Werewolf Wedding(49)

Jake looked at her with genuine confusion for a second until George huffed.

“Right, of course, God forbid I ask the CEO of a billion dollar company if he knows where the towel closet is. You know we have a gym downstairs, right?” She arched an eyebrow at one very confused werewolf. “Just turn on the speaker phone. Dial 2-2-4. Oh, good,” she sneered and looked over at me, “he knows what numbers are what. Sometimes you never know with the big, muscled-up hot guys, huh?”

I managed a noncommittal laugh, but only because I couldn’t cough out anything more. “That was funny,” I said, feeling a little sheepish about my lack of enthusiasm. “Laughing just hurts. That wasn’t a fake laugh.”

She laughed for me. George, the woman who until then I’d only spoken to once, had honest, sparkly brown eyes. Light brown, the color of the non-black part of pecan shells. There were creases in the corners of them, and in the corners of her mouth that told me she wasn’t a stranger to smiling. Coils of hair that matched her eyes framed her face.

“I know,” she said. “But you also have about thirty holes in your neck, so I’m willing to cut you a little slack on the enthusiasm of your laugh.” I must have shot her quite a look, because she immediately went back to comforting me. “Oh, maybe I shouldn’t have said that. They won’t hurt – werewolf saliva is sort of an anesthetic in some cases, and enhances sensation in... others. I can tell you know what those other cases are from the way you’re blushing.”

I shrugged, which hurt.

“Stop shrugging,” she said.

“Howdle doodle!” A cheerful voice which I recognized as belonging to the front door guard piped over the speaker phone. “You need something, Mr. Somerset?”

“Yes,” George said, before he could answer.

I really like this girl, I thought. Anybody that can manhandle a wolf as big and bad as Jake must be a badass one way or another.

She wiped at a trickle of blood. “Can you tell our CEO how to get to the locker room? He needs some towels.”

“Towels?” Frank asked. “I can just send the cleaning staff up to—”

“No!” all three of us shouted in concert. I looked around to one smiling face, and then to Jake, who looked like he was either going to laugh, throw up, or murder someone. “No,” Jake took over. “I... need to stretch my legs anyway.”

Why are they covering me up? I mean, that I probably look like a town drunk who threw up all over the place is a good reason I guess, but...

“Oh! Sure thing, well, just take your penthouse elevator down to floor thirteen, then you’ll have to use the ruffians elevator to get to the basement.” The way he said ruffians told me it must have been some kind of inside joke. Well, that and George turning red from trying not to laugh and Jake looking even more like he was going to throw up. “Once you’re down there, just follow the signs. Left, left, then right. Lockers are right there. Oh, and Mr. Somerset?”

“Yes, Frank?” Jake asked with a measured pull to his voice.

“Be sure to go into the men’s room. It can be confusing, but the signs on the doors will tell you what you need to know. Anything else?”

Jake just pressed the button to end the call. “How do they get so prickly?”

“I told you to stop calling them ruffians. Anyway, Frank was just having fun. So you know where you’re going? Get gone. She needs them quick, but not quick enough that I’m willing to risk someone finding your junked-up fiancé on the floor of your office and jumping to conclusions.”

“Huh,” Jake said. “Good thinking.”

I figured it was my turn. “I didn’t want anyone to see me looking like hell.”

George tilted her head in a gesture of affirmation, Jake laughed. “Good reasons, all of them,” George said. “Now you go. And you,” she said turning to me, as Jake hit the door and started running down the hall, apparently oblivious to the fact that he was shirtless, “breathe into this.”

She handed me a paper bag that smelled like pickle relish, mustard, mayonnaise, olive loaf and horseradish.

“Ugh,” I frowned, taking the bag. “What the hell was this?”

She shook her head. “Your boyfriend’s lunch. You know how if someone smokes for a long time, their tastebuds get all wonky?”

“Sure,” I said, wanting to shrug but not wanting the pain.

“Werewolves are the same way. Not that they smoke all the time, I mean they have really weak tastebuds. For food, anyway. For other things, well... ah, there’s that blushing again. Yeah, you know what I mean. Anyway, they eat some straight-up funky stuff. But I have to be honest with you, one day when he was too hung over to eat, I stole a sandwich just like that one, except it also had garlic on it.”

I winced, imagining the sharp, rounded taste of raw garlic and horseradish and olive loaf together. “Olive loaf,” I groaned. “Just... why?” I was gasping. My breath coming in hot, shallow, panicked bursts.

“That I cannot possibly fathom,” she said with a smile. “But when you put all that shit together on a sandwich? I can’t possibly explain why it isn’t as vomit-inducing as ipecac, but I’ll be damned if it doesn’t taste better than you could imagine.”

She gave me another moment of reprieve. “Right,” she said, poking me with an outstretched finger. “Start breathing. You’re going to hyperventilate if you keep on like that. Good,” she said when I stuck my face in the bag and tried to imagine anything except what I was smelling. “In... out... in... out.”