by Hattie Hunt
The truth? Ripley was terrified of rejection. Terrified of it. She didn’t want to go down a road that she knew she’d be shunned from. She didn’t want to—her internal voice choked on the word love. She didn’t want to love someone who would just abandon her.
His dark chocolate eyes studied hers.
Electricity shot through the tips of her fingers. She trailed them down the side of his face. What could she even say?
“Stay,” he breathed.
Her head shook no before she’d even processed the word.
He closed his eyes and pulled away. “Do you even know what you’re doing?”
“No.” The word exploded from her. Anger and frustration flared, her hand hanging in the air where his face had been. Hurt welled at the thought of losing him. Again. It had been her choice to leave, last time. It had been easy because she’d been dealing with her padfoot—with Decima.
Good lord, she wanted to tell him about her.
Why couldn’t she? Why couldn’t she stay and keep telling him all the things she wanted to? Why couldn’t she just stay there, run the bar, and be with her best damned friend in the whole damned world?
“I’m scared, Joe.” She hated how small her voice sounded. It barely crossed the space that had grown between them.
His expression hardened.
She dropped her hands to her sides, her heart roaring to the surface, shattering her limited resolve. “Your family will destroy us. It doesn’t matter how much we want to be together. Cheryl will never allow it to happen.”
“She’s my mother, but she has no say on my life.”
“And that’s why you still live at home.”
He gave her a dirty look. “We’re a bear clan, Rip. We live at home.”
“Exactly.” Ripley blinked away the tears rising to the surface. Stupid, fucking tears. “Do you know what it’s like not to have a home? I do. I know what it’s like to have your home ripped from you, to be left homeless and alone.”
“But Tuck took you in.”
“And that was nice, but you’re a bear, Joe.” She needed him to understand what he would be giving up just to be with her. “I have no home. No family.”
“You have the bar.”
“You want to live at the bar?” She snorted, her tears properly stashed for the moment. “Because that’s where we will be living. You’ll lose your home, Joe. Your family will shun you for being with me.”
“No. They wouldn’t.” But Joe knew she was right. He had to mate with another bear. His mother wouldn’t have it any other way. She had her reasons. He knew that, but they lived in a different world than the one she’d grown up in. In this world, it was safe to mate with other shifters, to taint the bloodlines, as she called it.
“Yes, they would.” Ripley knew he knew it. She could see it on his face, and that? That hurt. Watching him acknowledge it, seeing the shift in his expression that screamed he would go through all that for her. She wasn’t worth it. “I’m a runner, Joe. It’s what I do. What makes you think I’ll stick around when the going gets tough?”
He narrowed his eyes. “You ran.” He nodded, advancing back to her, cupping her face with his large hands. “You ran toward danger.”
“I ran toward situations where I could help. Where my skill set was needed. It’s not needed here.”
“You ran toward the fights you could win.” He pressed his warm lips against her cool forehead. “You are a fighter, Rip,” he murmured against her skin. His touch sent ripples of pleasure cascading through her. “I think you’re the only one who hasn’t figured that out yet.”
She didn’t feel comfortable with that statement and she didn’t believe it. Not for one moment. “And if I do stay? What happens then?”
He leaned back to look at her and shrugged. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. He rarely did. He wasn’t a planner. “We’ll make it work.”
“Where will we live?”
“We’ll find a place. People do that all the time.”
“With credit references and renter histories, sure.” She’d tried to settle down in a little town in Kansas, once. She was glad now that it hadn’t worked out. Kansas. She shivered. But, it had been as far away from this life as she could get at the time. The thought had been pleasant.
“Others do it.”
“With help. And who do we have to help?”
“I’m sure I could ask my family.”
He just wasn’t getting it. “You think Cheryl is going to allow that?”
“I won’t ask her. I’ll ask others. I have more than one person in my family, remember? And, besides that, we won’t need the help. I make enough money. I can get us a place to rent.”
Well, that was nice. “And when we split up?”
God she was impossible. “Why would we do that?” Joe couldn’t keep the irritation from his voice.
“Because eventually you’re going to realize that you have more with your family than you will ever have with me.”
“I seriously doubt that.” Yet, there was doubt. Just a sliver. She wasn’t the type of person who let others in, and he wasn’t the kind of person who could be with someone and not be complete with that other person.
She looked away, seeing that glimmer of doubt in his eyes. She needed him to see it. He needed to see it, but it still hurt watching him finally catch on. “Whatever this is between us, it won’t work.”
“What if it does?” he demanded, pushing away the doubt with the power of his irritation. “What if we could make it work? All we would need is for you to believe.”
She snorted and took a step away. “Really. We need me to believe.”
“Yes, Rip. You’re the one who is making all the excuses, pulling away, pushing others away. You—”
“I’m the one who makes others react to me the way they do,” she said for him.
Fuck. He really hadn’t meant to go there. “Yes, but…” Crap. He needed a shovel. “Not like that, Rip.”
Ripley ripped a bag off the shelf and started hucking random foodstuffs into it. Right. Right. Not like that. No. What he’d meant was what? That she irked people by breathing? That she had an insane skill at pissing off people by entering the room?
Joe watched her helplessly, biting down on his lip.
“And what happens when your brother dies?” she asked, dropping the now full bag on the floor.
It was like she’d taken the knife and stabbed it straight into his chest. “He’ll make it.”
“Right. It’s only the one thing—or one of the few things that will get a shifter killed quick. He’ll definitely beat this.”
He gaped at her. Was she really so afraid she would stoop to that level? “You found someone who could help.”
“Yeah. We should totally hedge our bets on a witch finding a cure to a shifter problem. Nothing could go wrong with that.” The words left her mouth with a disgusting, bitter taste. She felt a little sick to her stomach.
“What are you playing at?” He advanced on her, his tone rising. “You’re the one who found her.”
“She found me.”
“And you brought her to us.”
That was beside the point. Why couldn’t he just let her be? But she had brought Leslie into it. Willingly. He was seeing right through her.
“Why did you do that? To torment us? Give us hope just so it could blow up in our faces?”
He might as well have slapped her. She blinked at him, and the angry fire cooling in shame. She really had wanted—did want—to help. “I’m just…” Scared. “Joe.”
He raised a hand to silence her, then turned away. “Maybe everyone was right about you, Rip.”
A dark churning hit her gut like a blender of misery. He was rejecting her.
Just like she’d pushed him to do. She couldn’t blame him. Not really.
Joe picked up the discarded bag, looking over his shoulder as he started back up the stairs. “Don’t worry about us, Rip. We’ll be fine.”
She stood in
the sudden quiet, trying to listen for his retreating footsteps.
All she could hear were the pitiful thumps of her own heart.
She really was good at pushing people away.
Chapter Nineteen
Ripley filled another bag of supplies with more vigor than was probably necessary. But, she needed some way to vent her anger. Not anger at Joe, but herself.
She shoved ready-made-meals or freeze-dried-meals—whatever they were—into a bag, topped haphazardly with cans of beans, vegetables, whatever. She went to the arsenal and picked up the tranquilizer rifle and enough loads to put a small elephant to sleep for at least an hour. Or ten. Then, she was back in her truck, staring at the steering wheel like it should be driving itself. Because she knew that if she put her hands on that wheel, the truck would drive straight back to the cabin.
Why, though?
Because it was the right thing to do?
When had she ever done something because it was the right thing to do? Gods, just the sound of those words sounded so damned self-righteous to her ears.
Fuck. She put the truck in gear and turned back down the rutted drive. Instead of turning right at the highway, she turned back toward town.
Yeah. She was great in a pinch. They needed her and she was going to the bar.
The bar didn’t really need her. There’s wasn’t anything she could do, besides bring more trouble. Yeah. She excelled at that.
No. She needed to figure out if that bar was worth staying for. Because that was a good idea. Was she really thinking about it seriously? That was its own brand of trouble right there.
She kept kicking herself until she pulled into the space behind The Fox Hole. The vehicle she parked next to was different than the one that had been there earlier. She hadn’t realized how much time had passed since her and Joe had come in earlier. The sun was lower in the sky. Technically, it was evening, though the sun wouldn’t go down for another several hours. That was one thing she was struggling to get acclimated to again. The longer days so far up north.
Ripley was stalling. What if she went inside and discovered she was just as bad at running a bar as she was at being a girlfriend. Or not a girlfriend. Or a fuck—not fucking—buddy. Whatever the hell she was thinking about with Joe. They—
Gods! She wanted to punch herself in the fucking head.
Decima stirred in the back of her mind and a tendril of calm wormed its way through Ripley’s heart.
Ripley let her head fall back on the low headrest, staring up at the rust-pitted cab. When she knew what she needed to do, she was good. This not knowing? Having all these options? Weighing them? Trying to figure out which one would work best for her? She hated it. And she sucked at it.
Probably, Decima said in her soft, smoky voice, because you hate it and you shun what you loathe.
Oh. Double sided blade. Who shunned who, Decima? You didn’t talk to me. You just took over, not letting me in on what you needed to do.
And you would have listened?
I’m listening now, aren’t I?
Decima retreated into the back of Ripley’s mind again.
The evening crowd had rolled into the bar. A picture of Jib had been set up at the end of the counter with several shot glasses of liquor sitting under the picture. A nice tribute. Ripley bellied up to the bar, and then thought differently. This was her bar.
Pretending like she actually knew what she was doing, she lifted the bar hatch in the corner, stepping over the threshold between customer and bartender. Glasses. Alcohol. What was she doing?
Toot wasn’t anywhere to be found.
Two men sat at the other end of the bar, not talking to one another, both nursing drinks. The tumblers looked pretty straight forward, probably not mixed. If they asked for a top off, she could probably handle that.
Ripley took a few minutes to inventory the liquor display. She didn’t recognize most of the alcohol. She read the labels, but that didn’t necessarily help. Lots of different types of whiskey. If she wanted to get serious, she would have to try them but, she couldn’t afford to get shit-faced. She could take one shot and still stand. Two and things got fuzzy. Three? Well, there were never just three. Ever.
If she started off pissed, someone would have a broken nose.
If she started off sad, someone was getting laid.
If she started off happy, there was singing and she usually lost her clothes.
Yeah. She couldn’t afford to start sampling the liquor.
“Glad to see you here, Rip,” Myrtie said behind her.
Ripley jumped with a yelp, miraculously not dropping the bottle of whiskey in her hand. “Shit, Aunt Myrtie, you scared me.”
Myrtie smiled, licking her dry lips. “Come to take this over from me?”
“I thought Toot was managing it?”
“Nah.” Myrtie grabbed a bottle from the top shelf and two glasses. “He helps, for sure. He’s taken on more shifts, but the managing has been left to me. Come on. Let’s grab a table and talk.”
Talk. Great. That wasn’t something Ripley really wanted to do. She followed anyway. She may not want to, but it might be exactly what she needed.
“Where is Toot?” she asked, claiming the chair opposite her aunt.
Myrtie had picked a table that overlooked the bar along the back wall. “His daughter has a doctor’s appointment. Nothing serious. Just a check-up, but Gert couldn’t get off work to take her.”
“Toot married?”
“I didn’t say he married. I said he had a daughter.”
Oh, today’s family units were interesting. You couldn’t assume anything anymore. “So, you’re manning the bar?”
“Me and Angel.” She pointed to a blonde-haired woman with tight shorts and a tight t-shirt.
She looked like what Hollywood felt a barmaid should look like. Ripley curled her lip in disgust. “Awesome.”
“Don’t get too judgmental, Ripley Kent.” Myrtie poured a finger of whiskey in both glasses. “This is the good stuff. 1792 Port Whiskey.” She brought it to her nose and took a delicate whiff. “Tell me what you think.”
Ripley had never had a port before. She sniffed. It smelled…well, it smelled like whiskey. She set the glass back on the table. “What do I need to know about this place?”
Myrtie sipped her port and shook her head, pausing a moment before swallowing. “What’s going to make you stay?”
Nothing. Even Ripley had to admit that thought bordered on emotional tantrum. She needed to be at least half realistic with herself. “I don’t know.”
“Joe Elliot?”
Ripley snorted and let her head fall back against the wall with a thunk. “I don’t think that would be a good idea, Aunt Myrtie.”
“Why not?”
“Because…” There were only about a million different reasons.
“Cheryl,” Myrtie said simply.
“Yeah.” For one. Okay. So, Ripley understood that maybe she shouldn’t just roll over and let Momma-Bitch win. She could stand up and fight if she wanted to.
“What’s really holding you back? I’ve seen you go up against worse people than Cheryl Elliot, baby girl. I’ve seen you go toe to toe with your momma, and that woman made even Cheryl crawl into a corner to nurse her wounds.”
Ripley had never known that. “I don’t know,” she said again. She really did know, but as soon as she opened her mouth, the words disappeared. Her emotions churned them into letter soup and nothing intelligent came out.
Myrtie raised an eyebrow and gave a single nod. “So, yeah. I’m not buying that crap, girlie-girl. You’re the toughest woman I know.”
Ripley frowned. “I’m not the one who fought cancer.”
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t all battles and parties, I can tell you that.”
Ripley bet that.
“So, you want to try that again?”
This conversation needed alcohol. Ripley raised the glass to her lips.
“It’s a sipping whiskey. Take your time
.”
Dutifully, Ripley took a tentative sip and let the smoky fruit flavor roll over her tongue for a moment. It burned slightly on the way down, sending a confidence-boosting flush through her system.
“What’s really going on?”
Myrtie really wasn’t going to let this be. Ripley stared into the caramel colored liquid, trying to make sense of the jumbled mess of thoughts somersaulting between her ears. Staring into the glass wasn’t helping. Trying to think about it wasn’t helping. “I don’t know.”
“What do you want?”
Well, that was probably the crux of it. She didn’t know what she wanted. “I don’t know.”
Myrtie gestured to Angel and flicked her hand to the bar.
Even while grilling Ripley, she had noticed one of the two men at the bar raise his glass to get someone’s attention. Ripley could barely get one train of thought focused.
Angel rose from the table she’d been leaning against with a full-throated laugh without half a glance in Myrtie’s direction and returned to the bar.
“Well, girl,” Myrtie said frankly. “I guess that should be the first place to start.”
Ripley shook her head. “What I want doesn’t matter.”
“To hell it doesn’t. What’s the point of this damned life if you can’t have a few wants?”
“I’m the damned padfoot.”
“Congratu-fuckin’-lations. What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
Ripley opened her mouth to speak, but ended up just shrugging. “Death. It’s a responsibility, Aunt Myrtie.”
“And maybe one that your padfoot has overstepped his bounds on.”
“Her bounds.”
Myrtie looked up, her blue eyes sharpening. “Are you talking to it?”
“She’s not an it.” Suddenly, Ripley understood why Decima had acted the way she had. To the Kent family, she wasn’t a creature. She was an object. When you stripped away a person’s persona, treated them like nothing, that person became easy to own, mistreat, abuse, use. “Her name is Decima.”
“Oh, god, girl.” Myrtie rolled her jaw and massaged her temple. “I can’t believe this. When did this—” She gestured toward Ripley, but she assumed Myrtie was flicking her fingers at the padfoot spirit housed inside her. “—happen? Last night, you hadn’t talked to it—her.” Myrtie’s eyes almost sizzled at the changed pronoun.
