Going Nowhere

Chapter 22 - Procreationist

Dad went with Grandma Hazel to find out what had happened to Genie Decateur and came back purple-mouthed and drunk off his Scandinavian werewolf-ass. I was eating breakfast when they got back so when my mouth dropped open, a piece of bacon fell out of my mouth and onto the table. Through the open window, I heard my father, the werewolf alpha and sheriff in my hometown, sing.

"Kaaalinka, kalinka, kalinka moya!"

My brows went up. Was that... Russian?

"Vashadu yashibashi malinka, malinka moya!"

He tried to move his feet in a dance that was not something I'd seen performed locally and assumed he was also attempting to dance in Russian.

Grandma Hazel was dancing too, but she was laughing so hard she had to double over, and since she kept dancing with her skinny butt in the air, it looked kind of funky. Dad had raised both his hands and was alternating between snapping his fingers and clapping his hands.

Sometimes his hands missed each other, and when he suddenly slapped himself in the head instead, both he and Grandma Hazel cheered loudly.

"Holy crap," Elsa breathed out.

"I agree," Pen said genially. "His accent is godawful."

Elsa's head snapped around, and she speared him with a hard glare. This was the twelfth hard glare she'd speared him with since he showed up on a bicycle early that morning.

"What are you doing here?" she snapped.

"Waiting for you to let me impregnate you," he said with a sweet smile.

Joel started laughing.

Janie tore her eyes from the spectacle outside to stare at Pen.

Then Jackson walked through the back door, closed it quietly and sat down at the table.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Huh," I rasped out and gestured toward the two fools in the front yard.

Grandma Hazel straightened abruptly and threw her hands out, which made her stumble a little.

"I never knew you were such a great dancer, Biff," she squealed, and declared, "I'll teach you how to pole-dance."

"Yes!" Dad yelled and pumped his hands in the air as if he'd won an Olympic gold medal. Or the lottery. Or whateverthefudge. "I always wanted to pole-dance!"

Slowly, I leaned forward and rested my forehead on the table.

"Kill me now," I mumbled.

"Why?" Pen asked, sounding utterly confused. "I think he'd be good at it. He's got some serious hip-action going."

I straightened, and we stared in silence at my father and grandmother humping imaginary poles and shaking their shoulders. They were singing, and my brows went up when they shared loudly that they both apparently had been to a motherfucking mountaintop where they had heard motherfuckers talk. Or something.

"Right," Janie said calmly and stood up.

When she had gotten the situation in hand, and the two drunken fools had sobered up, helped by a few select chants from Grandma, we sat on the porch.

"Dad," I murmured.

"Not a word," he growled.

"We won't ever talk about it," Jackson promised solemnly and earned himself a grateful look. He winked at me and added, just as solemnly, "But we'll never forget."