Red Moon Rising

10. runners

Chapter Song: Bad Moon Rising - Creedence Clearwater Revival

XX

When I slide into the passenger side of Cam's ancient sedan, I throw my bag in the backseat and grab onto Cam's collar to pull him close to me. He touches my cheek and tucks my hair behind my ear, kissing me again softly before settling back into his seat. "Ready?"

"Yes."

"No regrets?"

I sigh, not daring to check if Tasha is watching us from the window. "No."

Every noise of the car seems too loud in the early morning, gravel crunching beneath the tires and pine cones scattering across the road. The grass is soaked with dew, already growing humid in the swiftly climbing sun. It's going to be hot today, a burning, cloudless day that will drive the residents of Rust Cove to the river to splash in the water where Rust Creek meets Superior in a series of waves and sandbars. This creekbed, with jagged pine cliffs rising above and opening like a mouth toward Superior, is where Rust Cove gets its name, and it's where I've spent every summer for as long as I can remember. This is no other home than this, and pretending that there could be is foolish. I don't think Cam is under the impression that we're truly going to be able to start over—I don't know if that's even what either of us want. We're shooting in the dark, forging a path where there shouldn't be one, and all we have is each other now.

"Where to?"

The question lingers in the air as we drive down the entrance road, past the five guards set to check cars as they enter the territory. I know them all, and Cam works with them every day, but they only stare strangely at us as we drive past, no wave, no plea to return, no recognition of how fucked all of this is. Cam lets out a breath that I think he's been holding since we left my house, and then we're turning onto the highway, and Cam has his foot jammed against the accelerator like it's the only thing he knows how to do.

"Cam," I manage as we hit 80. "It's a 65 here." Soon we're going 85, then 90, and the sedan is roaring like it never has before, all while Cam is staring fiercely along the empty road ahead. I don't know why, but I begin to laugh, and then he's laughing too, and then Cam hits the radio and CCR is blaring through the speaker, loud enough to hurt our ears and bleed from the car into the otherwise quiet morning. I roll down my window and lean out of it, letting the wind buffer hot and brutal against my cheeks. The trees tower high and dark along the road—the outer limits of our territory—and as we rise on a hill I catch a glimpse of Lake Superior gleaming through the treetops, brilliant white in the early morning sun. We hit a bump and I lurch back into the car, heart racing, still unable to stem the giggles rising in my throat as I stare at Cam, his pretty mouth broken in a grin, hand stretching across the center console to squeeze my thigh.

"It's just us now, Layla." He finally drops back to a legal speed, but my heart doesn't want to settle back down again. "We can go anywhere we want, do anything we want to do. Where is someplace you've always wanted to visit? How about the Grand Canyon? San Francisco? The Blue Ridge Mountains?"

Even when he's shaken to the core, it never takes long for Cam to become himself again, and I find myself falling in love with him all over again, with the easy way he holds himself, the way his fingers tap along to CCR against my thigh, how he leans over the steering wheel to look at Lake Superior when we pass an overlook.

"I've never been to Grand Marais," I manage. It's only 40 minutes away, an insignificant town by all accounts, and yet it might as well be the Grand Canyon for how accessible it's been to me. Most wolves just don't leave the territory.

"Grand Marais it is!" I didn't expect him to ridicule my response, but I'm still relieved when he doesn't.

"Where do you want to go?"