That is a big regret in my life. I should have gone. I should have left and gone to art school instead of staying in the pack. Maybe we would have met under different circumstances? You can’t go back in time. You can only go forward until your time is up. I really don’t have much time left. You know it. I can see the devastation in your eyes.
Whenever I bring it up, you shut me up. You can’t talk about it, and I can’t bear to see that look in your eyes. Life’s not fair. You want the things you can’t have, and I want the things I can’t have, either. It’s not easy, Cash. This isn’t easy on me, I know you want me to be stronger, to fight harder, but I’m too tired to want things anymore.
I heard your mother on the phone with Caleb. I guess Rya cheated on Dallas with Clayton. She’s not so perfect now, is she? Your mother turned to your father and told him Dallas is coming home by himself.
That’s what made me really upset today. Dallas is coming back, and I don’t like your brother at all. I don’t like the way he looks at me. I don’t like Caleb, either. He’s an asshole. A giant asshole who thinks he’s this masterpiece of a wolf. He’s not a masterpiece. He’s a masterpiece of shit. You know he called me a bitch to my face, and maybe I deserved it, but fuck him for saying it. He’s no different than me in a way; he’s fucked females that aren’t his mate, yet he judges me but can be friends with Clayton? I don’t want the twins around him.
Carson, I’m neutral towards, and Crane is a disgusting little mess of a wolf. I’m afraid your brothers aren’t going to be good for the twins to be around. They don’t like me, and what happens if they don’t like the twins because they come from me?
You’re all they’re going to have. Protect them, Cash. Protect them from things that they don’t even know they need protecting from.
Everyone feels sorry for Dallas. I don’t. He had to have known it was coming. How could Rya resist someone like Clayton? How? Rya’s a cheater. Your good friend is a cheater, but you still love her like a sister. She cheated on your brother, but you still consider her a friend, but you can’t see how Caleb can like Clayton? Ask yourself some meaningful questions, Cash. Ask yourself why you can be friends with a cheater who devastated your brother, but Caleb can’t be friends with Clayton?
Double standards. Your family loves Rya, but they hate me? I know, a different situation, but I think even if I was to live, I’ll only be tolerated by your family, not loved. Only tolerated.
Clayton’s mother used to love me. We would go everywhere together. Our mothers were best friends. She loved me so much, and I loved her, I think, more than my mother. That all changed when Clayton knew I wasn’t his mate. Everything changed that day we told them we weren’t mates. From then on, I was only tolerated by her, never loved again.
The fights we would get into, the way his mother would drag her eyes down me whenever she saw us hugging or kissing. It’s like she wanted to throw up and she blamed me for everything. I heard her talking about me and how her son was pussy-whipped. I wanted to yell at her that it wasn’t my pussy he loved; it was me. Me. I didn’t. I kept it to myself and tried to be this perfect wolf without any flaws, but she’d paw at me constantly. Nothing I did was ever good enough. Ever.
She would brag sometimes about Rya at the dinner table right in front of me, how proud that she’s become a midwife and that she would be a contributing member of the pack. Clayton stood up for me then and said he’s never going to sit at their table again if she can’t stop talking about Rya. Clayton didn’t want to hear about Rya; he didn’t give a shit. His mother blamed me for their distance. I was blamed for everything. Loving Clayton was the easy part. It was everyone else that made things hard between us.
Sometimes I catch your mother watching me, and I don’t have this need to be perfect. I’m just me, and for the first time in a long time, it feels good not to have to act that I don’t make mistakes. Your mother’s nice. We got off to a rocky start, but I understand that you’re her child and she will protect you, even from your own mate.
Your father hardly speaks to me, but when he does, it has a lot of layered meaning that hits me at odd times, and I might laugh out loud or cry from it. He’s a good father. I think you’ll be like him. I hope you will be like him. I want you to be like him.
I never thought my life would turn out this way, and I bet you never thought your life would turn out this way, too.
Kennedy
Chapter 12
Change is a Grief-eater
Cassius
The men in the bar eat up Hazel with their eyes as if she’s some sort of raw meat that’s prepackaged in a form-fitting black dress.
“Do you know who that is?” I ask the bartender.
“Her name’s Hazel. She’s a freelancer.”
Hazel makes her way to a table filled with pretty women and men in suits that don’t hide their distended guts. The smell of money drips off them like water. Those eyes are exactly like Kennedy’s. I breathe, once, twice, a third time before the smoke-filled air burns my lungs, and I want to choke on the thought that this might be another bad choice.
“What does that mean, freelancer?”
“See those girls at that table? Most work for the lady sitting by the stage in the blue dress. Hazel is her own employer. She’s an independent.”
This female I’m looking at doesn’t seem like the same one who sat across from me at the house with her eyes half-closed, mumbling. This female seems composed and well made up. She places ice at the bottom of the heavy glass and uncorks the whiskey bottle, filling the cup only enough to get a few swallows down.
“Does she come here a lot?”
“Once a month like clockwork.”
“What’s she like?”
“She’s quiet, she doesn’t cause any trouble unless someone messes with her, and when they do, she fucks them up.”
“She fights?”
“No one will mess with her anymore, not even him.” He nudges his chin toward a man near a door watching with his back leaning against the wall.
“Who is that?”
“No one you want to know.” The hinges on the bartender’s jaw flex.
“If you don’t mind me asking, who let you in here?”
“Who let me in?” I try to play it off.
“You don’t fit the clientele here.”
“Are you profiling me?” I point my beer toward him before taking another sip.
“Yes, yes, I am.”
“I slipped in. I’ve never been to Vegas, let alone VIP. I wanted to see if it was like the movies.” Taking another sip of beer, I still watch Hazel in the mirror.
The bartender laughs. “It’s nothing like the movies. It’s better.”
“So far, not impressed.”
“Wait till Hazel goes on. Most of these men came for her.”
“She strips?”
“I like the term visual artist,” he corrects me respectfully.
A man pats his thigh, and Hazel sits on his lap, like some sort of pet. It’s hard to finish the rest of the beer when she puts her glass to his lips and he finishes the rest of her drink. She nudges him with her nose before leaving behind the smudge of red against his neck.
Hazel spreads her legs, and the man’s hand disappears underneath the hem of her dress. Her mouth is parted slightly and her eyes de-focus. Is she enjoying the man pawing her?
“Have you slept with her?”
“I tried, not enough cash in the wallet. Hazel does nothing for free.”
The more the man finger fucks her, the more straight whiskey she drinks. She doesn’t even use ice. She’s watching the new dancer on stage, and the man is watching his finger sliding in and out of her. Hazel drinks more and more, and the man mauls between her legs.
The back of Hazel’s head is leaned against his shoulder, her back is arched, and her hips shift slightly. At first, I think she might be enjoying it, but all I can see are hollow hazel eyes.
“Hey buddy, she’s out of your league. See those wom
en over there? Those are more your style. Hazel’s premium.”
She gets up and takes the stage. Red flashes from the bottom of her shoes.
Her nose lifts in the air, her eyes find mine, and I give her a little nod to say hello. There is something rancid that traces along her lip line. Turning around to fully face her, I lean back. If she’s putting on a show, who am I not to watch?
She stiffens up for a second before I see the roll of her shoulders. Her eyes go blank, and she moves to the ghostly rhythm of the song. Her eyes re-focus on the man in the chair, and all the men are concentrating on Hazel. The women try to look unimpressed but fail.
Hazel owns the space of the stage; she moves, and the crowd shifts in their seats. I can even hear some of them gasp when she slides that dress down her body slowly until she steps out of it with only a bra and panties and those red bottom shoes.
Her red shade of lipstick matches the shoes. It’s a startling combination; the eye traces up to her lips, down to her feet. Up and down, she’s gorged by eyes that can’t look away. The man leaning against the wall looks at Hazel like she’s prey, that he’s going to devour this beauty and spit her out in pieces. A part of me wants to throw him through the window, but this might be what Hazel wants, to be eaten up like this. Who am I to interfere with her business?
I’ve never seen a female so confident. She sculpts beauty with movement.
Taking another sip of beer, feeling the way the cold liquid slides down my throat, I’d like to fuck Hazel, but that thought fades away because the Wild won’t have any of that. He’s giving me what I need, but he won’t let me take anything more than tomorrow night. I’m not here for Hazel. I’m here for something else.
The bartender has stopped making drinks. I can hear him exhale behind my right shoulder. We both watch the Hazel show, breathing a little harder as she spins herself around the pole, spreading her legs as wide as she can. Those shoes flashing red, her red lips are licked by her tongue, making them wet. Glistening.
I’m glad Hazel kept her bra and panties on. I didn’t want to see her naked. Not yet. She slips that dress back on, and the man leads her away like some kind of dog owner. She’s allowing herself to be owned. It’s hard not to stalk behind them. I can see Hazel’s tension stiffen her spine ramrod straight. She doesn’t like me at all.
There is no eye contact between us, nothing as I walk by. She knows I’m here, and that’s all that needed to be said. For now.
The cab ride is short back to the hotel. Traffic blurs; lights are too bright. A sinking feeling settles in my gut when I open the door up to my room. The box sits on the bed, waiting for me to fill it up with Kennedy’s things. A gut pain folds me up before it goes away and I can stand straight again.
This could be another bad choice in a long line of bad choices, but somehow it feels right. Needed.
The red dress is first to be put in, air sealed with her pillowcase so Kennedy’s scent never fades away. I gave the twins every piece of her clothing when they were born to wrap around them, so they could smell their mother. When the scent faded, I threw it out and used a new shirt or pants, anything that held her scent. After a few months, nothing was left but the red dress, and I couldn’t let go of it. Until now.
Red bra and panties that she never wore but were in her underwear drawer. They smell of her, and I seal them up as well. Her makeup I threw out except for the red lipstick that she would wear at times when she didn’t go downstairs. She loved makeup but refused to wear it after a while. She stopped caring about herself, and when I stopped feeling sorry for myself, it was too late for her to want to care about anything.
A simple note on the top of the pile.
Hazel,
No other scents on you but hers. See you at seven.
Cash.
Jazz music plays low in the lobby as I wait for Hazel to come back from her evening adventures. The box is at my feet while I sketch a picture for the new coloring book, but once I’m done with it, I start to draw her. My hands can’t stop interacting with her in some way, even if it’s drawing her silhouette, the bridge of her nose, her simple smile.
It’s three a.m. by the time she comes back. She’s not as made up as she was in the club; her hair’s messy, her walk is sloppy, and she looks to be in some form of pain. She doesn’t notice me while pressing the button for the elevator.
Right before the door closes, I slide in, and that rancid look comes back to her face. I press the floor number, and she swipes her card. Penthouse.
“Wolf, I’m tired. I need to go to bed.” Whiskey lingers on her breath, and blood is smelled on her skin. There’s suffering held in her eyes.
“Me too. I’ve been waiting for you for a long time now.”
She sneers with eyes that maul. “Why?”
“I needed to make sure you got this. It’s for our date at seven.” I hand her the box. “I have instructions in there what I want you to do. I expect them to be followed.” My eyes don’t waver from hers.
She leans into me, box touching my waist. “Are you sure about this, Wolf? You might not like what’s waiting for you when I open the door to greet you at seven. It won’t be her standing there smiling. It will be me.”
“I understand that, Hazel. I just want those directions followed. I’m paying for that.” Pushing pointed words into her, she doesn’t flinch.
The elevator dings, the door opens, and I step out.
“Make sure to ask the front desk to let you up. I’ll tell them I’m expecting you.” The door closes, I go my way, and she goes hers.
Letter 12
Cash,
We never got the chance to undress ourselves, did we?
Don’t be afraid to undress yourself in front of someone special, who will appreciate the way your bones are nicked. You’re not broken, just ruined. There’s a big difference.
It’s hard at times to look at you because your pain echoes inside me. It hurts. You hurt—we both hurt for different reasons—but it’s still pain.
I woke up earlier than you today. Your cock was pressed against my ass. Rock hard and hungry. But you never make a move between us. I know your body aches for me. I can smell it on you when you think I’m still asleep in the morning and you have your nose pressed against the back of my neck. Inhaling. Your desire stretches at the insides of me. I ache sometimes for your cock, I do. Surprised, right? It would feel good to be filled up, to hold onto your neck, your arms as you fuck me.
Our first time together doesn’t really count, does it? We were angry at each other, you more so than me. I still can remember your face when I got out of that place and showed up where you were. I would have never been able to get out and track you if we weren’t mates. You’re able to draw and I’m able to hunt. So weird these talents we pick up from the other.
You grabbed my arm and started to drag me back, and I stopped you with a hand on your chest. You didn’t really want to take me back. I could see the bulge in your pants; you were panting and dripping. I’ve never experienced that kind of smell before, the leaking of a male wolf. I’m already getting wet thinking back on it.
I put my hands on you for the first time not to hit, but to feel you, and you let me, reluctantly, but you let me feel your chest, and I felt you shake underneath my hands. I couldn’t stop myself when I rubbed you through your jeans. I knew exactly what I was doing, and you, you had no chance against what I was doing. Those hormones drive you to do things you never thought you would ever do.
You told me how wrong this would be, that you needed to take me home, but my hand was there making you stay in your spot. You never had a female’s hand on your cock before. You had plenty of opportunities, but you always would make some sort of excuse to those females.
My hand kept all your excuses quiet that day, didn’t it? You wanted to protest, but your cock was rebelling against your mind. Your cock won for the first time, didn’t it?
The power shifted, didn’t it, Cash? I brought you right there to the edge,
and then stopped and we collided together, all teeth and blood. Not a proper kiss, we never had one of those, but fuck, it was hot. I will give you that; we were all a gnash of teeth and tongues and so so angry. Both of us.
I bit you, and you bit me right back.
You turned me around because I told you I didn’t want to see your face when you fucked me. That was a lie, but I wanted you to be as angry as I was. I had no control, and in a way, I stopped all your control too. That made you angry, so you pressed me against the wall and tore at my pants. I wasn’t wearing underwear and you lost your shit, didn’t you?
It was so long since I had sex that when you rammed inside of me I swear I thought I would split open, and all the nasty things you said—I lost my shit too. I came so hard that you had to hold me up off the ground with your cock so far inside me I swear I could gag on the tip.
You wanted to fuck Clayton out of me, and in that moment, you did. I couldn’t think of him. All I thought about was you and how our bodies fit perfectly. How your hands were so rough and my skin would remember every spot you held. It was like our bones were trying to find each other.
I bit my way along your arm and you left your mark across my shoulder. You fucked me with this insane anger, and with every thrust, I could feel you getting closer. I knew we were going to create something inside me. I didn’t want it to stop no matter how much my mind wanted it to stop. My lust was too much to overcome. After you came, you stopped. You just stopped as if your head cleared, and you told me to get dressed, but you couldn’t get out of me. Your Wild knotted himself up inside me and we were forced to stay together.
I shifted my hips and you groaned. What a fucking sound. I can still hear that sound in my dreams. You took me again, rougher than the last time. I swear I thought I was going to split open, but I didn’t give a shit. All I wanted was you inside me, and I couldn’t bear the thought of you getting out.
You took me with my hands pressed against the wall, and I was on my tiptoes, and those things you were saying, how you felt me come, that I didn’t come that good for him. Fuck, you bit me again and again and again. It wasn’t gentle, it was all anger and malice, and I loved every fucking minute. I felt you come; I felt every single squirting pulse inside me.
The Wildflower Series Page 62
