So wet, so wet, so—
Mika! Get a handle on it, my inner self-respect screams when a moan bubbles up my throat and the urge to crawl onto his lap springs up. I shake myself, forcing the pleasure that’s surging through me to the background, and grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches.
The need…
God, the need that is tearing through me is so fierce it hurts when I pull away and narrow my eyes, glaring down at him while the blondes all growl, almost animalistic, as if warning him.
“Why’s it funny?” Bear asks, his voice a snarl of what I can only call outrage.
This man, the way he’s looking at me, tells me clearly that he doesn’t like me. Why? I have no idea, and even worse, I can’t explain why the knowledge makes me feel so hurt, almost frantically pained.
I can see it though; it’s carved in every inch of his face when he wipes his palm down his pants, as if wiping away the touch we just shared. That makes the despair hitting me worse. So bad I have to blank my expression and hold my breath to stop the sobs that want to leave me.
I don’t know what the heck this is…?
I don’t fucking care! I need to get the hell out of here and never see him again because…I think Mom’s crazy is finally rubbing off on me.
“Why’s it funny?” he repeats, ignoring the other occupants of the table to bark the quiet question my way.
Whatever I answer is going to be bad. I just know he’ll use whatever I say to be ruder, so at this point, all weird-ass, completely-loco feelings aside, I may as well just say something to save myself from utter humiliation.
Lord, if today is just gonna be a pile of manure, then can I at least, just once, make it home on time to watch “Antique Road Show”?
“I, uh,” I mumble, clearing my throat when everything comes out in a hoarse bark of pain. “I…it’s just that it sounds funny. You’re pining for a woman.”
Which should not make me want to drop to my knees and wail. It really shouldn’t. Oh, God, what the heck is wrong with me, I ask myself, forcing my heart to stop beating so hard and attempting to breathe through my mouth to calm myself.
Right now, I feel…I don’t know how I feel, but something is wrong, definitely wrong, and I just know that getting away from this man is the only way to stop this, whatever it is. Why I feel as if I’ll die if I do…is not something I even want to think about right now, let alone understand. I need to leave, now, before the emotions winging through me overcome me.
The really cool part of me—yeah man, I have a cool part, even if I am a loser most days—snorts and lets me know, hard and fast, that I am an idiot for being this affected by a stranger.
And he is.
This Bear, I don’t know him, and no matter what the hell is going on with me right now, I don’t want to know him, I assure myself, taking a deep calming breath and making my face reflect a boredom and apathy I wish I could feel.
What I just said obviously does not go down well because his handsome features tighten into a mask of anger. Before he says anything though, the woman slaps his head, hard, and growls so low my nerves leap under my skin.
“Just shut the hell up before you irrevocably screw yourself over, Bear! Christ man, even a blind man can see what’s going on here. You want her to hate you?”
“I don’t care. She’s nothing.”
Yeah. That does not feel good, I think, but as hard as it is to breathe with the hurt slamming through me, I manage to lift my chin and shrug. Yeah, whatever the hell is going on with me I can make it, as long as I can ignore the words and treat him the way I treat most other people, like they have no meaning.
“Soooo, you guys still want your order? This place is not getting any emptier,” I point out, keeping my burning eyes off Bear with iron will.
The blonde clears his throat, bringing my attention back to him, and I think I see admiration gleaming in the depths of his eyes before he nods.
“Thanks, darlin’. Don’t mind him.”
Yeah, like that’s even possible, I grunt silently, turning on my heel to head for the counter, where Holly is hissing at the coffee machine and Bess is taking cash.
“Christ, this is chaos! I wish I didn’t like money so much that I want a full shop.”
I snort and giggle when Holly grins and wiggles her hips while rubbing her fingers together in the universal sign for “make that money!” It’s our thing, you wouldn’t understand.
I laugh outright when she semi-twerks and starts signing ‘making that dough, ho’, a song that is one-hundred-percent original, but to the tune which is all Jay Z’s “New York State of Mind.”
They should not sound at all in tune, my brain knows this, and yet it does, making me laugh harder because Bess let’s off a muffled yell and hurls an empty cup at Holly.
Most customers, the regulars at least, are used to this play, so I hear a few chuckles along with my own when Holly ducks the cup and shakes her ass at Bess.
“You know you love me, mami,” she drawls in a fake Queens accent.
“You wish. Now stop teasing all the boys with that fat ass and hop to it. Swear to heaven, I don’t even know why I still keep you around!” she yells, cackling when Holly grabs her loaded tray and swoops by, planting a loud, wet kiss on her wrinkled old cheek.
“You love me, old lady!”
I’m still giggling, as I fill out the order for a table I really do not want to serve, my mind wandering on its own accord to places I really cannot let it go. No, really, imagining sex with a horrible asshole when I haven’t had sex is not reasonable, but that’s exactly where my mind keeps going.
All I can see is a hard, muscled body coming over me, narrow hips lodged between my thighs, pumping, thrusting, filling me up where I ache with need—
“Meek! Snap out of it and get to it! That little college pervert is waving at you, and that big scary bastard at your other table is glaring something fierce. He lays a hand on you, you snap off a finger!” she yells, her orange hair vibrating with disgust, as she snarls and scowls my way.
See, this is so why I work here. The woman just knows me, I think.
Chuckling, I make it to my table, dodging bodies and elbows on my way, as I firmly banish the images trying to fog my brain. When I get to the table, I feel more in control and dump the tray down with a sigh.
“Sorry for the wait guys. Here you go.”
No one says a word as I serve them, and I ignore the discomfort of Bear drilling holes into the side of my face as I push the pie in front of him and pretend he doesn’t exist. At least I try to, I really do, but the man smells so delicious and the need burning inside me is so fierce.
Snap out of it Meek! He’s nobody, I tell myself.
And yet the harder I say it, the worse I feel.
This is bullshit!
“Enjoy your coffee. Please call if you need anything else.”
With that, I turn to leave and make my way towards the college students, praying like hell that whatever is going on with me today will just stop.
It’s fatigue; it has to be, I think. And yet, as I get through the next half hour in a blur, serving more coffee than is healthy, it’s with my heart aching and beating an urgent message that I just don’t get.
Bear and his friends are long gone by now, thankfully.
Yes, thankfully!
I do not feel like I have just been abandoned.
Of course, I don’t.
I don’t feel as if a part of me just walked out the door.
I can’t.
I mean, this is madness.
And yet, as the hours tick by, no matter how busy I am, the feeling doesn’t leave me.
Chapter Two
Meek
I stumble, regaining my footing at the last minute to stop myself from faceplanting, as I make my way from the bus stop and walk the few blocks it takes to get to the Rolling Hills Care Home where Mom is living.
I am so tired I feel like someone poured lead into my bones and encased my feet in concrete, but I push i
t all away. No matter how shitty I feel, I have to visit Mom.
I come here twice a week, no matter what the weather or how pressed for time I am. I have it in my head that if I just persevere, Mom will snap out of it and finally see me.
Most days, I know it’s all bullshit. I do. But no matter how many times I try to tell myself that it’s a waste of time, I still come, praying that one day I’ll walk through those doors and find the woman who was once such a force of life she made everything around her shine with vitality.
The doctors have told me over and over again that Mom should have recovered by now, that what ails her is all in her mind, and that if she hasn’t spoken yet the chances are slim.
I think I know that they’re right; I mean they so totally are. Mom’s been what you could call catatonic since dad passed away. Well okay, not since, but as close to as all get out.
At first, it was the constant crying and grief, the despair that you feel when you lose someone you love so fiercely, but when she’d cried herself sick, for weeks, well, it got worse.
I thought, stupidly, that she would get better after she stopped crying, that like me the tears had healed some part of her, and that while it would take time, we could help each other get through our mourning.
I was so, so wrong. After the tears stopped around week…I don’t even know when they stopped…everything about that time is just so jumbled with my worry and heartache.
Well, they stopped. From there, it was like living with an automaton. Mom would hardly get out of bed, and on the rare days that she did, she’d walk around the house aimlessly in her dirty nightgown just staring blankly at Dad’s things in his office.
I found her in there many a time, just staring, her body not moving for hours, as I watched and prayed for something, anything to change. When nothing did, I slowly started to realize that any hope I had of having my mom turn to me and comfort me was, well, hopeless.
She looked awful, thin, dirty, and so lifeless that I used to stand in her doorway at night and watch her because I’d become convinced she’d go to sleep and never wake up.
It got so bad that by the time Aunt Ruth came around, I was a zombie myself. Too scared to sleep. Afraid Mom would kill herself or give up and slip away.
I lost weight, too. A lot of weight. So much so that Ruth lost her marbles and finally threatened to have Mom committed. I was so mad at her at first, but I very quickly started to agree with her on the last day I can remember holding out hope for a change.
I’d just graduated, officially, even though I didn’t attend the ceremony because I couldn’t bring myself to leave Mom. It was a Monday morning, around eight, and I was rifling through the pantry—which was scarily bare since I wasn’t making all that many tips at the coffee shop—and trying to figure out what I could do with flour, one egg, and a nub of butter.
I’d long since lost that hungry feeling, something I didn’t even see as unhealthy, because yeah, it was better not to feel anything than to have to go to bed with my stomach in a knot of starvation.
So anyway, there I was, trying to pretend I could make something for Mom and I to eat when suddenly she was there in the doorway. She didn’t smell bad, thanks to a sleeping pill I’d crushed into the water I was still forcing her to drink, which allowed me to strip her and wash her down.
That had been, unpleasant. Not that I don’t love my mother enough to care for her that way, but by then Mom had started soiling herself and the things I had to clean off her were…. Trust me, it was bad.
I did it though. I washed her, moisturized her once-glowing skin, changed the linens, and even got her hair somewhat clean with dry shampoo.
When she appeared in the doorway to the pantry, I was so taken with the smile she gave me. It was blinding, so like the soft, loving looks she used to give me. I thought for sure she’d come back to me.
What happened next killed everything I was feeling though. I will never know how she got Dad’s gun out of the safe; I’d changed the combination—just in case—weeks ago.
She had it though. She had the gun, and the way she held it, coupled with that smile…
I still want to cry just thinking about that day, when I allow myself to think about it, because I don’t know what she was thinking. All I know is that…
No, Meek, that time is passed, I tell myself harshly, shaking my head to rid myself of the horrible memory.
It fades, slowly, and I concentrate on walking, needing to get into the doors, not knowing if I have much left to give Mom today. The last two weeks have been a nightmare of pain, sleeplessness, and these emotions that just won’t go away.
It’s become so bad that lately I am terrified that I’ve finally started to lose it. I don’t go out with Holly and Jo anymore, no matter how much they yell and fight with me. I just don’t want to.
I can’t say why, just that for the last two weeks the emotions that I still can’t explain have gotten so intense that most days I can barely function. I cry, for nothing. Yesterday, a guy came into the shop and ordered pie—chocolate pie for God’s sake!—and I cried for almost an hour.
I don’t sleep. I hardly eat, but when I do, I am so starved I’ve managed to pick up two pounds. The longer this goes on, the more I fear that whatever Mom’s going through is not about grief or anything to do with Dad…but maybe some fucked-up family-crazy that I am destined to go through, too.
I can’t allow that. I am not nuts. At least I can’t afford to be nuts yet! I don’t have any other family but Ruth, who for all intents and purposes isn’t much family at all.
Sure, she got me to see that Mom needed help, and I know she cares enough that when she saw me so thin and beat down that it upset her, but I haven’t heard from her in three years.
It’s just me and Mom now, and for Mom to have care, I need to work. If I go crazy too, Mom will be shoved into one of those state-run homes, where people go to die, not heal, and I’ll be right there with her, drooling and letting porridge dry in my lank, dirty hair.
I don’t have kids who love me. No family to have my back unless I count Bess, Holly, and Jo. Not that I don’t—but come on! There’s no way would I ever want my two best friends and Bess to have to look after me that way.
“Mika?”
I jump, stumbling back when that soft voice penetrates my conscious. I blink, realizing belatedly that I am now inside the care home, standing in front of Mom’s door, and I have no clue how I got here.
My mind feels fuzzy and heavy, so heavy and slow that it takes way longer for me to recognize the face staring at me, the grey eyes so familiar I have to blink and make my mind latch onto the identifying features.
I know this woman, I…
“God Mika, honey, you look…” she trails off, her grey eyes losing some of that inner spark that makes them seem as if they’re swirling with a life of their own.
Recognition hits me hard and so forcefully that I gasp, moving back a step when the redhead who’s name I don’t know, or recall, reaches out to touch me. The move is defensive, something I usually wouldn’t do because I may be a bitch, but I am a bitch with manners, who truly likes people—most days—but no matter how guilty I feel for the rejection or the confusion and hurt that springs into the woman’s eyes, some part of me knows that if I let her touch me, something is going to happen.
It could be good. I don’t know, but right now, I can’t…can’t understand myself. I am so tired, confused, afraid that I’ve become paranoid and twitchy and anti-social.
Even Holly was shocked when she tried to hug me a few days ago. For some reason, one I can’t explain, I freaked the hell out. The thought of being touched, having someone’s skin against mine made my body go into fight-or-flight mode.
I had to apologize and lock myself in my bedroom just to stop the shit beating inside me, and by then, I fully acknowledged that I wasn’t coming down with something or in need of a good sleep. I think I knew then that I was going nuts.
“Mika.”
&nbs
p; “Don’t! Please. I-I’m sorry. I don’t know why…. Something’s wrong with me, and…and you shouldn’t touch me. Please, I don’t…” I trail off, not knowing what else to say through the anguish that assails me.
Everything is confusion. I have this feeling, all these emotions bombarding me, and I can’t explain them, never mind make enough sense to tackle the problem head on. I am exhausted, antsy, panicked all the time, and I feel so sick and disoriented that it was all I could do to go to work today and actually function.
I keep telling myself that if I just keep going, things will get better. That I’ll sleep, get over whatever is happening to me, and it will all go away. It’s how I’ve lived this long without falling apart so far, how I made it when I had to sell the house to pay for this place in the beginning, how I stopped myself from crumbling for the last few years while I begged Mom to come back, gave up hope, and then started hoping all over again in a vicious cycle.
Soldier through.
Never quit.
There’s a silver lining on a cloud somewhere punkin’, you just gotta wait for the cloud to find you.
I recall all the things Dad once told me, his enthusiasm and positive thinking an innate part of me since I was a little girl. Lately though, I feel…nothing.
The once happy thoughts I used to get through my days are all gone. I either feel desperate, confused, or terrified—I swing from emotions so rapidly I can hardly keep up—or I feel as if everything is numb and heavy.
“Mika?” the woman says again, pulling me from the emptiness I feel engulfing me piece by piece. “Honey, are you okay?”
No. No, I am not. I feel broken. I don’t say that though because I don’t know this woman, and besides, how do I explain it without sounding like a crazy person? I feel crazy, no need to prove it to other people.
“I’m fine,” I say, the scratchy monotone making us both wince because I sound like a cross between a drone and nails on a chalkboard.
“Honey, no offense, but you don’t look it. Look,” she says and sighs, looking around before looking back down at me again. “Why don’t you come outside with me and have a soda? We can talk.”
Greyriver Shifters Page 2
