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I slump over him, ignoring the mess between our bodies, my forehead pressing to his shoulder as he sweeps his hands up and down my spine languidly. He kisses my hair, and then shifts. “God, you’re a heavy fucker.”
“That shouldn’t be a surprise,” I murmur against his skin, before sighing and sliding off of him. There’s a gush of wet as I slip from inside his body. He groans and wrinkles his nose as it soaks into the blanket.
I laugh and kiss him. “Go shower. I’ll strip the bed and then join you.”
His hand curls around my shoulder, holding me in place before I can roll off the bed. He kisses me again, deeper than the peck I’d given him, and then runs his nose along the length of mine.
“It’s going to work out this time,” he murmurs against my mouth. “She’s here. In town. We know where she is. If she leaves this time, we’ll be able to follow her. She won’t get away from us again. She’ll have to let us love her.”
Guilt pinches my stomach at his reassuring words. It’s my job as the prime alpha to do that for my pack. I should be the one telling him that our plan will work. That we’ll get the chance to explain, that Vee will understand.
But I haven’t gotten any more adept at lying over the years. Maybe slightly better, but not enough to tell them something if I don’t one hundred percent believe it. I don’t want to lie to my pack. I did that with Vee and look at how that turned out. Seven years apart. Her hatred and hurt burning up her eyes as she looked at me, pretending she didn’t know me.
Yeah, it should be my job to reassure them that this will work out. But how can I do that when I’m not sure of that myself?
Rule 6: The only cure for a hangover is coffee and donuts… and maybe a little light flirting
I wake up the next morning with a tiny man on a drum kit behind my eyes, and a mouth so dry, it feels like I shoved half a sleeve of saltines in it before going to sleep. Hangovers are the worst, and I would say that I’ll never drink again, but I know that’s a lie. A big fat lie. Drinking myself into oblivion has become my new normal. At least on nights when I can’t escape the overwhelming feeling of inadequacy and rejection that haunts me seven years after the fact.
Last night was particularly bad. It took two bottles of wine for my stupid brain to shut off, and I’m feeling it now. Worse, the memory of Jackson’s big, calloused palm gripping my arm is still there, right along with his gray eyes, and stupid coffee scent.
I knew coming to town was a mistake. If there had been any other way to take care of my grandmother’s estate, I would have done it. Estate. What a joke. Things were bad financially before she kicked me out, but now I know they must be desperate.
The only thing of any value is the run-down house and the land it sits on, and frankly, it’s not much.
I groan and roll over, blinking against the bright light and then frowning at the clear blue sky over me. Oh, right. After bottle number one, I decided I never wanted to sleep under my grandmother’s roof ever again, so I dragged all the blankets I could find into the backyard where a big circular lounge is nestled under a vine-covered pergola. Not as secure as I would normally like, but the vines and leaves create three walls around the bed, and so it’s almost like an enclosed space. I was drunk enough last night not to care that the lounge is musty smelling and a little damp, but I can’t stand it now.
Another groan leaves me as I push myself into a sitting position, blinking at the overgrown backyard. Jesus, she really let this place go. But then I guess without me to do things like weeding and mowing, she would have had to pay someone to do it, or do it herself. I grunt as I stand, bringing the blankets with me wrapped around my shoulders as I head inside to find my phone and see what time it is.
Just as I make it to the back door, a tingle starts down my spine and the feeling of being watched skates over my skin, making my hair stand on end. I turn casually, scanning the backyard, but I see nothing.
It’s probably just a dog or a cat or something, watching from the bushes. Or my overwrought imagination. I’m so fucking stressed from being here that I’m imagining the feeling of eyes on me.
Ignoring the unsettling sensation, I push into the house and try to pretend like a little piece of my soul doesn’t wither and die from being back in this place. The last time I was here I broke, shattered, and its hard not to let those memories overwhelm me. Especially when everything looks exactly the same, though more rundown.
The paint is peeling on the walls. The cabinets in the kitchen are chipped, doors hanging askew. Everything is covered in a thick layer of dust, as if my grandmother hadn’t bothered to clean in the years leading up to her death. Everything is musty, the scent of mildew clinging to my nostrils. Part of why I slept outside last night. I’m pretty sure I’ll get some kind of lung infection if I stay in here.
I make my way into the kitchen, my body demanding hydration after the absolute bullshit I put it through last night. The frozen pizza I made myself buy at the grocery store sits on the counter, baked but only one slice gone. The third unopened bottle of wine sitting next to it.
Yet another reason for my raging hangover, there was nothing in my stomach to help soak up the alcohol. I should have only bought one bottle, limited myself, but I have very little self control when it comes to trying to drown my memories in the sweet oblivion of booze.
I ignore the nausea that rears as I look at the pizza and move to the sink instead. Dust covers all the dishes in the cabinets, and I don’t have the patience to clean one, so I flip on the tap and drink straight from the faucet. Yesterday when I’d washed my hands, the water had run brown for a few moments before turning clear.
I’d hardly noticed, but now looking around, I have to wonder, was my grandmother even living here? There have been no updates, no changes and the filth in here has accumulated over years, not the few months between her death and now.
My head throbs its disapproval of my trying to parse it out when I’m still so groggy and I groan. Shower. I need a shower to feel less hungover, and I need coffee to feel more human. Until I have those two things, I’m not going to think about anything.
Mind settled, I make my way up the creaky stairs, my bare feet leaving footprints in the dust.
An hour later, I’ve showered, put on the bare minimum of makeup and tossed my wet shoulder length hair up in a bun on the top of my head. Maybe I’ll try to do something with it before I go back to Aurie’s office, but for now… It is what it is.
I’m feeling marginally better. My body’s used to feeling like shit most of the time anyway, so dealing with a hangover that can be cured with hydration, painkiller and a donut isn’t all that bad, if I’m honest.
I’m standing in line at Bonheur, eying the pastry case, when a prickle of anticipation runs over my skin, and my omega sits up and takes notice.
“Vee!” My teeth clench as all the hair on my body stands on end at the familiar voice. My stomach lurches and my heart picks up its pace. I knew I should have gone somewhere else this morning. But in my hungover state, I’d been on autopilot, driving to the familiar coffee shop of my teen years.
Of course they would come here too. Especially after I ran into Jackson yesterday only a few blocks from here.
