Page 9 of Raised By Wolves
“The howling the other night didn’t sound like coyotes,” Dumb Hat says stubbornly.
“I’m not saying it was,” the chief says. “But you know as well as I do that coyotes are a lot more common than wolves around here, and they’re first-class hunters. A couple of lambs and a mama is no match for a pack of ’em.”
That’s right, Chief—blame the killings on coyotes. Or foxes or bobcats. Anything but wolves.
“Eavesdrop much?” Waylon calls. He’s grinning at me. His smile is electric.
I have to fight to keep my face stony. “There’s nothing else to do in this hellhole.”
I realize he’s got his boots and motorcycle jacket on now. Does that mean he’s getting out? Does it mean we’re next?
Somehow I doubt it.
“You could get to know me,” Waylon says easily.
I practically snarl at him. “And what would be the point of that?”
He shrugs. “We could become friends.”
“And what would be the point ofthat?”
“I can’t say for sure,” he says. “But who knows? Maybe it’d change your life.”
“Wow,” I say. I’m thinking,Are all hot teen guys this conceited?“You’ve got a pretty high opinion of yourself.”
Waylon laughs. “I didn’t say it’d change your life for thebetter,” he says. He leans against the bars and crosses one leg over the other. “I’m probably too dangerous for you, anyway. I’ve got a fast bike. I don’t mind spending a night in jail.”
Toodangerousfor me? It’s probably the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. But I don’t get time to tell him so, because a blond woman charges down the hall and starts banging her purse against the bars of his jail cell.
“My God in heaven, Waylon Eugene, when will you learn?” She gives the bars one last wallop and then turns to the chief. “I swear, Chester, sometimes I think my son is mentally challenged.”
“More like behaviorally challenged, Mrs. Meloy,” the chief says.
I’m thinking,WaylonEugeneMeloy?It almost makes me like him, knowing he’s got such a bummer of a middle name. It’s like he’s keeping some kind of terrible secret.
“The sign said fifty-three,” Waylon says calmly.
“When has fifty-three ever been an official speed limit? The sign said thirty-five and you know it,” his mother snaps. “Anyway, you were going seventy-five.”
“Seventy-seven,” Waylon corrects, and then he winks at me.Winks!Is that a thing people do?
“Well, thank you for holding him,” his mom says to the chief. “Scaring him a bit and whatnot.”
The chief unlocks the cell and Waylon slowly walks out, not looking scared at all.
He thinks he’s tough, I can tell. But he hasn’t seen half of what I have. Hasn’t done half of what I have.He’snot the dangerous one here.
“Next time it’s going to go on his record,” the chief warns.
Waylon comes over to my cell and wraps his long fingers around the bars. Up close his eyes are a warm brown with golden flecks.
Almost like a wolf’s.
“Maybe I’ll see you around,” he says.
I toss my hair over my shoulder. “I doubt it,” I say.
He smiles, revealing a space between his two front teeth that makes another weird thing happen inside my stomach.