CHAPTER 10: Streetlife Serenade

It was another week before anything more noteworthy in my life happened.

It was Saturday and I got back from my run and felt euphoric. I was getting better and better every week, and it was nice to be good at something when I tried hard. In previous endeavors, like trying to earn the affection of my father, it seemed fruitless—no matter what I did, nothing was ever good enough. Which, upon more reflection, I knew was not my fault, but Pat's. Whatever his problems were, they had little to do with my own actions. How could they? I did my best to stay out of the way and make myself useful.

I was red-faced but pleased, smelling worse than Elvis, when I re-entered the house. I absently noted that I needed to fix the porch, stat, and thought about how to go about it as I filled a glass with water and enjoyed the feeling of lightness I had.

But this lightness was interrupted with Pat's entrance.

He stumbled in, clearly hungover again, and gestured with a hand to get him something to drink. Normally, I would have done so without further ado but I wasn't feeling so obedient today. I ignored the unspoken command and continued to drink my water as if I were oblivious to the confused and aggravated contortions undergoing Pat's expression.

There was a pause as Pat gave me another minute before he was forced to speak. "Water," he croaked, perhaps thinking I was even dumber than he previously believed, if that were possible.

I neutrally pointed to the cabinet. "The cups are in there."

He gawked.

I stood from the table, done with my own drink, and left to go change. I felt nothing; not pride for standing up for myself, nor disappointment that Pat was still himself. I simply was resilient and resigned. I knew where I stood, and I would make it clear to him that I was not a servant to be ordered around and then disregarded. If he couldn't treat me with the kindness I deserved, or at minimum couldn't respect me as a person, I felt no further obligation to the man. I would leave for college in a few months, if all went as vaguely planned, and he would never be subjected to my presence again.

In my room, I gathered clothes to wear after my shower, fed Elvis, and was about to go wash when my door opened with a loud bang.

I jumped and turned to see a spitting mad Pat. He heaved from anger, eyes narrowed and curious. I stepped back as fear and the same old self-doubt wrapped around me like an old blanket.

"I will not tolerate such disrespect," he screamed, with furious waves of his hands. "I have sheltered and clothed your ungrateful ass for years since your fucking whore of a mother got herself killed—"

Something snapped into place. Something I had only precariously seen before, observed with an objective eye but never applied to my own life. This was wrong. I did not have to suffer this abuse. My sweet mother, who had passed away six years ago, had treated me with the kind of love and tenderness that a parent should show their child. Even though I was accustomed to such behavior from Pat, didn't mean I had to continue to tolerate it.

"Stop!" I said quietly at first, prompting no response since he was way too busy screaming to hear my words. But I persisted: "Stop!." and when that failed to achieve the intended goal, I bellowed, "STOP!"

And maybe it was due to a pause in his ranting, or perhaps he actually heard me—either way, he shut up.

The old insecurities and feelings of worthlessness rushed away and an anger crept upon me that I had never felt before. With it was a self-confidence in myself that was new, uncharted. The past month had affected more than simply my social life or physical body, but my emotional state too.

It wasn't me that was the troubled one; it was Pat. And whatever his issues were, I could not solve them, and he couldn't blame or foster the failed expectations on me. At least not in this cruel and careless way. "I'm done," I told him, "I do everything to try and help you, to be the daughter you want but it's never enough. No matter how hard I try, you hate me and say horrible things about me and mom that are so untrue it makes me sick! I don't understand why, but I don't care! You have to stop."

I drew a shaky breath, far from done. Yet, Pat had regained his bearings and let out a roar of fury. I backed away more. He had never been physically abusive before but that didn't reassure me now.

"Your mother was a bitch and a whore—just like you!" he viciously said.

I shook my head. "You're a lying drunk!" I shouted.

He turned a sort of crimson color due to his dark skin. "That slut fucked anything that moved and didn't give a goddamn thing about her husband—I would have done anything for her, and she left."

I didn't know if this was in reference to her death, or to their divorce beforehand. It didn't make a difference. From the little I had understood in the time she was alive, and remembered vaguely, she had left Pat because of they fought a lot. I don't know if abuse was involved, or if they just didn't get along. But I had no idea if it involved infidelity. It made no difference; he was still a vile, terrible person to me and no one should have to hear those things about their mothers.

"Will you stop already? She's been dead for years! You'd been divorced before that! You say those vile things and they're meaningless! She's not here. I'm it. I'm here. And I did nothing to deserve the way you treat me." I was pressed against my window, with Pat a few feet away by my closest. If necessary, I could roll over my bed and through the door before he blinked. Well, maybe before he blinked twice. I wasn't superhuman, after all.

"You disgust me," he said, his voice lowering. "You're the biggest mistake I ever made. If I had any relatives alive, I'd have shipped you off to them years ago. I hate the sight of you."

That hurt. Instead of shutting down, I steeled my voice: "You are an alcoholic. You need help, and I'm done putting up with your shit."

"How dare you speak to your elder that way—!" he made to grab for me but I went through with my plan, albeit a little less gracefully than it had played out in my mind. I tumbled over my bed, stumbled to my feet, and sped past the door and to the front of the house.

Where I thought I was going, I had no clue. Regardless, I yanked open the front door to bank it out.

And ran head first into Jared.

"Ow," I groaned, only remaining upright due to the warm arms now clutching me tightly. I knew I must be a sight but found I didn't care as I practically melted my body into his and buried my face into his shirt.

"Kim?" he said in alarm from above me. He rubbed my back in comforting circles and was probably going to continue his inquiry when my lovely father came storming towards us.

Jared had only seen Pat in various states of unconsciousness in the living room. But one look at the livid man and my distressed state and he immediately turned, shielding my body with his. This meant I wasn't in Pat's direct line of vision. I wasn't sure what Jared was doing exactly, but whatever it was I heard Pat take a sizable step back.

"Is there a problem?" Jared said, vocalizing in a low, intimidating rumble. I could feel his body shaking slightly but I was not at all concerned for myself. I felt safe.

"W-who are y-ou, boy?" I was surprised to hear Pat stutter. I wanted to peak at Jared's face but his hold was firm. And is it so terrible that I didn't mind someone else dealing with Pat Wilson for a change?

"A friend of Kim's," Jared said coldly, a side of him I'd never heard before. Then: "I think you should leave and take a little time to cool-off and think about what you're going to do. We wouldn't want the Council to get involved, would we?"

I almost snorted. No offense to Jared, but his threats or glares wouldn't force Pat from his own home—

I was jarred when Jared lifted me like I weighed nothing and Pat rushed past us in a huff.

I was stunned. What the fuck?

I turned my incredulous look upon Jared who had solid steel coating his eyes. And something—protective—radiating from his stance. His body language was not warm or inviting; I could kind of see how Pat would be hesitant to mess with the tall boy before me. But still. Pat, for all his unsavory habits, was tall and stoutly built, like most of the men on the reservation. But Jared topped him by five or so inches.

"I can't believe that just happened," I said shakily, cuddling deeper into Jared's arms for comfort. I was so going to milk this one for what I could get out of it.

"What the hell happened?" he demanded, holding me close and pressing his mouth to the top of my head. "Why were you running? Is your father always like this? Because the Council wouldn't stand for this if I—"

I leaned back, put my hand to his mouth to quiet him. "Hold on," I said. "Come inside and I will explain."

Once inside, I did. I started by explaining Pat's behavior as being fairly recent, carefully not mentioning the verbal abuse part because that wasn't important, and told Jared about Pat's drinking problem.

Jared was an attentive audience, one who got angrier and angrier as my explanation progressed—not that it got very far.

"He called you what?" Jared roared, when I got to the part about today's incident. I hadn't even realized that had slipped out, but Pat calling me a 'bitch' wasn't a huge deal. Good thing I hadn't gotten to the whore part.

"Really," I assured him, "I can take it, not a big deal. I just didn't deserve it, you know? And Pat needs to help."

Jared was pacing by this point, and began to shake excessively. It was rather chilly in here, I thought, despite Jared's raging body temperature. I stood, turning away from Jared to close the window but when I turned around, Jared was gone.

What the hell? No noise, nothing—he'd silently left in the seconds I wasn't looking. And right in the middle of my explanation! That was so unlike Jared, I could only be concerned for what drove him away. He paid me very close attention. I honestly thought it was freaky how he didn't blink when I spoke sometimes.

Knowing Jared, and how he regarded me as important, I simply collapsed on to the couch and shut my eyes to rest after the drama. I knew he'd be back.

An hour later, still on the couch, I opened my eyes when the door opened. I watched as Jared walked in, looking calmer and much dirtier. Whatever the intervening time had held, it was certainly lots of mud and leaves.

Sitting up, I gave him a pointed look. "What was that?"

Disregarding the Pat situation, I was mostly confused with what was going on with Jared. As much as I wanted to not put the pieces together, my brain couldn't help but dwell on all his weird behavior. And let's just say, the puzzle did not fit together at all.

"I'm so sorry!" he said passionately. "I was too angry to stay here. But I'm fine now, let's keep talking."

With a stare that I hoped was equivalent to ice cap melting intensity, I shook my head. Standing, I walked to his now casual position leaning against the wall. I touched his arm, ignoring the pleasant tingling and said, "You are burning, but clearly aren't sick."

"True," he agreed, and I watched as his face attempted to become blank. But I was becoming better at Jared-reading and I noticed that his eyes told me to keep going, keep talking.

So I did. "You were gone two weeks, and grew what takes most people years." I touched my cheek to his arm, absorbing the heat and rubbing on the warm surface like a cat.

Drawing in a breath sharply, he didn't say anything. I moved my cheek and reclined to see him.

"And then, ignoring all your other friends, you decide to get to know me. I'm still not sure why." He opened his mouth to likely say really nice things about how awesome I am, but I kept going. "When you get angry, you shake. Not a normal shaky way, but an intense vibration."

"Shaky way?" he murmured with amusement.

"Whatever," I waved off. "I have all these independent things that don't make sense when I put them together. Do you have some sort of illness? Or—drugs?" I said the last word carefully.

He laughed. "No sweetheart, you can safely rule out drugs. But as for having an illness, well, I guess you could call it that," he said with a mix of thoughtfulness and somewhat cynically.

"Well," I said, "go ahead and tell me. Or tell me to mind my own business and I'll let this whole thing go." As much as it would pain my curious nature to do so, if Jared didn't wish for me to know, I would respect that. We'd only been friends for a month now.

With a sigh, Jared moved to the couch and sat down, pulling me with him and on his lap. "Hey!" I wiggled in protest, trying to move next to him.

"Ahh," he squeaked, which sounded funnier than a normal squeak because his deep voice was not meant to go to that high an octave. He deposited me quickly to the side and reddened. I laughed at him, not quite understanding his embarrassment.

"And…" I prompted.

"Well," he stalled.

"I won't be mad if you don't want to tell me. Just say that, and I'll stop pestering you," I said. I would consider us close friends even after only a month, but we had hardly known each other long enough for deep, dark confessions.

My words caused something in Jared to lose his hesitation. "All those things you mentioned before," he said at last, bracing, "are happening or happened because I'm a shapeshifter. The more popular word is...werewolf."