Chapter 8

Bruin pulled into Mac’s driveway and stopped. Mac opened his door and unfolded himself from the lunchmobile with a disgusted sigh. “You don’t have a friend you can borrow a real car from?” he said.

Bruin just grinned. “See you tomorrow. Ten sharp.”

Mac headed into his house, thinking for a second he should invite the bear in. Or maybe find out where he lived and go over to his house. Curiosity filled him. Did the guy even live in a house? He had to, right? Not a cave or something. Mac frowned as he glanced at the prize shelf, his mind still far away. That was something he should know about his friend. Where he lived, how he lived.

Friend. The word caught in Mac’s brain, like maybe it wasn’t an accurate description of whatever was between him and Bruin. But that wasn’t right. Even if Mac considered all the wolves he worked with nothing more than acquaintances, the big bear was his friend. Even if he didn’t know where the guy lived.

Mac got the guy in a way nobody else did. He was a marshmallow, until you got him mad. He’d probably never had a bad thought about anyone, not even Khain. Mac could see Bruin putting an arm around Khain, telling him, “Hey, buddy, let’s talk about this. We can work it out, you just can’t be quite so evil. Pranks are ok. Killing and kidnapping, not ok. But don’t worry, I’ll help you through it.”

Mac frowned as the thoughts slipped away and his eyes catalogued everything on the shelves, making sure it was all right, his nightly OCD trip. Bruin was a marshmallow, but Mac wasn’t. What if his one true mate didn’t like him because of… the way he was? He turned the thought over, then rejected it, hard. Nah, maybe he wasn’t refined, but he was loyal, strong, and never fake. If she didn’t appreciate that, her loss. He could survive without her. He was a master at surviving. Always had been. But it wouldn’t happen, because he was a mother-humping catch.

Mac turned away from the shrine, ran a soft hand over the red spiky blanket on the wall, then hit the fridge. A bottle of mayo, an empty box of Corona, two jars of ketchup, and a half-eaten Snickers bar. Solid. He hooked the Snickers bar, tossed it into his mouth, and headed into his bedroom. What in the fuck was he gonna do till morning?

His eyes fell on the notebook that sat on the folding chair in the corner of the room, the only furniture there besides his bed. He picked up the notebook and opened it to the page marked haphazardly with a pen. His notebook… it wasn’t a diary. Too girly. It sure as fuck wasn’t a journal, only metrosexuals wrote in journals. He might like to look good, put on a suit coat for the ladies every once in a while, shave, shower, make sure his shit was tight, but he was no metrosexual. So he called it his notebook.

He licked the tip of the pen and sat down on the floor, leaning his back against the wall, musing about how something that had started as a punishment had ended up being a… habit. One he almost enjoyed.

Without looking to see what he’d written last time, he started a new entry, bending over the notebook, his nose almost touching the paper.

I hate waiting. Waiting sucks. I wish life happened all at once, in one big fucking glut. Like you’re born. You shoot up to full size in a few days, you get shit done, and you get out. That would be a life I could get behind. But all this growing and learning and standing around shit is getting old. Boring. I hate waiting and I hate boring.

Mac waited, but nothing more came to him, so he tossed the pen back in the notebook, closed it, and whipped it across the room. He pushed himself to his feet, then eyed the bed. Motherfuck, he hated sleeping almost as much as he hated waiting. Sleeping was nothing more than waiting you didn’t remember.

He hit the switch on the wall and dropped onto the bed, considering kicking his shoes off, but deciding it was too much work. He closed his eyes, and was out, falling into sleep as quickly as the room had plunged into darkness when he’d turned off the light.

***

Mac’s eyes snapped open and he jumped out of the bed, glad he had his boots still on. His head swiveled around the dark room, looking for what had woken him.

Ring, ring.

He relaxed only slightly and pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Go,” he barked, then walked out of the room to see what time it was. The clock on the never-used stove said 4:02 in the morning.

“Mac, we’ve got a lead on Grey. I need you to head to Chicago. Take the bear.”

“It gonna be dangerous?” Mac said, hoping so.

“Probably not. But you know the drill.”

Mac did, but if Wade was sending only two of them, chances were it would be no more dangerous than a one year old’s birthday party. Fuck. “Where we heading?”

“The Englewood Post Office. It may be nothing, but it may be something, too. Grey said the nonsense word Mudgett to Cerise, but Sebastian thinks it’s a name. A hundred years ago, there was a different building on the land the post office is built on, a hotel owned by a man called Herman Webster Mudgett. He murdered a bunch of people in the hotel and the basement below, and the ground is supposed to be haunted. He was named America’s first serial killer, and rumor says his spirit still hangs out around there. Given Grey’s recent temperament, Sebastian is thinking maybe Grey’s got a place close by, thought he was channeling the man or something.”

Mac snorted. “You mean, maybe he was eating cats in the alley and stealing mail from the dumpster, like the looney-toon he is? You gotta say what you mean, Chief.”

Wade’s voice took a hard edge. “Just go check it out. I’d call Chicago PD but they’re already handling round-the-clock surveillance on Rex Brenwyn’s brother and not too happy about it. Besides, I want one of my males up there.”

“What am I looking for?”

“No clue, Mac. Anything that has to do with Grey.”

“How am I supposed to find it.”

Wade swore like he knew Mac was taunting him. “Act like a cop, and do some investigating. If you can’t manage that, then act like a wolf and follow your nose. You can still do that, can’t you?”

Mac grinned. He could. He just liked winding Wade up. It wasn’t good for a male to have too many ass-kissers around. He hung up and dialed Bruin’s number. The bear’s sleep-laden voice came on the line after six or seven rings. “’Lo?”

“Wake up, Goldilocks. It’s road trip time.”

When Bruin finally spoke, Mac had no idea if he was messing with him or not. Probably. “Who is this?” Bruin said in a slow drawl.

“Just get your hairy ass over here!”

***

Twenty minutes later, Mac was freshly showered and shaved, dressed in work khakis, and waiting on his porch. Bruin finally pulled up in the lunchmobile, still rubbing his eyes and yawning.

Mac dropped into the small car, speaking before he had his door closed. “Haul ass.”

Bruin reversed, not even looking behind him. “Where to?”

“The station. We’ll get a truck.” He watched Bruin appraisingly. “We’re heading for Chicago, and I don’t need you hobbling around like an old man when we get there cuz you cricked your back all out of whack on the drive over. Look at you, hunched over like what’s his name. Quimedado.”

“Quasimodo,” Bruin said, stretching his neck forward, then dropping his ears to first one shoulder, then the other, his eyes still on the road. “Bears don’t get cricks in our necks. We’re very bendy.”

Mac rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I needed that visual.”

Once they arrived at the station, Mac signed out a black diesel truck and they headed out. At least Bruin seemed a little more awake, even though the sun wasn’t showing its face over the horizon yet. Mac hit the radio button, dialing until he found a station on satellite radio with his kind of music, hopping onto the freeway at the same time. They’d be in Chicago in no time.

A song came on he liked. He reached forward to blast it, when Bru saw something out the windshield. He leaned forward and pointed at the vehicle in front of them. “Oooh, maybe I should get a minivan. It would be more comfortable for my friends than the lunchmobile.”

Mac grinned at that, glad the lunchmobile had caught on. He tsked. “You ain’t got no friends, bear, you don’t need a mini-van.”

Bruin crossed his arms over his chest, not quite pouting. “I have tons of friends.”

“The guy at the hot dog stand is not your friend. The lady who called you, ‘Sir’, at Starbucks when you ordered your Venti Pumpkin Spice Latte with extra foam and a light dusting of vanilla is not your friend. And I know don’t none of those bears like you. Do yourself a favor and get a cool car. Like mine.”

Bruin became very quiet, his energy folding in on itself. Mac shot him a look, then regretted the quiet pain he saw in his friend’s eyes. “Ah shit, Grizz, I didn’t mean nothing by it. I’m your friend. You buy that minivan and you can take me anywhere you want to go.” He wasn’t going to regret that promise, not at all.

Bruin’s face softened somewhat, but he didn’t loosen the knot of his arms. Mac searched his mind for something else to say, but the only things that popped in there implied Bruin would never lose his questionable virginity if he did indeed buy a minivan, so he kept his mouth shut. Hell yeah, look at me, being all kinds of mature. I got this friend shit wired.

He cranked the music up, his knuckles tightening on the steering wheel as he rapped along.

And when I'm finished, it's gonna be a bloodbath

Of cops, dying in L.A

Yo Dre, I got something to say

Fuck Tha Police

Mac repeated the chorus then launched into the next verse, until he realized Bruin was staring at him, dumbfounded.

Mac cranked the music the other way. “What?”

“Mac, you’re the police,” Bruin whispered, his eyes big.

Mac sprayed laughter. “Yeah, fuck me, too!” Bruin’s distress worked its way into Mac’s system. “It’s just a song, B.” But Bruin wouldn’t stop staring, so Mac spun the knob, looking for another station. “Ok, fine, what kind of music do you like?”

Bruin leaned over, a self-satisfied smile on his face. “I’ll find it.”

Mac drove in silence, wondering if he’d been played, not even daring to guess what kind of music he’d soon be listening to. It was still two hours to Chicago…

Bruin finally stopped on a station, deliberately leaving it low so he could sing over the words, his deep baritone sounding out of place with the saccharine sweet sound of the females singing.

There's more than one answer to these questions

pointing me in crooked line

The less I seek my source for some definitive

The closer I am to fine

Mac’s turn to drop his jaw to his pecs. “What in the holy hell is this shit?” And how did he get roped into giving up control of the radio again?

“Folk rock. Indigo girls? Give it a chance. It’s soothing.”

Mac snapped the radio dial to the left so hard it came off in his hand. “Oops. Guess we gotta talk.”

Bruin bobbed his head, perpetually down for anything. “Good deal. How ‘bout a nice game of Would You Rather?”

“Sounds like a game for drunk frat boys.”

Bruin grinned like that was a compliment. “Cool, I’ll ask first. Would you rather have sex with a felen or a foxen?”

Mac laughed. “Sheeit, that's easy. I imagine sex with foxens would be as awesome as having a root canal pulled through my ass. Felen on the other hand, they’re all about sex. Sexy, too. You ever seen Kalista?”

Bruin shook his head. “Your turn.”

Mac thought for a moment. “Would you rather fuck a hornet’s nest or smack Heather on the ass?"

Bruin’s face went contemplative, as if the question required a PhD or some shit. He finally answered. “Hornet’s nest. Barbequed bear skin is not a good look for me.” He rubbed the skin on his face as if remembering an old injury. “Besides, hornets are just homicidal bees. Me and bees, we have an understanding. I’m sure I could convince the hornets my dick was supposed to be in there for some reason.”