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“Am not.”
Chey laughs again, lifting her hands and showing me her palms. “It’s fine, you don’t have to tell me,” she teases. “You do have to have a drink with me, though.”
I roll my eyes, stepping up beside her and slinging an arm around her shoulders. “Tell me you’ve got something good this time, none of that bottom shelf bullshit,” I growl as I guide her with me around to the front of the motel.
“Hey, you get what you get,” she replies, elbowing me in the ribs.
In my ever-changing life of picking up and moving around, Cheyenne has been one of the few constants. We’ve been friends since we were kids, and I’ve always seen her as the little sister I never had. For as long as I can remember, this has always been our post-run ritual- we have a drink together to decompress before rejoining the rest of the pack.
We head for Chey’s motel room, conveniently located right beside mine. The walls in these places are thin, so whoever’s next to me has to be someone within my circle of trust. And other than my mom, Chey’s the one I trust most.
The two of us slip inside and Cheyenne immediately steps over to the dresser, pulling open the top drawer and retrieving a bottle of Jose Cuervo from inside. She passes it to me and sets a couple of plastic cups on top of the dresser, then moves toward the bed, dropping down onto the edge and bouncing as she lands.
“So how was the run?” she asks as I screw the top off the bottle and start pouring the liquor into cups for each of us.
“Fine,” I mumble. I set the bottle on the dresser and pick up the cups, turning around to face her.
Cheyenne has her hair gathered over one shoulder, stroking her fingers through the golden strands absently, and my eyes immediately gravitate to the exposed skin of her opposite shoulder. More specifically, to the faint white scar where it meets her neck. My stomach sours at the sight of it; at the reminder of where it came from.
I hate that fucking mark. I hate what it stands for and how every time I see it, I’m reminded of what was taken from her and my own failure to protect her from it.
I should’ve noticed she wasn’t with us when we went out to run that night. I was preoccupied by some stupid argument I’d had with my mom earlier that day, and all I wanted to do was let my wolf take over for a while so I could forget. I’ll never forgive myself for leaving her behind to have her innocence stolen.
I don’t regret killing Paul for what he did. And now that he’s dead, that mark’s just a scar- the mate bond forged with it was severed when he drew his last breath. That means Chey could still find her fated mate someday, but after that night, she’s given up on the notion. She thinks that scar makes her tainted somehow; that her fated mate won’t want her since she’s already been marked.
I’ll never stop trying to convince her otherwise.
Chey follows my line of sight, her cheeks flushing pink as she sweeps her hair back around to cover the mark on her skin. She doesn’t say anything, just holds out her hand expectantly, waiting for her drink. I pass her the cup of tequila and raise my own to my lips.
I could probably tell Cheyenne about Lo. My secrets are always safe with her. Though as much as I want to unburden myself with the truth of what happened tonight, she’s also the last person I want to tell. I’ve been given a fated mate; the one thing Chey always wanted for herself. It just doesn’t seem fair.
“What’s with the long face?” she asks, lowering her cup and licking the tequila from her lips.
I shrug a shoulder noncommittally.
Chey tuts in response, shaking her head. “Come on, Javier, you’re not very good company tonight.”
“Sorry,” I grumble. “I’m just…”
“Distracted?”
“You could say that,” I nod. I sip from my cup, the liquor burning my throat on the way down.
“You think they’ll let us into their alliance?” Cheyenne asks, pulling a leg up onto the bed.
I swallow down another gulp of tequila, lowering my cup. “Hard to say. They’re definitely guarded.”
“Can you blame them?”
“No.” I lean back against the dresser with a sigh. “Shit can never just be easy, can it?”
“Nothing worth it ever is,” Chey muses. She finishes off her cup, holding it out to me for a refill. The girl was never a big drinker until after that night. She used to sip a drink because she liked the taste. Now, she takes them down to numb the pain.
“D still riding your ass?” she asks as I tip the bottle into her cup. She’s referring to my mom, Delilah- everybody calls her D.
“Always,” I chuckle.
I pull back the bottle, setting it on the dresser behind me and leaning back against the wooden surface again.
