellow flames inside the round light brown eyes danced with the reflection of the sun. They were almost exact duplicates of Vaughn’s, and they piqued Randy’s interest with the same force that Vaughn’s had. Releasing a long-held breath, he lowered his head. Eighteen, Randy told himself angrily. Stop that.