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Chapter Three: Barbecue
The motel door creaked open again, just as it had before. This time, the sound didn't startle me as much. I stayed where I was, sitting cross-legged on the thin, scratchy blanket covering the sunken mattress. I listened.
There were footsteps—soft, unhurried. Measured. Calm. Each one landed with quiet assurance, like the man walking knew exactly who he was and what he was doing. That kind of confidence felt strange in a place like this.
He stepped into the room again, silhouetted in the flickering yellow light from the hallway. In his hand, he carried a large takeout bag, grease-stained and warm. The scent drifted in ahead of him, filling the stale air with something rich and smoky.
"You must be hungry," he said, tone light but steady.
He lifted the bag a little, giving it a small shake. "I brought barbecue."
The aroma hit me full-force: charred meat, tangy sauce, and a spicy, mouthwatering sweetness that made my stomach twist with sudden, painful need. I hadn't realized how empty I was until that moment.
My body answered for me before I could form words. My stomach growled—loudly. Loud enough to echo off the water-stained walls of the tiny room.
The man—whose name I didn't know yet—let out a soft, amused laugh.
"I'll take that as a yes."
He set the bag down on the chipped, cigarette-burned table and began pulling out containers. One by one, he laid them out: glistening slices of brisket, sticky ribs with meat falling off the bone, a mountain of pulled pork, a container of creamy coleslaw, and thick wedges of golden cornbread. Each opened box released another wave of scent, rich and irresistible.
I stared at the feast, but didn't move right away. Instead, my eyes flicked up to him. I had questions—so many of them—but I started with the simplest.
"I don't even know your name," I said, my voice quiet, almost unsure in the silence that followed the unpacking.
He looked up from the food, pausing halfway through unwrapping a rack of ribs. His eyes were dark but not unkind.
"Richard," he said simply.
I nodded slowly, my gaze drifting back to the table. "That's a lot of food. Kind of overkill for just two people."
Richard smirked and shook his head, clearly amused. "Don't play dumb, kid. You might look like a normal boy, but everything underneath that skin of yours—your muscle fibers, your bones, even your internal organs—they're all different. You're built for more.. That means your metabolism burns through calories faster than a bonfire in a windstorm."
I raised an eyebrow, skeptical but curious.
He leaned against the edge of the table, picking up a piece of cornbread and tearing it in half. "The good news," he continued, "is that your body's also ridiculously efficient. You don't need to eat like ten people—just like three. Maybe four, if you're healing from something."
That explained a lot more than I wanted to admit. I reached out and grabbed a piece of cornbread, the warmth seeping into my fingers, and muttered without looking up, "I used to sneak into the kitchen at the orphanage. After lights out. Took whatever I could find."
Richard gave a small snort of laughter, not unkind. "You don't have to sneak around for food with me, Lucas. You're safe now. Eat as much as you want."
So I did.
The silence between us as we ate wasn't awkward. It was surprisingly... easy. Like neither of us needed to fill the space with words. Just the sound of chewing, containers opening and closing, sauce being licked from fingers. The food was incredible—smoke, meat, salt, heat, sweetness. Every bite felt like my body was relaxing, letting go of tension I hadn't realized I'd been carrying.
Eventually, I slowed down enough to ask the question that had been sitting at the edge of my thoughts since I woke up here.
"How did I become a werewolf?"
Richard glanced at me, then reached for a napkin and wiped his hands before answering.
"There are only two ways," he said after a moment. "You're either born a werewolf... or you get bitten."
I nodded slowly, bracing myself.
He looked me dead in the eye. "You were born this way, Lucas. No sane werewolf would ever bite a child. Your body wouldn't survive the transformation—it would tear you apart before it finished."
His words hit harder than I expected. I swallowed a lump in my throat, then looked down at my plate.
He continued, his voice softer now. "I looked into the hospital records where you were born. There wasn't much left. Records were spotty. All we know is that your mother was young—seventeen. No mention of a father. Honestly, she probably had no clue what you were. Just a scared girl trying to make sense of a impossible choice."
I froze mid-bite, fork hovering just inches from my mouth. The food no longer seemed quite as comforting.
So... she didn't leave me because she was afraid of what I was. She didn't abandon me because I was a monster.
She left because... she just didn't want me.
Somehow, that was worse.
Richard must've noticed the shift in my expression. He reached across the table and placed a hand on my shoulder—firm, grounding, but not forceful.
"Listen to me, Lucas. None of that—none of it—is your fault. You didn't choose to be born, and you sure as hell didn't choose to be different. That doesn't make you wrong."
I didn't respond. I just nodded faintly and kept eating, chewing more slowly now.
Eventually, when the containers were mostly empty and the silence had stretched out again, I asked, "What about the orphanage?"
Richard didn't hesitate. "Handled," he said simply. "The people there won't even notice you're missing for a while. And in less than a week, someone will stop by—someone who's very good at what they do. After that, all their memories, all their files... everything will say the same thing: you got adopted. Simple as that."
I didn't ask how. Deep down, I already knew I didn't want the details. Some things were better left vague.
I just gave a small nod, absorbing it.
"And me?" I asked at last. "What happens to me now?"
Richard leaned back in his chair, the wood groaning under his weight.
"Now," he said, "I take you to someone I trust. A friend. She'll look after you for a while—teach you what you need to know, help you get control of what's inside you. Until you're ready to take care of yourself."
I studied him for a moment, trying to sense if there was anything false in what he'd said. But his face was open, honest. No lies.
And for the first time since I'd woken up in that motel room, sore and confused and angry...
I felt something I hadn't felt in six long years.
Peace.