“Listen, Clay, I know you think I’m the one for you...” I paused, and decided to change my approach. Choosing my words carefully, I started again. “I don’t have a sense of smell to depend on, like you do. Although, the Elders say to trust the instinct of werewolves, I don’t trust blindly.” Clay hadn’t moved. We stood maybe five feet apart with the front quarter panel of the truck separating us. I couldn’t read his expression or anything in his body language to hint at what he might be thinking.
I decided just to say what I wanted. “I really want to go home. If I asked to borrow someone else’s car, would it live?”
He turned away from me and continued with his examination of the truck, his body language easy to translate.
“Ok. I’ll take that as a ‘No’,” I mumbled more to myself than him.
He surprised me by turning back toward me again, waiting. I struggled to decipher his mood from his face. His ridiculously long and shaggy facial hair covered most of his face, including his mouth, obliterating any trace of a smile or frown.
“Clay, I’m not trying to be rude here, but I’m struggling to figure us out. What’s the plan?” No visible response. “Am I just supposed to stay here until you decide I’m not really your mate?” I hated saying that word. Again, nothing. “Would it help speed things along if we spent a little time together?” This time a shrug. One-way conversations rarely worked well when trying to get to know someone. “Do you talk?” And again, I lost his attention to the truck engine. “Ok. No talking. Got it.”
Did being raised in his fur mean he’d turned feral? The thought of spending time with a Tarzan mentality werewolf, worried me. Who knew what he might do? Only Sam’s assurance of my safety with Clay eased my fear before it fully took hold. No, he couldn’t be feral. He appeared to understand everything I said. For whatever reason, it seemed that Clay had no intention to speak to me.
I sighed, pulled my hands from my back pockets and leaned against the truck. Chin in hands, I watched him check the different fluids. “You seemed to like the idea of spending time to get to know each other,” I commented. He turned toward me again. “But what’s the point in spending time together if you don’t want to talk to me?” I didn’t count on a response. “Isn’t the point to get to know one another?”
… and he turned back to the truck. Good to know the windshield washer fluid was getting low.
Frustrated, I wanted to kick a truck tire, but figured I’d just hurt my toe. Instead, I walked back to my room, head bent in thought. The one sided conversation hadn’t given me any useful information. Why keep me here if he didn’t want to talk to me? And he obviously wanted me here. First, he killed Sam’s truck. Then he brought me back to the compound in middle of the night after letting me walk for hours. That reminded me that I needed a shower, bad.
The hallways in the compound remained empty. I let myself into the quiet apartment. Sam no longer curled under the covers, his bed made. He’d probably left in search of coffee.
Grabbing clean clothes, I headed to the bathroom and cringed at the sight of myself in the mirror. He wouldn’t talk to me and dragged me through mud and leaves. How exactly was this a good start to a relationship in his mind? I spent longer under the hot spray than I would have liked trying to work the leaf debris from my hair. Too late, I concluded brushing the leaves out first would have suited me better.
Someday, I’d have to get the full story about last night and how I got so dirty. But how could I? He wouldn’t talk to me. He seemed willing to listen until I talked about something he didn’t like. When I talked about talking he stopped listening. Did that mean he wanted me to do all the talking? It made sense that he wouldn’t really want to talk about himself given what Sam mentioned about his childhood. I could empathize. There wasn’t much I wanted to share with a stranger about my childhood either.
Sighing, I tugged on the last of my clean clothes, a pair of cotton shorts (I’d been counting on a lounge day) and a tank top. Having planned a three-day weekend, I hadn’t packed much, limiting my options. Balling up the dirty clothes, I tossed them into a plastic bag and set them by the bedroom door. I hoped that Sam’s washing machine could take the abuse.
Sitting on the edge of my bed, swinging my bare feet over the carpet, I thought over my options. Stay and accept my fate or find a way back home to continue with the plans I’d made for my own future? Sure, I could stay, and make an effort to understand and learn more about Clay. But I’d already made my plans. How fair was it to expect me to change them? If Clay truly lived in the wild, it’s not as if he had any plans. Maybe he didn’t even understand the concept of planning. I wondered if I could talk Clay into letting me go. He didn’t seem too fond of me.
Absently, I started to towel dry my hair. When I hinted we might not be mates, he hadn’t turned away to ignore me. Did that mean that maybe he had doubts too? If he did, maybe I had a chance to escape the fate Sam planned for me.