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“You said we’re married, right? That I’m your wife?”
He didn’t speak, but I could tell from the way his eyes narrowed he knew he wouldn’t like what I had to say next.
“Then that makes me Queen of the Eastern pack. It makes all your problems my problems. And you looking like a lost, pathetic puppy is putting every single wolf in your pack at risk. Go home. Brush your hair. Put on a suit. I’ll take care of this like I always take care of the stuff you don’t know how to deal with. ”
I looked at Holden beside me, and his brown eyes were wide. I couldn’t tell if he was impressed with me or appalled. Admittedly, I was a bit of both. Lucas had told me he was fearful for someone he loved, and I’d basically told him not to get his royal panties in a twist.
I’d also called myself the wolf queen, so really I was on a roll as far as talking out my ass went.
Looking down at his rumpled shirt, then back to me, Lucas remained silent for a long time before he said, “Okay. ”
When he walked out of the room, I stared with open amazement at the dark space he’d occupied a second earlier.
Holden, not wanting to let the moment go unacknowledged, said, “All hail Secret, Queen of the Bitches. ”
Chapter Four
My apartment didn’t feel like home without Desmond in it.
It was also an ever-increasing disaster area since he wasn’t there to pick things up or guilt me into not being a slob. When I’d lived alone, the mess had never bothered me, but since living with him I saw everything through a Desmond Alvarez-hued filter.
When I stepped through my apartment door after walking home from Holden’s place, it wasn’t exactly like stepping into the streets of Beirut, but my living room would have served as an excellent before in juxtaposition to Holden’s sleek, spotless after, if a magazine wanted to showcase New York apartments.
I didn’t eat, so there were no dirty plates or food wrappers anywhere in sight. What was littered over every piece of furniture, however, was clothing. When I’m unhappy, I don’t like the way anything looks. When I’m depressed, as it turns out, it is an absolute requirement that I try on—and hate—every single item of clothing I own.
I’d been in a three-week cycle of repeating this process. It had gotten to the point where there wasn’t any clothing left in my closet. Everything was scattered throughout the apartment, waiting for the next time I would hunt it down, put it on, then hurl it somewhere else in disgust.
Desmond would have had it hung, folded and sorted by color in the span of twenty minutes. He was an architect and had a natural flair for order, whereas my only natural skill was destruction.
Rio, a wiry snake of fur and attitude, stretched out on top of the rumpled pile of T-shirts she’d been sleeping on and padded across the living room floor, plunking her bony feline ass down in front of me and casting her lime-green gaze upwards.
“Brreeeeow?” she asked.
“Nope, sorry, kitten, just me. Always just me. ”
She butted her furry head against my shin and purred. “Mrow. ”
“Ugh, fine. ” I plucked her off the floor, and the purring reached epic proportions as she bashed her tiny skull into my chin. I could pretend to hate her as much as I wanted. The damned cat knew better.
Sidestepping a tangled pair of jeans that still held the shape of my legs, I carried Rio back to my small yellow loveseat and curled up with the cat in my arms, petting her absentmindedly as I stared at the black television screen.
And Desmond’s stupid Xbox.
In three weeks the desire to play Halo had not proven stronger than his aversion to seeing me. I felt like I was keeping the damned thing hostage, waiting for him to yield and come back to the apartment because he really needed to indulge in a first-person shooter.
I didn’t want to admit a grown man with a six-figure income might go out and buy himself a new game console instead of facing the woman who’d almost gotten him killed.
Rio nipped at my finger when I stopped petting her. I gave her a scolding tap on the nose then continued to indulge her whims. At least one female in this apartment might as well be happy. I couldn’t even get laid by a vampire I had a one-night-stand pact with. Secret McQueen, spinster for life.
This was why I’d tried to be happy being single.
Men screwed everything up. And the more men I added to the equation, the messier things got. Menage-a-trois romance novels lied. There was no way to have a happily ever after with more than one partner. I’d tried to juggle too many balls—no pun intended—and I’d ended up empty-handed.
So now began the Crazy Cat Lady chapter of my life.
Fine.
I could at least be a Crazy Cat Lady who could track down wayward socialites. Kellen couldn’t have gotten far, but she could have gotten into a lot of trouble. I might have told Lucas she was fine, but I wasn’t entirely sure I believed it myself. I didn’t think she was kidnapped or dead. Unfortunately, her being arrested or turned into an accidental drug mule still wasn’t out of the question.
