How to Flirt With a Naked Werewolf - Molly Harper [41]
Of course, this renewed affection for Ash and Saffron was tempered by the fact that my full name was still spreading around town like a virus. But so far, most of the snickers had been covered by polite coughing. Well, Lynette made some snarky comments about Deadheads and pot smoking, but mostly, there was just snickering. Walt even patted my hand as I poured him coffee the other morning and confessed that his first name was Marion. Just like the rest of me, my hippie-dippy birth name had been accepted in Grundy.
Through with reminiscing for the evening, I popped a Duffy CD into the stereo and picked up Walden. It seemed an appropriate selection. I’d just read the opening paragraph when I heard a thumping, dragging noise on my porch.
My blood ran cold, an unpleasant watery sensation that made my legs tremble. Yet some stupid, potentially fatal curiosity had me moving toward the door, even as my brain screamed at me to run in the opposite direction. This was the kind of noise that the blond, barely clad starlet heard just before the mask-wearing psychopath burst into her isolated cabin and turned her skin into some sort of household furnishing.
I crept to my window and peeked out. I saw a flash of bare golden skin. Whoever it was seemed to be breaking into my house in the nude.
A low, hoarse voice from outside the door whispered, “Please help.”
Whoever was out there was injured. The pain was apparent, even in his voice. Then again, I’d read about Ted Bundy putting a fake cast on his arm to elicit sympathy from his victims . . . Gwa-thunk. I looked out again to see that my nighttime visitor had slumped in front of my door. I opened it and was presented with an ass in the air. Even in my shock, I had to admit it was a very nice ass.
I glanced down to see that he had a bear trap clamped around his ankle. The cruel metal teeth were digging into his flesh, oozing blood in a way that made my stomach turn. “Oh, my God. I’ll call nine-one-one.”
“No doctors,” he mumbled, rolling toward me.
“Cooper? What the—” My eyes narrowed. Was this a trick? An elaborate scheme to chase me out of town or lure me out of the house so his werewolf fangs could silence me for good? I didn’t think Cooper could fake the greenish pallor to his face or the hideous trap-related wounds. But if the guy was a werewolf, anything was possible. If I was smart, I would tell him to stop bleeding on my porch and hike his injured, unclothed butt into town.
Cooper panted. “Please, you can help. Tools?”
Gah. I couldn’t believe it was taking me so long to respond. Yes, he was a jerk, but he was a human being . . . ish. And he had saved me from a violent trucker. I at least owed him basic first aid.
I ran for the Craftsman tool chest I kept in my kitchen. Everything in the kit was brand new. I hoped that was enough to stave off infection, because I didn’t think I had time to sterilize. I dragged the heavy plastic box to the living room, where Cooper was curled in front of my fireplace.
“No doctors,” he repeated, his face now an icky blue-gray. “I’ll be fine by morning. Just let me stay here, OK? And no matter what you see, just don’t be afraid.”
My eyes locked with his, and I found that I believed him. Even with all of the horrible, dangerous implications, I trusted him.
“Deep breaths,” I told him.
My glasses slipped down my nose as I used the pliers to depress a spoon-shaped metal lever of the trap, while I held down a corresponding lever on the other side of the foothold. The jaws slowly relaxed, allowing Cooper’s limp leg to slide out. He whimpered as his foot dropped to the floor.
“Thank you,” he whispered before letting unconsciousness claim him.
At those words, the trap slipped out of my hands and clanged loudly on the floor. I winced, my eyes flitting to his face, which was still lax and peaceful.
How on earth had he been