Werewolf Sings the Blues by Jennifer Harlow Read Free Book Online Page A

hear you, Vivian.”
    My gaze zips back to my captor. “Take me home,” I say through gritted teeth.
    â€œI’m afraid that’s not possible.”
    I move around the car to face him, spitting out his blood on the way. “Take me home right now, goddamn it, or I’ll …”
    â€œWhat? Bite me again? Shoot at me?” He meets my eyes. Damn, he’s like a robot. I can’t find an emotion anywhere on his face. It’s unnatural. “The sooner you accept this new situation you find yourself in, the easier this will be for us both. I am on your side, Vivian.” He starts toward the trunk of the car. “All I want to do is escort you safely back to Maryland where we can all protect you until the danger’s passed.”
    â€œYou want to escort me to my father. Who is king of the werewolves. I’m sorry, did you forget to take your pills or something? Are the aliens telling you to do this, Blondie?”
    He opens the trunk. “My name is Jason.”
    â€œI like Blondie better,” I say with a sneer.
    â€œI don’t.” My kidnapper extracts a duffel bag and shuts the trunk. “It’s understandable that you require proof. I would have produced it last night had you given me the opportunity before you aimed a gun at me.” He unzips the bag, rooting around in it before pulling out a stack of papers. “Here. Your father said I should bring them. As usual, he was correct.” He tosses me the bundle. Letters. I recognize the flowery handwriting on the front. Mom’s. Even has her name and address in the corner. Michelle Dahl, then later Mrs. Barry Anderson. “She promised to send photos and letters once a year. You read through them. Take your time. I have to take care of some business in private. Please do remember, though, I am faster than you so don’t run or I’ll be forced to handcuff you in the car.”
    Where the hell would he go? “Fine,” I say, although the word sticks in my throat.
    He nods and returns to searching in his duffel. The ground is burning my feet to a crisp, so I return to the passenger side and sit. These could be forgeries. Part of an elaborate con. Why I’d be at the center of one, I haven’t a clue. I still want to read them. I open the first envelope on the pile. If they are forgeries they’re damned good ones. I even remember the stationery with “MDA” monogrammed on the top of the later ones. Photos too. Me in front of my grandparent’s ranch house when I was about three. First grade, second, all my school photos through high school. That perm at fifteen was such a bad idea. The letters are short at first, just giving the broad strokes of my life. My first sentence. Potty training issues. Asking him to send more money. Later she starts bitching about what a nightmare I’d become. The drinking. My failing grades. The arrest for drug possession and a fake license. In one, when I was sixteen, she even begs him to take me off her hands. Nice, Mom. They stop at my eighteenth birthday, obligation fulfilled. I graduated from high school, and the next day moved to New York City with my band. Lasted a year before I moved to Austin, then New Orleans, then La-La land. Wonder if Frank knew about those too.
    There are three loose photos between the letters as well. The first one I’ve seen. My father making funny faces as he holds infant me. The rest, no. Frank, a pretty woman with dark hair, and two boys opening presents under a Christmas tree. The dark-haired boy resembles the woman with similar hair and eyes, and looks to be about six or seven, but the familiar blonde is older, early teens maybe. I’d recognize that scowl anywhere. He stands apart from the trio, staring and back as straight as a razor, almost as if he’s afraid to be near them. In the third, I’m onstage at this club in Santa Monica where I used to sing. Frank was close to take this one.