He responds immediately, I have it covered. Don't sweat it.
I smile at my phone. It's really hard not to feel warm and fuzzy about Jared. And also itchy and needy to see him again.
But I put the kibosh on that. I don't want to be his booty call or hookup or whatever it is he does.
It was definitely the right decision.
So I should stop getting fluttery thinking about him bringing my car to me tomorrow. Or asking me out. Or pinning me against a wall and spanking me again.
Yeah.
Jared
If I didn't think he'd bust my ass, I wouldn't even tell my alpha what happened.
But a car accident in the alley outside his club constitutes a phone call. Especially when it involves a girl seeing my body spontaneously regenerate.
Dammit.
I'd rather keep Angelina completely out of this conversation, but I can't do that either. Not only can shifters pick up on dishonesty, lying to Garrett would be a banishable offense, even if he wasn't one of my closest friends.
But I put the call off as long as I can. It's Sunday and he has a new mate. He doesn't want me calling with a shit story first thing in the day.
I wait until late afternoon to dial him, telling myself it's better to get the car and motorcycle repairs going first.
I told Trey this morning. He told me I was a fucking idiot and if I thought Garrett was going to let it slide that Angelina saw my injuries heal, I'm even dumber than I look. But that's standard shit-talk between the two of us.
I stand outside Tank's auto shop and lean my ass against our packmate's truck.
Garrett answers on the second ring. "What's up?"
Right away I start walking, like staying in motion is going to make this go down easier. "Hey, I had a little incident last night."
"What kind of incident? At the club?"
"Yeah. I pulled into the alley without looking and Angelina, the little go-go dancer, hit me."
Garrett curses. "Was she hurt?" Of course he wouldn't ask if I'm hurt, because-yeah-we're shifters.
"No. Neither were the other two dancers. I drove them home and took her car to Tank's."
There's a pause, and Garrett, who knows me too well, says, "What aren't you telling me?"
I crack the knuckles of my free hand. "She saw a cut regenerate."
Garrett curses again.
I hear his mate, Amber, murmur something in the background.
"It's all right. Just pack shit. Don't worry, baby," I hear him reply. To me, he says, "Wipe her."
I grind my teeth. I don't want to fucking wipe her.
"She's doesn't know," I insist, but my insistence sounds flimsy, even to my own ears.
"She knows you're a paranormal. You know the rules. She gets wiped."
"You didn't wipe Amber." I'm an asshole to point it out, and also operating from an artificial sense of security, because if we were in the same room, my alpha probably would've flattened me.
Garrett's warning growl crackles through the phone. "Amber's different. She's a paranormal, too."
Garrett's mate has psychic abilities that he used to find his sister when she was kidnapped by the harvesters last spring.
Yeah, well Angelina's a beautiful dancer with a bright future. Right. Not a strong argument. Good thing I left that one unspoken.
"Jared?" There's alpha command in his voice.
"Yes, sir."
"Don't make me fucking tell you twice."
"Consider it done," I mutter and end the call before I dig myself in any deeper.
Dammit.
I rub my forehead. I can't come up with any way around Garrett's order. I look up at the sky. Sun's still out. I'll have to wait until sundown to get help from a leech, which gives Angelina a few more hours to keep her memories intact.
And I have to meet with some shifters from San Diego about setting up a fight in Tucson.
Maybe I can do it tomorrow night. When I bring her car back to her.
Yeah, that should work. And when Garrett asks, I'll tell him it's going to happen, as soon as possible. And tomorrow is as soon as it's possible.
Angelina
"Driving downtown after the bars have closed is paramount to suicide," my dad lectures as he neatly cuts his steak. I love the man, but he drives me nuts. As predicted, he's freaking over the car accident.
We're at their long formal dining room table for Sunday dinner and I've chosen to tune out the lecture while I eat the baby broccoli my mom steamed just for me. At least tonight she and dad are eating the same thing I am, though their vegetables are dressed with lemon butter, and mine are not.
While he goes on, my mind runs over the scenes with Jared. The last one, mostly. Where he showed me exactly how experienced and clever he is with his tongue and then let me off the hook the moment I got uncomfortable.
He really is a gentleman.
Funny how my gratitude to him for treating me with such honor and respect makes me want to run and jump his bones. My unwillingness to have sex with him has completely vanished.
But no. I'm the kind of girl who gets attached.
"How's school going, honey?" My mom pipes in, to change the subject.
"Fine. Good." My stomach knots up.
"How did auditions go for the spring concert?"
"Pretty good."
It's not a lie. I did my best, and I'll probably get into several pieces. But the truth is, I feel like a misfit in the dance program. Not because I'm not a good dancer-I'm decent. Lord knows my parents spent enough on my training since the day I turned three. It's just that I don't want to be an automaton anymore. I don't want to work hard to please my teachers and hope they give me a good part in their dances.