Cry Wolf (Wolves of Angels Rest #7)(20)
No no no. That part didn’t matter.
“Deez.”
He jerked his head up to find Malachi holding the door open. LT had already disappeared inside.
Mal watched him with narrowed eyes. “You should go back to her.”
“No,” Diesel said. “We got stuff to do, bad guys to shoot, enemy strongholds to invade, yada and etcetera.”
“Your head’s not in the game.”
“It’s not a game,” Diesel said through gritted teeth.
“That’s what guys who are ready to get out say.”
“We are out,” Diesel reminded him.
Mal snorted. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we managed to find another war, even uglier and more secret than the one we left behind.”
“This one is personal,” Diesel said. “And that’s why I’m not going anywhere but to that Kingdom Guard base and taking all their toys and going home.”
“Home to her.”
“Shut the f*ck up already.”
“What are we fighting for if not that?”
Frustration zinged up Diesel’s spine like a spark along det cord. “You’ve had fewer hookups than me, so why do you even care?”
Mal glowered. “I don’t care. But you obviously do. Even if it’s making you a stupid f*cker.”
Before he could punch Mal in his big mouth, LT stuck his head through the doorway. “Waiting on you two.”
They hustled into the house to finalize their plan of attack.
In two nights, they were going up against the Kingdom Guard, and then maybe—just maybe—he could stop running for a little while.
Chapter 8
Willow sat out in the bungalow’s backyard, strumming her guitar quietly as she stared at the shadowed mesa. After a warm autumn day, the sun was setting behind the ragged rim of rocky spires, and the temperature was dropping quickly. But she didn’t want to go inside yet.
Not because she felt awkward as a guest in the Rowan home. Betsy would’ve made a great B&B hostess, somehow knowing instinctively when to talk and when to walk by with a nod or no gesture at all. Willow supposed that ability came from dealing with people all day on her calls. Even though Betsy claimed to be a fake psychic, she’d made some comments that cut a little too insightfully, and Willow wasn’t sure how much she was ready to face yet.
She hadn’t seen Diesel since afternoon the day before when he’d driven away with his friends. She’d told herself she didn’t care and had gone downstairs to the rumpus room—a cozy little space with some couches, a small TV, and a craft table with a stool. She’d hauled the stool into the middle of the room, set herself up to bounce the sound off the wood-paneled walls, and written most of a very nasty “he done me wrong and he’s gonna pay” song. She swapped out the specifics of her own situation with a truck, a hound dog, and a cowboy hat, but the sentiment was the same.
Didn’t he think it was amazing they’d found each other again? Hadn’t their night together in Vegas been worth reliving? Just while she was in Angels Rest, of course.
When she’d finally gone upstairs, a little woozy from being under the music’s spell for so long, she’d found Betsy had made dinner. The other woman explained that her boyfriend was working on a project with some of their friends and wouldn’t be home to eat, so Willow might as well take his place. They’d had a companionable meal with a bottle of the wine Willow brought from the city.
While Willow did the dishes as payback for the cooking, Betsy had said, “Sorry, but I couldn’t help overhearing a little. I think it’s good you’re going to make him sweat a little.”
Willow glowered. “Diesel is too ripped to sweat much. Maybe if he had more in the way of love handles…”
“Riiiiight.” Betsy blinked innocently at her. “I meant the guy in the song.”
Which had left Willow tossing restlessly in the van all night. Or maybe she’d just gotten used to sleeping in a thousand-dollar-a-night bed.
But somehow she knew if Diesel had been there, she would’ve fallen right to sleep.
After some good times, naturally.
Why had he taken off without even saying goodbye?
The moodiness stuck with her the next day, and from her minor key loneliness came a simple cowboy spiritual of big sky, long distance, and sparks from the campfire spiraling away into the night.
Two songs in two days? She hadn’t written this much in more than a year. The next one needed to be something jaunty though, and looking at Mesa Diablo, she was imagining the devil coming down from the mountain to dance in a honky-tonk with a girl in red cowboy boots.
The girl would dance off with his heart and soul, of course.
But her fingers were getting too cold and stiff out here, and as soon as she noticed that, her stomach growled a reminder that she’d skipped lunch.
She slipped in through the back kitchen door. The click of the latch echoed through the silent house, and her gaze fell on a note on the kitchen table.
Didn’t want to interrupt the artist at work. Fake meatloaf is in the oven. Help yourself. Nobody else’ll eat it. Meeting my bf tonight so won’t be back until tomorrow. Break a leg!
Who needed room service? She cut herself off a slice of the meatless loaf and stored the rest in the fridge where she found the remnants of a salad and took that too. She opened another bottle of wine. After that, her fingers were nice and toasty again. When she finished cleaning up, she took the second half of the bottle and her guitar back outside to settle on the step of the deck. If she got a jump on the third song—and polished off the wine herself—she knew she’d be able to sleep tonight.