Page 69

When I reach the porch, I glance down at the bowl. It’s empty. Ah yes, the ol’ “looks like someone stole all the candy” move. Classic. What a prick.

I ring the doorbell, sliding the brass knuckles onto my right hand. No answer. I ring it again. The porch light buzzes overhead. Still nothing. I sigh with disappointment, and decide to switch tactics.

Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding⁠—

Finally the door jerks open and the guy squints at me. “Hey, kid⁠—”

“Trick or treat!” I shout in his face. His eyes rove up, and he looks confused. Probably because there’s a six-foot-seven devilishly handsome werewolf on his porch. His brain is still buffering when I punch him in the face. The crunch is so satisfying. He stumbles backward into the hallway and I follow him inside, hitting him again.

And again.

And once more for good measure.

He crumples against the wall, hands up, trying to figure out what reality he’s in. Not a good one. I grab the front of his shirt and yank him upright.

“Strippers,” I say calmly, “are not coin slots for you to abuse.”

His feet scramble to find purchase.

“Do you understand?”

He nods frantically, blood pouring out of his nose and dripping on my arm. I let go, and he collapses on the floor like a sack of laundry. I step out onto the porch again and see that damn candy bowl.

“And what the fuck is up with the empty bucket?”

“I—I don’t have any candy!” he sputters.

I cross my arms.

“Well you have ten seconds to get off your ass and fill it with something before I make you the most realistic decoration on the block.”

He scurries up the stairs, gripping the handrail like his life depends on it. I hear cabinets opening and closing.

“Seven . . . six . . . five . . .” I shout up the stairs.

He rushes down, his feet slipping down the last two steps. He rips open the box of peanut butter protein bars and dumps them in the bowl.

I stare at it.

“What about the kids with nut allergies?”

He blinks. “What?”

I lean forward. “NUT ALLERGIES, MOTHERFUCKER.”

He panics. Running back into the kitchen. This time he returns with his arms filled with produce, dumping everything into the large bowl. Apples, bananas, oranges, potatoes . . .

I nod approvingly. “That’s better.”

He shoots an arm out to the wall, catching himself, like the relief was enough to knock him off his feet.

“Well.” I clap my hands together before straightening my flannel. “Happy Halloween.”

TJ drops to his knees, a few apples spilling out of the bowl.

I skip merrily back down the sidewalk toward my car, swishing my werewolf tail behind me. I was unsure about the tail at first, but now it’s obvious. The tail is adorable. Definitely the right call.

I need to stop at a gas station and get this asshole’s blood off my hands. As I adjust the rearview mirror, I notice my white shirt has blood sprayed across the front of it. Huh. That’s going to be a tough one to explain . . . Good thing it’s Halloween.