Tied (Devils Wolves Book 2)

by Carian Cole

  An hour later I’ve got Holly in the passenger seat of my truck, two of the softest and most expensive blankets the store had are hidden behind my seat in a huge plastic bag, and we’re on our way to my house.

  Almost every day, we go straight to my workshop. I have no idea why she likes watching me work, but she does. She loves to clean and polish everything: the rings and buckles I make and my hammers, screwdrivers, and wrenches. I must have the shiniest, cleanest tools in the world. Today I ask her to come inside for a few minutes before heading to the workshop.

  At first, she hesitates at my request, which isn’t unusual, and then she follows me into the house.

  “Close your eyes,” I say when we get inside. Instead, her complexion pales, and her eyes dart skittishly to the door.

  “Ty…why…”

  “Shit,” I say. “I’m sorry.” I gently touch her arm. “Don’t be scared…I just wanted to surprise you.” I don’t know all her triggers yet—I have to learn them as I step on them, which causes a lot of moments just like this one. I hold the bag out to her. “This is for you.”

  She takes the bag from me, her hand shaking slightly, and it sucks that this girl can’t even be given a gift without worrying it’s something that’s going to hurt her.

  “What is it?” she asks.

  “Look inside. I promise you’ll like it.”

  Nervously, she opens the bag and pulls out the two throw blankets in their plastic zippered cases. Her small skeptical smile turns into a huge, excited one.

  “You got me magic blankets?” She squeals, pulling one out of its plastic and holding it against her body, feeling its softness. “Oh my God,” she practically moans. “It’s so soft.”

  “One for here, and one for you to take home.”

  She yanks out the other and hugs them both to her, sparking my jealous streak. What do I have to do to be hugged like that? “They’re so soft. I love them. Did you…did you go out and buy these?”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  “Wow.” I see realization sink into her. She gets me. Without question.

  “Yeah.”

  She looks up into my eyes. “Thank you so much,” she says softly and, before I realize what she’s doing, her hand is on my arm, and she’s going up on her tiptoes, and she kisses my cheek. And not the pretty half that’s not hiding behind my long hair. No. She presses her soft lips right over my scarred cheek, and then hovers there for a moment.

  Lavender vanilla perfume fills the air around me.

  The room spins.

  Our eyes meet and hold as she slowly settles back down on the flats of her feet. I want to kiss her, but I don’t. And I think she finally wants me to, but I still don’t. I take a deep breath, bracing myself for rejection. “It’s warmer today.” I swallow, hoping it will clear the rasp a bit, but it never does. “Maybe we could take a walk out back, sit in the leaves, and talk. We’ll bring the fuzzy beasts with us.”

  Her silvery eyes blink rapidly, like pages flipping through a book. Confusion, excitement, and a tinge of alluring fear and anticipation reveal themselves with every sweep of her lids. I can feel myself tumbling into an abyss filled with long kisses, breathless sighs, rose petals, and primal thrusts.

  “Can we bring the blanket?” she asks.

  Not at all what I was expecting. But everything I was hoping for.

  Thank you, powers that fucking be.

  “We can bring anything that’ll make you happy.” Anything but the purple backpack. My gut tells me she’s gotta let that go. Soon.

  “Just you, Poppy, Boomer, and this blanket will make me happy.” Our eyes lock, unfaltering, hypnotizing each other, planting subtle hints and suggestions in just the right places in our minds and hearts. I can almost believe this girl could love me, scars, damage, ugliness and all.

  And oh, how ferociously I would love her back if given the chance.

  It’s unseasonably warm, and all traces of the snowstorm we had a few weeks ago have vanished. As we walk along the path stemming from what is mostly my backyard, I take a chance and reach for her hand, and hers slides into mine willingly, our fingers interlocking perfectly. Poppy and Boomer race ahead of us, come back to check on us, and race back down the path again. Holly laughs as Boomer jumps over Poppy’s back, letting out his crazy happy squeal in midair before he lands in a pile of old leaves and burrows his face into it, peeking out at us.

  “He’s so funny,” she says. “Was he like that as a baby, too?”

  “Yes. He always makes me laugh. I guess I kinda need it.”

  “How long have you had him?”

  “About four years.”

  “Poppy seems to really like him. I’m not sure if Poppy has ever been around another animal, or why he sounds funny. I don’t know where the bad man got him from.”

  She always refers to him as “the bad man,” and I wonder if she knows his real name was Donald J. Loughlin and he was a forty-two-year-old middle school teacher, with a wife, two kids, and a beagle, who drove a four-door Toyota. He had no criminal record and no history of drug or alcohol use, but he had quite the hidden collection of porn featuring little girls and anime dolls.

  And I know exactly where Poppy came from, thanks to the microchip he has. Ten-year-old Poppy once belonged to a local elderly woman who had him debarked because he barked too much. When she passed away, her daughter brought him to my mother’s animal shelter and, two months later, Donald J. Loughlin, pedophile extraordinaire, came in and adopted him, apparently extremely intrigued by the fact he couldn’t bark. Later we found out he told the volunteer at the shelter who processed the paperwork that he suffered from migraines, so the dog would be perfect. After Holly’s parents basically told me to shove the dog up my ass, I decided to keep him.

  I’m not going to tell Holly any of this, though.

  “They got along right away,” I assure her. “Boomer didn’t really give him a choice. He decided they were gonna be best buds, and Poppy didn’t really have a say.” I wink at her, and she squeezes my hand tighter, so tight that I hate to tell her we’ve reached the place I had planned on us sitting because I don’t want her to let go.

  “Let’s sit here.” I reluctantly release her hand and spread an old, frayed blanket I brought with us on the ground, next to a large rock, for us to sit on. The rock is almost the size of half my truck and about twenty feet from the river, which has thawed out and is slowly flowing downhill. We both take off our jackets, the walk here having warmed us up enough that sweaters are just enough to be comfortable, and we settle down on the blanket. This is one of my favorite places to come and relax. I used to come here to smoke a joint every day, but since I’ve quit that, now I just come here to chill out and get my head together.

  Knowing she feels uncomfortable with too much silence, I pull up my favorite playlist on my cell phone and set it off to the side on low volume, so we have some background noise in addition to the sound of the river behind us.

  “You remember everything,” she says softly, pulling her new blanket into her lap.

  “I try to.”

  She lies down flat on her back, pulling the blanket over her, and stares up at the sky. “I love watching the clouds. I think I could stare at the clouds and the stars every day for the rest of my life and never get bored of it.”

  “You’d love my loft bedroom. I have a skylight right over the bed.”

  She squints up at me. “What’s a skylight?”

  “It’s a window in the ceiling, so you can see the sky.”

  The way her mouth falls open in awe is priceless and adorable. “Are you serious? There’s ceiling windows?”

  “Yup.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “You’re welcome to check mine out any time you want. I’ll stay downstairs.”

  She turns her attention back to the sky, but her mind has drifted as far away from me as those clouds. I can’t tell if giving her distance makes her feel safe or unwanted. We have so many fucked-up gray areas betwe
en us we’re practically a black-and-white movie.

  “Can I lie down next to you?”

  There’s that flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, that moment when I can see her breath catch in her throat—most likely a thousand bad memories rampaging through her mind—and it sucks that I’m always the cause of it, constantly having to scare her to move forward with her.

  And why am I even trying to move forward when I know damn well one or both of us will end up getting hurt or left behind? Because, even in pain, there’s a degree of pleasure, and I can’t stop myself from wanting my own little shred of that.

  “Okay,” she finally replies, and I lie next to her, leaving half a foot of safe space between us, and she gently spreads the blanket over me.

  “Does it make you feel safe, too?” Her soft voice has taken on a nervous lilt, and it makes my heart pound harder.

  “Yeah. It does.”

  Poppy and Boomer join us, curling up at the end of the blanket for a nap after their game of chase and leaf stalking.

  “I love being here with you and them…hearing the river…watching the clouds…having a soft blanket…I feel so free, like I can breathe.” She turns to me, her blond hair cascading around her head against the flannel blanket. “Is that strange?”

  “Not at all, sugar. You were forced to live in a state of defense for a long time. I think your brain and your body are just finally learning to relax.”

  “I like how you put that.” She looks up at the clouds again. “I want to live in a place like this. Do you think New York is like this?”

  “Not if it’s the city, but there are parts of New York like this.” I’ve always loved living here in this remote corner of the woods I’ve carved out for myself, but having her here lately has made it complete. She’s like the star on top of the Christmas tree—that final glittering touch that brings it all together.

  “I hope I can relax there, like this.”

  “I’m sure you will. Every day, you’re getting stronger. I can see it.”

  “So are you.”

  “Me?” I ask. “How so?”

  “You smile more. You don’t seem as mad. You don’t hide your face from me anymore. And you talk now.”

  “That’s because you’re like Boomer. I didn’t have much of a choice with any of it.” I say it teasingly, but it’s all true. She’s changing me.

  I don’t know how to admit it, or say it, but I don’t want her to go. I prop my head up on my arm and turn to face her, the blanket falling to our waists. Her sweater has shifted, the scoop neck exposing the curve of her neck and shoulder, enticing me to caress or kiss…

  Her gaze moves to my arm, which is bent between us. “Can I touch your tattoos?” she asks.

  Hiding under most of my ink is bumpy, scarred flesh that a blind person could probably interpret into some strange language. No woman is going to want to feel that.

  “Sure.” I force the word out, confident this will be the first and last time she’ll ever touch me.

  Her hand slowly moves along my forearm, her fingers trailing over the art, and she pushes my sleeve up farther so she can see—and touch—my shoulder. When her small hand closes around my bicep, I can’t help but close my eyes and enjoy her touch for more than what it is.

  “Your arm is so big and hard.” Of course, she has no idea what she’s saying—sexual innuendo isn’t something she understands—but that doesn’t change my body’s reaction to her soft-porn commentary as she squeezes my arm.

  “Mmm…” is all I can manage to mumble.

  “What do the designs mean?” Down to my wrist her hand moves, slowly tantalizing me.

  “They’re mostly how my fucked-up brain felt at the time…abstract flowers, monsters, and words.”

  “It’s all beautiful. Like a book, only better.”

  “I was pretty high when I picked most of those designs out. The ink on my back is a better representation of me straight and sober.”

  Her hand stills. “You do drugs?”

  “Not anymore, but I had a wicked bad habit. That’s how I crashed through a glass wall and almost sliced my own head off.”

  “Oh.”

  Hello, surprise and horror. I knew you’d show up and take away that sweet voice of hers.

  “I’m totally clean now, Holly. I have been for years.”

  “Is that what happened to…” She halts herself, afraid to ask.

  “To my voice?” I finish for her. “Yeah. A piece of glass severed part of my vocal chords.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I deserved a lot worse.”

  “Ty…how can you say that?”

  I stare at her across the blanket, our faces just inches apart. Being this close to her lying down in the forest is much different than being this close to her standing up in my workshop or in my kitchen. Resting in the same space, our bodies under the same blanket, spins an entirely new intimacy level between us.

  “Because it’s true.”

  Her eyes are wet with the start of tears, and the heavy feeling in my chest returns. I don’t want to talk about my past right now or see her upset. All I want is to lie in my favorite spot with her, beneath her magic blanket, and for her to keep touching me and looking at me without pulling away.

  “You don’t deserve anything bad.”

  “No, I really, actually do. I was a junkie. I stole money from my family to buy drugs. I treated them like shit. The night of my crash I had a fight with my dad.” I clear my throat, which is choking me. “He wanted me to go to rehab. I refused. I left the house in the middle of the night, high and drunk, on my bike.” I swallow hard. “He chased me down the driveway and had a heart attack. That was the night he died. Because of me. My mother found him in the fucking driveway. Then I choked someone to death without a second thought. Once a month I go to private fight rings and let people punch the crap out of me, then I beat them to a pulp and walk out with a pile of cash I don’t even want. I ride around with masks on and stare at people at red lights. I hide in the woods and scare the shit out of hikers. I’m a fucked-up freak.”

  And let’s not forget how I used to fuck the crazy fans in the alley after the fights, with my rubber horror mask on, blood from my battered face leaking out from beneath it and running down my neck and chest. And how the fear in their eyes and my blood smeared on their ripped clothes fueled all the fires of hate and dysfunction in my drugged-out mind as a nameless and faceless fetish fuck.

  Her body trembles as she listens to my tirade. “You saved my life. You make beautiful jewelry. You help save lost animals. You decorate Christmas trees and created a myth for little kids to love…”

  All of that should make me feel better, but it doesn’t. Not when the reflection of my father chasing me in the mirror of my bike is branded into my brain along with hazy memories of being a deviant pig.

  “So the fuck what?” My self-hatred has joined our little get-together on the blanket and has no problem rearing its ugly head.

  “Maybe you did some bad things, but you’ve done a lot of good things, too.”

  So many bad and ugly things. Things that would make her never want to look at me again.

  “That doesn’t change the shit I did. Nothing can change that. Ever. Good doesn’t erase bad.”

  “No, but you don’t have to punish yourself. You’re a good person. You saved and kept Poppy. You took care of Boomer and kept him. You taught me to drive. You gave me a cell phone and soft blankets. You’re my best friend. Every day you take care of me, you let me see Poppy, you make sure I’m safe, you make me feel special.”

  “Maybe that doesn’t make me a good person, Holly. Maybe that makes me a person who’s just obsessed with the first person to give me any fucking amount of attention. Or maybe I just like to collect things as messed up as I am.”

  Her face falls, and I immediately want to eat my obnoxious words, which couldn’t be more untrue. Hurting her, this one little gem in my life, is unacceptable. I refuse to b
e that person anymore.

  My psychiatrist’s words echo through my mind. Fear of trust. Fear of intimacy. Fear of giving and accepting love. Social and familial avoidance. Extreme self-loathing. Low self-worth. Unnatural focus on physical appearance. Drug addict. Severely depressed. Repressed memories. Deviant sexual behavior. Self-harm risk. Possible danger to others.

  She tries to sit up, and I put my arm around her waist and hold her down, ignoring the terrified stare she pins on me.

  “No. I’m not letting you run off.” I lower my voice and loosen my grip on her waist. “I didn’t mean what I said.” She turns her head away from me, a tear sliding down her cheek, and she stares blankly off into the distance. I can see her shutting down, running to the safe space in her head where she can slam everything out. Including me.

  Fuck.

  “Holly…I’m sorry. It’s hard for me to talk about my father and my past. It makes me want to just hurt myself and anyone around me. It fucks my head up, but I’m trying to be better.”

  Silence.

  “I care about you. And not for any other reason than you’re beautiful and sweet and every day is better with you in it.” I touch the side of her head and gently turn her to face me. “You make me feel a little bit less messed up, and you make me want to be less messed up.”

  “Really?” she squeaks.

  “Really. You make me smile every day. Even when you’re not here.”

  If I wasn’t lying so close to her, I never would have heard her next words. “You make me feel that way, too.”

  She sniffles, her eyes showing a glimmer of a sparkle, and all I want is to see her smile at me again. I brush my thumb across her cheek to wipe her tear away. The intimate touch causes a tiny gasp to escape her, my barriers snap, and I lean down and cover her lips with mine, my hand moving to cradle the back of her neck, my fingers sliding through her hair, like it has in my dreams a thousand times. My tongue sweeps over her lips, and when they part in surprise, I slip inside, tasting her, coaxing her to open up to me. Her hand tightens on my shoulder, her nails digging slightly into my flesh. Taking that as a sign of passion, I roll my body closer to hers, half covering her, and grip the back of her neck, kissing her deeper.