Scratch the Surface (Wolf Within) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Amy Lee Burgess
said. The drumming ceased. I got up and brought the coffee pot to the table and refilled his mug. Mine was still full, but I put a little bit in anyway to warm it up and then crossed the room to put the pot back on the burner.
“I push you harder than anybody, don’t I?”
I couldn’t agree with him, but if I did he’d argue and I didn’t want to. My wolf frustrated me, but I didn’t want him to know how much because he’d blame himself since it had been his idea to work with her.
I sat back down without answering and picked up my mug.
“When do we leave for Connecticut? You’re coming with me, aren’t you?” The idea that he wouldn’t be with me made the bacon in my stomach roll over queasily. I needed him.
“Of course I’m coming. You don’t have to face that bastard alone.” Outraged shock spread across his face. “Besides, I’m dying for a chance to punch that asshole, Jonathan Archer, in the nose. You think I’d miss that opportunity?”
I gave him a suspicious look because I couldn’t tell if he was serious. He probably was. Jonathan was the Alpha male of the Riverglow pack. He’d never liked me and he’d led the crusade against me after Grey’s and Elena’s deaths. I’d told Murphy a few stories about him and, as a result, Murphy hated the man like poison.
“Don’t punch Jonathan in the nose,” I said. Then I grinned. “Kick him in the ’nads. It’ll hurt more.”
Murphy burst into laughter as I’d intended and I joined in too. This was one of the shittier mornings of my life, but I least I could still laugh about it.
Chapter 3
It had been Murphy’s idea to take the road trip from Houston to Boston. Instead of renting a car, he’d bought a used charcoal-gray Honda Prelude from a Houston CarMax. He’d surprised me with it at the hotel where I’d been packing our things. I had been in one hellish hurry to leave Houston after Murphy’s near-fatal overdose.
After he’d been released from the hospital, we’d rested in the hotel for three days. Well, he’d rested. I’d paced around until that drove him crazy and he sent me out shopping where I bought seven pairs of shoes only to return five of them the next day. Murphy hadn’t said one word, but his expression had spoken for him. He thought my shoe fetish was bordering on clinically insane. This from the man who would wear the same pair of shoes for an entire week in a row. That was just plain weird, if you ask me.
On our trip east, at the beginning of each new week, I’d sneak a new pair of shoes for him into our hotel room and substitute them for the pair that was driving me nuts. The man never even noticed the difference until I pointed it out to him in exasperation twenty miles down the road.
“It was dark in the room when I got dressed,” was his most used excuse, closely followed by, “As long as they fit on my feet, what do I care?” That pronouncement usually threw me into a sputtering fit of incredulity which he laughed at as he continued to serenely drive down the interstate.
Today we drove down the Mass Pike, each wrapped in a cocoon of our own thoughts and, for myself, fears of the unknown and yet to come.
It was a gray, overcast day. Dirty, salt-encrusted snow crouched on the sides of the interstate interspersed with bald patches of muddy, winter-brown grass. I had the Prelude’s heat cranked up because I was perpetually cold. I think it had something to do with how often I was shifting. I got so damned chilled when I shifted back naked in near freezing temperatures. It took me hours and a long hot shower to shake the cold and the next day it seemed as if I could never get comfortably warm.
Murphy didn’t seem to suffer the way I did. As the interior temperature of the car crept higher, he unbuttoned his black pea coat and loosened the gray scarf around his throat. After we merged onto I-84, he peeled off his gloves and stuffed them into the compartment between the seats.
He’d shaved, and
“I push you harder than anybody, don’t I?”
I couldn’t agree with him, but if I did he’d argue and I didn’t want to. My wolf frustrated me, but I didn’t want him to know how much because he’d blame himself since it had been his idea to work with her.
I sat back down without answering and picked up my mug.
“When do we leave for Connecticut? You’re coming with me, aren’t you?” The idea that he wouldn’t be with me made the bacon in my stomach roll over queasily. I needed him.
“Of course I’m coming. You don’t have to face that bastard alone.” Outraged shock spread across his face. “Besides, I’m dying for a chance to punch that asshole, Jonathan Archer, in the nose. You think I’d miss that opportunity?”
I gave him a suspicious look because I couldn’t tell if he was serious. He probably was. Jonathan was the Alpha male of the Riverglow pack. He’d never liked me and he’d led the crusade against me after Grey’s and Elena’s deaths. I’d told Murphy a few stories about him and, as a result, Murphy hated the man like poison.
“Don’t punch Jonathan in the nose,” I said. Then I grinned. “Kick him in the ’nads. It’ll hurt more.”
Murphy burst into laughter as I’d intended and I joined in too. This was one of the shittier mornings of my life, but I least I could still laugh about it.
Chapter 3
It had been Murphy’s idea to take the road trip from Houston to Boston. Instead of renting a car, he’d bought a used charcoal-gray Honda Prelude from a Houston CarMax. He’d surprised me with it at the hotel where I’d been packing our things. I had been in one hellish hurry to leave Houston after Murphy’s near-fatal overdose.
After he’d been released from the hospital, we’d rested in the hotel for three days. Well, he’d rested. I’d paced around until that drove him crazy and he sent me out shopping where I bought seven pairs of shoes only to return five of them the next day. Murphy hadn’t said one word, but his expression had spoken for him. He thought my shoe fetish was bordering on clinically insane. This from the man who would wear the same pair of shoes for an entire week in a row. That was just plain weird, if you ask me.
On our trip east, at the beginning of each new week, I’d sneak a new pair of shoes for him into our hotel room and substitute them for the pair that was driving me nuts. The man never even noticed the difference until I pointed it out to him in exasperation twenty miles down the road.
“It was dark in the room when I got dressed,” was his most used excuse, closely followed by, “As long as they fit on my feet, what do I care?” That pronouncement usually threw me into a sputtering fit of incredulity which he laughed at as he continued to serenely drive down the interstate.
Today we drove down the Mass Pike, each wrapped in a cocoon of our own thoughts and, for myself, fears of the unknown and yet to come.
It was a gray, overcast day. Dirty, salt-encrusted snow crouched on the sides of the interstate interspersed with bald patches of muddy, winter-brown grass. I had the Prelude’s heat cranked up because I was perpetually cold. I think it had something to do with how often I was shifting. I got so damned chilled when I shifted back naked in near freezing temperatures. It took me hours and a long hot shower to shake the cold and the next day it seemed as if I could never get comfortably warm.
Murphy didn’t seem to suffer the way I did. As the interior temperature of the car crept higher, he unbuttoned his black pea coat and loosened the gray scarf around his throat. After we merged onto I-84, he peeled off his gloves and stuffed them into the compartment between the seats.
He’d shaved, and
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