“Yes,” I snapped. “You don’t know how to listen to people. You just want everyone to listen to you. It’s the whole reason youwant this shortcut. You don’t want to work on a relationship—you just want someone you can talk at while they do anything you tell them. Grow up, Adam.”
His eyes flashed. “How dare you.”
“If you want to leave, I won’t stop you, but I’m also not going to teach you how to fuck up Austin even more than he already is. You probably can’t do it anyways.”
Adam didn’t respond. He stomped toward the back door before nearly yanking it off its hinges. When he disappeared inside, he slammed it shut.
I sat back down on the lawn chair and slumped forward, staring at the fire. It was time to stop playing counselor. They didn’t want to be together, and I seemed to be the only one invested in making their relationship work. I just wanted a family so badly that I was willing to throw what was essentially a cat and dog into a small box, expecting them to learn to be friends.
I might not have been able to work with Adam, but I wouldn’t give up on Austin.
Chapter 22
The Road to Recovery
Roscoe breathed heavily, still in a food coma from repeatedly going back for leftovers. He and Austin kept turning the kitchen light on and off, and I dreaded what kind of mess I’d end up walking into.
Since my side of the bed was against the wall, and Roscoe had junk piled on the floor at the other end, I had to climb over him. His gut protruded further than usual, but werewolf bodies burned a surprising amount of calories, even while doing absolutely nothing. Which was fortunate, considering Roscoe would spend the majority of his days doing as little as possible if I let him.
When werewolves put on weight, muscles overcompensated to keep them somewhat fit. This resulted in a much highermetabolic rate, and instead of that rate rising or falling over months, the effect happened in hours.
That bit of useful knowledge was the result of my frequent descents into multiple rabbit holes of internet videos on werewolf physiology. I was still disappointed by how little information there was about what we are. Aside from that bizarre book I read at Darryl’s about our possible origins, there hadn’t been nearly enough research.
Or maybe there had been, but that thought led me deep into conspiracies.
Roscoe snorted as I straddled him for a moment. I wanted to stay like that, my naked body against his silky mane as I drifted back to sleep, but I couldn’t remain in bed all day.
I climbed off and slipped on a pair of shorts and a shirt. It wasn’t unusual for me to go commando, especially since my dick had gotten thicker after going half-turn. I couldn’t wear the comfy briefs I had when human, and boxers felt weird. It was easier to just let it hang, which I admit often got me quite a bit of attention.
That ugly couch seemed to stink up the room worse than last night, which meant I hadn’t dreamt Roscoe’s romantic dumpster diving for our vintage movie date night. He still enjoyed digging around in garbage for things he considered treasures, even though between the four of us, we had enough money to just buy things we needed.
In the hallway, Adam brushed by me before stomping into the bathroom.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Fuck off.”
The door closed and locked before the light flicked on, casting a wide beam across the floor from underneath. I’d need at least two cups of coffee before dealing with him. I might have screwed things up so much that a simple apology likely wouldn’tsuffice this time. Even though I understood why he was so easily irritable, our conversation yesterday shouldn’t have happened—at least, not the way it did.
The kitchen looked exactly how I expected. Empty bags were strewn about, and paper plates full of chicken and rib bones just left there for the few lucky house flies that managed to find their way inside, but that wasn’t what really bothered me. All the meticulous cleaning and extermination I’d done might as well have been for nothing—five roaches skittered about before disappearing between the stove and counter.
This was going to require four cups of coffee at the very least.
Whirring and banging rattled the divide between the dining room and Austin’s garage, and since the other side of the thin wall in the kitchen was the bathroom, I could hear every off-key note Adam belted while in the shower.
“Someone is gonna die today,” I muttered, filling the entire coffee pot with water before scooping triple the amount of cheap ground coffee into the filter. As that brewed, I set to work on cleaning the mess.
The kitchen sparkled as I sipped on my seventh cup, pretending to solve Goldbach’s conjecture in my head while getting to work scrubbing burnt food off the stove drip pans. After I was done dusting and the sweeping in the living room, I got on all fours and cleaned the grout in the bathroom with an old toothbrush, all the while shaking like a heroin addict in withdrawal.
Roscoe crept into the doorway, before sitting on our oversized toilet with a loud groan.
“Gotta poop,” he said, holding open a two-decade old Reader’s Digest he brought in with him.
“At least wait for me to finish!” I threw the toothbrush into the sink then ran out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind me just in time.
I stepped back into the living room while Adam ate potato chips on the couch, him mindlessly scrolling through his phone. When he’d shove a handful into his mouth, smaller bits of chip would fall in between the cushions
“C’mon, man. I just cleaned this place.”
