Letting Go (Another Falls Creek Romance Book 3)

by SF Benson

  Fifteen minutes later, I enter Balls Up Sports Bar and Grill. It’s a busy night even at this late hour. Brady Romero is behind the counter. His girlfriend, Audra Nevers, is by his side. Those two really should get married and start raising pups or something. They’ve been dating for the past five years. But they’re both headstrong. Audra isn’t willing to step down as the alpha of the Nevers pack, and Brady isn’t sharing leadership with her. Fools. Life is too short for such nonsense.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Brady exclaims. His jaw drops momentarily. “Uraeleus?”

  Leaning over the bar, I say quietly, “Think you can keep your voice down? I’d prefer if you use my first name.”

  The corners of Audra’s eyes crinkle as she asks, “What do you need tonight, Marc?”

  I flinch. I suppose I should get used to hearing it. No one’s going to use my full name. In this era, casualness is the norm. “Is it too late for a steak?”

  She lifts an eyebrow and tilts her head to the side.

  Brady answers, “Naw, man. How do you want it?”

  “Medium well. Can I get a whiskey, no ice?” I slide onto a stool.

  “I’ll put the order in for the steak,” Audra tells Brady. “After I call Cherina.”

  Damn. I guess I should have expected her reaction too. I probably should have stayed at Cherina’s, but I was hungry and horny. It’s been ages since I’ve experienced either of those.

  Brady sets an etched-glass tumbler of whiskey in front of me. I swirl the amber liquid around before taking a swig. It burns its way down my throat, and I relish the sensation.

  “What gives, Marc?” Brady finally asks as he wipes down the polished counter.

  “What do you mean?” Honestly, it’s none of his business, and I have no desire to give up any details. “Do you think you can check on my steak? I’m starving.”

  “I bet you are,” he mumbles, walking away.

  From the corner of my eye, I see Brady steering Audra back through a door. I chuckle. It won’t be long before all the supernaturals in town are talking about how I’ve changed. I bring the glass back to my lips and try to appreciate the music blasting through the speakers.

  An hour has passed since I finished my meal. Brady was kind enough to bring a bottle of Devil’s Mark to my table in a far corner. The crowd has thinned out—just a handful of humans and supernaturals who don’t know how to go home or haunt a house. Me? I’m appreciating being able to drink again. Besides, the last thing I need is to go back to Cherina’s.

  “So the rumor is true?”

  Fuck.

  I toss back my drink and look up into Luc’s angular face. He pulls out a chair and sits down, uninvited.

  “What do you want, Luc?”

  “Had to see for myself.” He cocks his head and waves his hand up and down. “Would you like to explain this transformation?”

  “Not really.” I pour myself another tumbler of whiskey. “Besides, it’s none of your business.”

  “I beg to differ.” His eyes follow my movements. “How long will this last?”

  “Until my business is handled.” I take a sip. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to continue enjoying the atmosphere without you in it.”

  “Very well. When your business is finished, then you can return to Council.”

  “We’ve already discussed my departure. I have no intention of returning.” My lips curl up. “But Luc, I don’t think you’ll be making decisions for much longer.”

  Anger flashes in his golden eyes as a simmering growl comes from his throat. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  Finishing my drink, I calmly rise to my feet. “I suggest you handle your business. Since I’m banned from Council, I can’t really discuss Council business.”

  As I walk from the table, I think I hear Luc’s blood boiling.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Antoinette

  My eyes crack open, and I look to the side. Emptiness and silence greet me, and yet it shouldn’t surprise me. In all honesty, it’s something I should get used to. After all, who wants to spend their free time with a cripple?

  What about the wraith?

  Like I said, no person wanted to spend time with me. It’s probably what Rob was too chicken to admit. He didn’t want a girl tied to a chair—plain and simple. What on earth was I thinking? What man would want a disabled person for a girlfriend? It’s too cruel of a punishment to inflict upon someone.

  Better fact: I’m useless to Rob. We used to dance and hike the hills around Falls Creek. We rode our bikes through town. In the mornings, we’d go for a jog and then stop for coffee. And of course, there’s the one thing Rob liked more than anything. Who knows if I’ll ever have sex again? It’s better to face the truth. Nobody wants someone confined to a wheelchair.

  I attempt to prompt myself up on my elbow, but I’m too weak, and my arm won’t support me. Stabbing pain slices through every part of me. Spasms rock my body, and starbursts dance behind my eyelids. Grimacing, I silently beg for the intense torment to end. Of course, my plea doesn’t work. I need something stronger than a perfunctory prayer.

  Automatically, I search for pain relief, but there aren’t any pills or even a pain pump close by. I guess when you’ve tried to kill yourself, self-medication is out of the question.

  As my hand reaches for the call button at my side, a thin man with wire-framed glasses enters the room carrying a tablet. It’s too late for visitors. I’m guessing he must be staff despite his casual clothes—green plaid, button-down shirt, khakis, and running shoes. Unless he’s coming with a full arsenal of medication, he’s not needed here.

  “Glad to see you’re awake, Miss Leoni,” he announces with a slight Southern drawl. “I’m Dr. Rogers. You can call me Jason if you like.”

  Just great. I need a nurse, not another damned doctor. “Are you here to give me my meds?”

  “Afraid not.” He pauses for a moment, staring at the device in his hands. “According to your chart, Miss Leoni, the nurse administered your meds an hour ago. Afraid you’re going to have to bear the pain. If you’re up to it, we can explore some management techniques which don’t require meds.”

  A pep talk or meditation won’t take away this agony. I exhale loudly. “Then why the hell are you here?”

  Shouting, unfortunately, makes the pain worse. I clutch at the covers.

  Somebody shoot me. Please.

  The doctor steps closer, and I notice his eyes—the color of faded, frayed blue jeans—and tousled mousy-brown hair. Without his glasses, he’d be attractive on some level. He sort of reminds me of the jazz singer and talk-show host from New Orleans. The one who’s also an actor. I can’t remember his name, but it doesn’t matter. He’s not my type.

  Remember, cripples don’t get to have a type. Your boyfriends will come from books and movies—the only ones who won’t judge or scrutinize you.

  “Thought we might talk a bit.” Dr. Rogers glances up from the device. “Get to know each other.”

  “Whatever.” The last thing I want is a damned meet-and-greet, especially one with a shrink who sounds like a reject from the cast of A Streetcar Called Desire.

  Dr. Rogers drags the chair from the corner, moving it nearer to my bed, and takes a seat. “How you feeling tonight, Miss Leoni? Mind if I call you Antoinette?”

  “I don’t care what you call me.” I look up at the ceiling. “How do you think I’m feeling? I’m on the flat of my back unable to move. I tried to sit up before you came in, and I put myself in pain. Other than that, I’m doing peachy, Doc. How are you?”

  Annoying clicking sounds fill the room as he types into the device.

  “Antoinette, it’s understandable you’re upset. Your body has been put through a great deal of stress. It’s going to take some time for you to recover. Same thing with your mind. It’s why I’m here. To help you recover emotionally.” He pauses for a moment. “I don’t pull punches. Let’s dive into the deep end. Care to tell me why you tried to kill you
rself?”

  His straightforward approach is appreciated, but not welcome. Maybe under different circumstances I wouldn’t mind talking. Then again… If I’m honest with him, engage in real dialogue, maybe this charade will be over sooner than later.

  “Before the accident, I was an aspiring professional ballerina. Now I’m tied to a wheelchair. I have nothing left to live for.”

  “Not true, Antoinette. You have a full life ahead of you.” Dr. Rogers’s voice is warm and caring like an old fuzzy blanket. “Granted you’ll have to make some accommodations, but—”

  “It will never be the same,” I exclaim through gritted teeth. “Ballerinas can’t dance sitting on their asses. Without my legs, I’m nobody.”

  Despite my outburst, the doctor continues in the same calm manner. “Also not true. Look at it as an opportunity to pursue other avenues in your life.” He rapidly taps a few more words onto his tablet. The staccato rhythm seeps into the room’s empty spaces. “Tell me something, Antoinette. If things had gone differently, what would you be doing with your life?”

  “What do you mean?” He has my chart. Shouldn’t it contain the basic information about me—ballerina cut down in her prime?

  “Skip past the accident for a moment, will you?” Dr. Rogers’s unhurried speech is like molasses being poured from a bottle on a cold winter’s day—agonizingly slow. “What was supposed to happen next?”

  “I was supposed to go to Paris. My mother and I would have left this week.” The realization it won’t happen hurts. Badly. Someone else will take my place with the corp de ballet. The fact slaps me in the face, and I want to scream. It takes every ounce of strength to hold it together. Clearing my throat, I say, “My father had a surprise for my mom. He was planning to renew their wedding vows and have a second honeymoon with her.”

  The shrink’s posture relaxes, and a wistful expression crosses his face. “Ah, Paris… I’ve been a few times. Proposed to my girlfriend at the Eiffel Tower. Got married last year at Notre Dame.” Dr. Rogers shakes his head as if to clear away the memory. “Once you’re out of the hospital and have had some rehab, your parents can still have their renewal and the honeymoon. You can still have your moment in Paris too.”

  What did I do to get stuck with a fucking romantic shrink who happens to be a damned newlywed?

  “Yeah, right,” I say with sarcasm. “I’ll never experience anything ever again. This is my future.”

  “People with disabilities go to Paris all the time, Antoinette,” he insists. This idiot even goes further and suggests, “It can still happen if you want it.”

  My head whips to him, and I snap, “You don’t get it! Wanting to do something won’t be enough for me. Paris doesn’t happen for someone like me.” I use my good hand and jab at my chest. “There won’t be any marriage proposals for someone like me. Nobody wants a damned cripple!”

  “Are you finished?” The man stares at me.

  I have nothing to say.

  “You need to stop thinking of yourself as a cripple, Antoinette.” Dr. Rogers turns his tablet over. “My wife is a vet. She fought in Afghanistan where she lost a leg. But Abigail has never seen herself as someone disabled. According to her, she simply has new challenges to conquer. As a matter of fact, we recently returned from a rock-climbing trip in Colorado—her idea. She’s the strongest woman I know. When I see her, I see a whole woman. Someone who wants to live her life to the fullest, not a cripple. Just a woman I love more and more each day.”

  “Good for the both of you.” Unwelcome tears for something I’ll never have roll down my face. Snarky comments, unfortunately, don’t take a backseat to sadness. My tone is needlessly ugly and harsh. “Oh, Doc, be sure to leave me the numbers of the men who’ll be interested in a relationship with me on your way out.”

  The chair scrapes the linoleum as Dr. Rogers pushes to his feet. “We’ll talk some more later, Antoinette. For now, I want you to consider your options. Only a one-dimensional person has one goal in life. Between us, I’ve yet to meet such a person.”

  The shrink slips from the room, and the door lumbers closed behind him.

  For a fleeting moment, I think about what Dr. Rogers said. I’m fully aware there are veterans with missing limbs contributing to society every day. In some shape or form they still fulfill their dreams—albeit altered a bit. But I’m not some brave soldier. Far from it. My dreams didn’t include doing great things for the betterment of mankind. Mine were simple and self-rewarding, confined to my own pleasure.

  Maybe it’s time to be unselfish.

  Life will go on without my dancing. No one will miss it.

  Or me.

  Hours later, I wake up in a cold sweat. Fragments of the nightmare—the car crashes as I watch my friends die right before blackness surrounds me forever—linger in my head. Instinct has me reaching for my cell phone, wanting to call Abby or even Rob. Then reality dawns. First, I don’t have my phone. It’s probably out there on the interstate somewhere. Second, there’s no way I can call Abby ever again. Not unless the internet can hook up with the afterlife. Third, Rob will never comfort me either, but I don’t think I’d really want him to. Not anymore. Of course, there’s Marie. But bothering her is out of the question. I won’t add my issues to hers.

  So I lie here in the semi-dark and do the only thing I can.

  Cry.

  I cry like a newborn baby jarred from the comfort and warmth of its mother’s womb.

  I cry like the newly widowed woman who has the love of her life snatched by death.

  I cry like the inconsolable toddler who’s been told no one too many times.

  My tears aren’t cleansing or energizing. They aren’t anything cathartic either. They just are.

  Suddenly, a nurse appears at my side. “Miss Leoni?”

  I can’t speak. I’m too busy letting my heart liquefy and pour out of my eyes. The woman is wise though. She sits beside me and pulls me into her arms. This new pain, like currents of electricity zapping down my spine, is better than the one squeezing my heart. No. Not better. Different. It distracts me—leaves me numb.

  “Let it all out, Antoinette.” She rubs my upper back. “Tears are good. They let you know you’re alive and can still feel things.”

  My breaths saw in and out, but the tears won’t stop. It’s like someone carved a hole in a dam. The water rises, breaches the levee, and continues to pour out. It gushes. Never stalling. It’s as if all the water in the world comes through the ever-widening hole.

  Eventually, the storm passes, the water slackens, and the storm passes. Only a few mistimed trickles flow over the edge. Shuddering breaths shake my body while the nurse rocks me back and forth. The gentle motion lulls me into a calm place.

  “Better?” the nurse asks.

  Unable to speak, I nod my head on her chest.

  “Good.” She smooths a hand through my hair. “You might not believe it at the moment, but this will get better. You’ll get stronger. Your life will be normal again.”

  “No, it won’t,” I mumble.

  “Yes, it will. It may be a different type of normal, but it will happen.” She helps me lie back and props up my pillows. “I’ve seen your lifeline, young lady. Good things are waiting for you.”

  Curious words. How can a person see a lifeline? I don’t think that kind of information is found on a medical chart. I take a long, hard look at my nurse—long red hair, pale skin, and twinkling eyes the color of indigo. Something tells me this woman isn’t human.

  Her pink-tinged lips curl slowly into a smile. “Get some sleep, sweetie. You have a long road ahead of you, but the journey will be interesting.”

  My eyes flutter closed as the woman drifts out of sight.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Uraeleus

  It’s after three in the morning when I stumble up the stairs to Cherina’s house. The place is dark—thank the gods. Last thing I want is to explain myself to her.

  The stairs creak and groan beneath my feet as I
climb to the second level. For a second, as I pass the hall bathroom, I consider bathing, but it’s too late and I only want to sleep. Pushing open the door at the end, I enter my room and start undressing. My clothes land in a heap near the foot of the bed. Sliding beneath the cool covers feels so good, a blessing really. Something I thought I’d never experience again.

  As soon as my head hits the pillow, sleep comes for me, and I don’t fight it.

  The smell of fresh-brewed coffee wakes me up, but the too-bright sun is more like a curse. I squint hard and realize I’m not alone. Prying my eyes open, I see Cherina sitting on the edge of the bed dressed in a form-fitting long dress and holding a cup of coffee. My dick twitches. Quickly, I pull the covers higher over my nakedness.

  I reach for the cup, but she stands, keeping it away from me. “Not so fast.”

  “It’s early, woman,” I grumble. “Can I have my coffee?”

  “Where were you last night?”

  Running a hand over my stubbled jaw, I say, “Balls Up.”

  “Were you there all night?”

  Frankly, I don’t appreciate Cherina’s prying questions, but she did ask me to be honest with her. It’s not like I have anything to hide… Well, almost nothing. “Yes. I had a steak and nearly half a bottle of whiskey. Left before closing.”

  Cherina narrows her eyes before retaking her seat and passing me the mug.

  Inhaling the rich aroma, I take a sip. A person doesn’t realize what they’ve missed until it’s gone. Food, drink, sex. I plan on taking advantage of it all before I lose this body. “What’s with the questions?”

  “Your appearance caused quite a stir in town.” Cherina crosses her legs. “Audra called me.”

  Right. I’d nearly forgotten about the nosy wolf. “So you know everything according to her?”

  “Not everything. She only told me Luc was there, and he was pretty upset.”

  The memory of his angered expression causes me to smirk. “I’d say he was more than a little upset.”

  “What happened?”