Werewolves Don't Wear Cowboy Boots

Chapter 4: Friends don't let friends listen to country music

Bridget paced impatiently around the back of the convenience store she'd walked to while she waited for James to show up. It infuriated her that there was no one else she could call – or rather, that he was the best she could do. But the middle of nowhere left a girl with limited options. She was just about to reconsider her decision, and possibly every other life decision she'd ever made, when she heard the roar of an engine and saw headlights approaching. She waited as patiently as she could until the truck came to a stop just a few feet away – loud, dusty, and entirely too large without any good reason.

He stepped out of the truck and stood grinning at her ridiculously. He was wearing exactly what she would have predicted – boots, jeans, and a flannel shirt open over a white t-shirt. Actually, the t-shirt might not have been bad without the flannel, and she found herself wondering about his biceps and how the sleeves might have clung to them. She pushed the thought away, annoyed that she should be thinking any such thing about someone like him.

"Well, what do you know," he said in that strange accent of his, not as pronounced as some of the locals, but still with a slight drawl. "I never expected to hear from you, and when I did, I wasn't sure you were serious. Climb on up. I'll take you for a spin."

She hated herself, again, but she walked to the truck and opened the passenger side door, hoisting herself into the cab.

"Where to? Home?" he asked, one arm stretched out over the back of the seat as he turned to her with the question.

Bridget flinched and shook her head. "Not home. At least, not yet." It occurred to her that he might have better things to do at night than play host to a hostile girl he barely knew, but she took a chance and said, "Is there anywhere else you could take me?"

A look of curiosity flickered in his eyes, but instead of asking questions, he just said, "I'll think of something." He turned the key in the ignition to start his truck. The radio blasted out some awful song with a man screeching about going north to Alaska, and Bridget made a face of disgust. "What is this?"

"That? Why, that's Johnny B. Horton," James replied, sounding inexplicably proud, though he must have known she didn't like it.

"No." Bridget said simply. "We're not listening to this."

He merely smiled and reached up to press a button and pluck the CD from the player. She was surprised he still used CDs, but then, the truck was a little old. "What would you be willing to listen to, if not the legendary Mr. Horton? I have an Irish CD I picked up at a travel stop on the way to Kansas City. I think it has 'Danny Boy' on it."

Bridget actually reached for the door handle, despite the fact the truck was in motion.

James put a hand on her arm, and though he laughed a little as he spoke, he sounded nervous. "There's no need for that. I won't force you to listen to 'Danny Boy,' I promise. Play with the radio, if you like. I don't mind."

She flipped to a station that didn't set her teeth on edge, but turned it down to a quiet level as the truck pulled out of town. Surprisingly, he wasn't chattering away, but she was very aware of the way he kept sneaking glances at her. She pretended not to notice and wrapped her arms around her middle.

"Purely honorable, I promise you," James said suddenly.

Bridget turned to him, startled, and said, "What?"

He looked at her with a lazy sort of smile. "You've been sitting there crossing your arms all defensive like, as if you think I've got some sort of notion you sort of wish I didn't have at all. I'm just letting you know, my intentions are honorable."

"Oh. Grand." She didn't necessarily mean for the words to sound as snarky as they did, but it was really habit by now. And James, to his credit, merely gave a self-deprecating smile, a 'What can you do?' tilt of the head, and kept driving. They hadn't gone far when he turned off the main road and into what appeared to be a park of some sort, though she'd missed the sign.