I didn’t understand the importance of dragging myself off the mountain to go to a party half-way across town. I had zero interest in mingling with people I didn’t like. I was happy to stay home, watch some TV, and work out my aggression in the gym. But here I was, circling Maple Street, in Suburbia hell, looking for a parking spot. Leila owed me, big time!
Then again, there was the Riley Lincoln factor, but . . . yeah just but.
Tucked into my back pocket was the list of approved answers to the asinine questions I’d been asked all week. Questions like: do we shift, how pointy are our teeth, and did I have a penchant for raw meat. The first day at school I answered those questions with a curt no. The second day the local’s inquisitiveness was met with a stern glare. By this morning, I’d had it. The first kid to ask about raw meat got a not so gentle smack upside the head. That earned a phone call to my father, and an equally painful smack upside my own head. Dad told me to stick to protocol and either recite the answers he’d given me, or walk away. Knowing me, I’d do neither.
The house was easy to find, just follow the loud music and the trashed group of teenagers stumbling across the lawn. I pulled to the curb a few houses from the main event and nearly knocked over a kid hurling in the bushes when I opened my door. If this was Leila’s idea of a good time then we needed to have a serious talk, remind her of her roots. I’d take her out hunting this weekend, let her feel the dying pulse of a heart as she drove the blade in for the final kill.