by S. J. Pierce
Dark Moon Falls: Jaxson
S. J. Pierce
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
1. Worth a Shot
2. Mr. Leather
3. Beautiful Men
4. Jilted Lover
5. Lesson Learned
6. Jackson with an X
7. Don’t be a Tease
8. One Objective
9. Road Noise
10. One
11. Two
12. Dangers of Good Sex
13. The Distance Between Us
14. Morning Swim
15. Dick and Bacon
16. Unexpected Visitor
17. Nothing and Everything
18. Love Note
19. The Husband Stealer
20. Wild about Wolves
21. An Awful Thing
22. Deer in Headlights
23. Crooked Tiara
24. Jagged Little Pieces
25. Stalemate
26. Unhinged
27. Magic Vajayjay
28. Deal
29. Achy Breaky Heart
30. Familiar Smell
31. Holy Shitstorm
32. Just Talking
33. Details
Epilogue
About S.J. Pierce
Dedication
His love roared louder than her demons.
- Ritwik Maity
Prologue
Unfinished Business
A sudden jolt wakes me, and as I lift into consciousness, I’m aware of three things: One, I’m upright, the right side of my face smushing into something cold and unforgiving. Glass? Two, not only am I strapped into this seat…my backseat, zip-ties bind my wrists and ankles. Three, I’m as nauseous as I am terrified. The throbbing sensation across my skull suggests I’ve been bludgeoned with something. Concussion. Which explains the nausea.
Slowly, my eyes pry open, the grey light of evening stabbing into them like icepicks. The throbbing worsens in protest.
I try not to make a noise when I get a good look at who’s driving, but my breath catches and it’s enough of a change for her to pick up on it. The woman with the red hair.
Her black marbles for eyes consult with the rearview mirror. Bore into me like a drill rig. “Rhee.” She says my name the way a scorned atheist speaks of a believer’s prayers, and it’s then I know who she is. “I see you’re awake.”
I want to cower. I want to scream for help. I want to start thinking of a way out of this. But all I can manage as our eyes lock is to shoot a defiant look. What the hell are you doing with me?
But I know what she’s doing with me. She’s getting her twisted version of revenge.
She and I have unfinished business.
1
Worth a Shot
Three days earlier…
My knuckles turn ashen as I grip the steering wheel and stare at my father’s house. Minus the worn shutters and in-need-of-a-trim boxwoods lining the porch, it looks exactly as I remember when I left seven years ago and never looked back—two stories. Pale yellow with blue shutters. Gutters full of pine needles—and I’m not sure if it comforts or haunts me.
Part of me wishes it looked totally different.
Tearing my eyes from my nightmare-of-an-adolescence, I scan the front yard. The woods on either side. I’m not exactly sure who or what I’m looking for; I know Maddie isn’t here. She said she’s working the night shift, and Carson, my nephew, is at a friend’s house. I guess the idea of entering the house alone is too much to bear.
But as much of an asshole as my father was, he didn’t raise cowards, so I peel my hands from the steering wheel, snatch my duffel bag, and head for the front door through the evening drizzle.
I don’t miss this place—Dark Moon Falls. Any part of this place. Perpetual rain and gloomy weather included.
When I make it inside, I don’t pause to look around, just shoot straight up to my old room and close myself in. The familiar smell of my childhood was enough to almost jolt me into the past. Staying in this house, in this bedroom, three nights, I have no doubt it eventually will. I want to delay it as long as I possibly can.
I stand in my room a moment, struggling not to soak things in and get right to unpacking. He didn’t change a thing from the day I left. A pair of old shorts is still hanging halfway out of the hamper. A pink bra drapes lonely over the headboard. Posters of the Youth Suckers, a local indie band, hang sloppily on the wall beside the window. But all the furniture has been dusted, the linens freshly changed. Either Maddie did this right before I came, or up until this past Monday, the day my father died of a sudden aneurism, he routinely cleaned it in hopes I would return.
Okay, enough soaking.
I lay out my clothes for tomorrow, a pair of sweatpants and a tank top, and stare at them longer than necessary. Now what?
I don’t want to sit on my bed. Feel the familiar way it sinks beneath my hips and cradles my body. I handed over my virginity on this mattress. Cried on this mattress. Lost myself and found myself on this mattress.
I’m not ready to get reacquainted with it yet.
Tentatively, I pull out my toiletry bag, the carved wooden finch hitchhiking out and clattering against the old wood floor. I pick it up and run the pad of my thumb along its pointy beak. Kiss it and set it lovingly on the table beside my bed. Smile as I remember the day my father gave it to me when I was little. Before everything went so wrong. My little finch, he used to call me. That version of Father I miss. Still ache for on my most trying days. Have already mourned for a thousand times over the years. It’s as if they were two different people—my father before the affair and after. At least it feels that way to me.
Turning my attention back to the toiletry bag, I pick it up and press it against my chest, the place where my heart aches, and head to the bathroom. Time to shower and get ready for bed, so I can read myself to sleep. The emotions of the week, and the five-hour drive here, are starting to catch up with me, and a full day of packing and cleaning lie ahead.
I pause as I pass the full-length mirror beside my bedroom door. My eyes are wide and glassy, cheeks flushed. I grip the toiletry bag tighter. The woman staring back at me looks like she could use a drink.
God, could I use a drink. It’s not like I’ll fall asleep easily, even if I read. But unfortunately, this house is a dry house. Always has been. No use looking through the kitchen.
This hell hole town does have a bar, though, but I don’t know if I’ll be welcome. The owner threw me out for a fake I.D. the year I left. Would he remember me?
I give myself a look. Yes, you idiot. He’ll remember you.
Everyone around here knows me and the tainted legacy I left.
I toss my toiletry bag on the bed with a sigh. Grab my purse. Screw it.
It’s worth a shot.
* * *
As I drive into town, I’m impressed to see they’ve managed to maintain its charm and integrity. Though Dark Moon Falls is small, its appeal has been huge, and tourists (mainly women) flood down sidewalks and pour in and out of storefronts with their umbrellas and coffees and shopping bags. At least the people running this place didn’t let it get cheap and cheesy looking like some of the bigger surrounding cities. If I saw one more billboard for the Howlers strip club chain or another neon sign screaming how you could Eat with a wolf!, I was gonna puke up the greasy drive-through burger I shoveled down on my way here. Wolf shifters are all the craze and there isn’t a shortage of business owners willing to exploit it.
Or wolves willing to cash in on it.
Or desperate, horny women looking to take advantage of it.
Everyone wins, but I just want a drink.
The Wolf Inn is surprisingly
dead when I pull into the parking lot. I honestly can’t be thankful enough. It’s not quite seven o’clock on a Thursday, so I’m hoping it stays this way.
I sit at the closest barstool to the door in case they decide I’m not welcome here. It’s been seven years since the owner confiscated my I.D. and threw me and my friends out, but it doesn’t mean they want me here now that I’m twenty-five.
“A little early for Thirsty Thursday,” a sweet voice says behind me. She hurries past to find her place behind the bar, her blonde ponytail thumping against her back as she walks. My eyes follow, and I notice a couple at a table in the far corner. It’s the three of us for now.
Thirsty Thursday? “It’s Ladies’ Night?” I try my best not to say it with disdain.
She gives me an odd look behind her wire rim glasses. I guess I’m supposed to know that. Why else would a single woman be drinking by herself on a Thursday night?
Don’t mind me. I’m just bitter and lonely and here for my father’s funeral.
“It is. But it starts at eight.” She swipes at something on her forehead.
Good. I can have a couple drinks and then split before the desperate housewives get here. “That’s fine,” I reply, pulling my wallet out of my purse. “Gin and tonic, please?”
An apologetic wince. “It’ll be full price.”
I produce my driver’s license. “I’d pay double today.”
She studies my birthdate, then gets to work with bottles and ice and glasses, and after I put away my wallet, I fish my phone out to check Instagram. The first thing to pull up is something Maddie posted, but I forgot how bad the service here sucks, so all it shows me is a blank space where a picture is supposed to be and a spinning grey circle. Probably a picture of her in nursing scrubs with a witty caption about cleaning up body fluids. I squirrel my phone away and scan the old bar. Catch my reflection in the mirror behind the petite bartender.
Ugh. Who let the homeless woman in? I smooth my flyaways to no avail and tug on my oversize college t-shirt. How sad if this was my Thirsty Thursday look. No wonder she looked at me that way. I’d look at me strange too.
A dainty hand places the gin and tonic on a napkin in front of me, and she flashes a smile. “Start you a tab?”
Someone yells across the bar. “No tab, Janey.” Her voice makes me go rigid.
Zenesha.
She’s the one who spotted my fake I.D. and turned me over to the owner.
I halfway ready myself to get kicked out and start unhooking my purse from the back of the barstool. There’s a package store I can go on the fringes of town. But what she says next surprises me— “Anything this one wants tonight is on the house.”
2
Mr. Leather
“Shouldn’t we ask Lyall?” Janey looks as perplexed as I am. I hook my purse over the barstool again but leave my drink untouched.
Zenesha tugs on Janey’s ponytail as she walks by, then busies herself with some glasses. “Not unless you wanna get barked at.” She tosses a smile over her shoulder. “Pun intended. He’s not in the best mood tonight.”
Lyall is the owner. The painfully attractive, fuckable owner who lives in an apartment over the bar. And a wolf. A very tall, dark, and handsome wolf. Though, technically, all the male wolves are tall and buff and handsome and fuckable. Problem is, most of them know it.
“Thank you,” I murmur to Zenesha, unsure how to handle her kind gesture. Of all people who deserve a night of free drinks in this town, I can’t imagine it would be me. Maybe she mistook me for someone else.
She grasps my hand before hurrying to the kitchen. “Sorry about your father, hun.”
An unexpected blow to the gut. Sorry about your father. She does know who I am, and these are sympathy drinks, but free drinks all the same. “Thank you!” I repeat, calling after her, but I’m not sure she hears me.
I take my first swig to quell the ache. Clinch my teeth as I swallow, the familiar burn of alcohol making its way down my throat and warming my belly. She made it strong. I guess she felt bad for charging full price.
Before the glass meets the napkin, the door behind me swings open, bringing in the damp, earthy smell from outside, and another tall, dark, and handsome man (probably a wolf, though it’s hard to tell. He could be a football player-sized human) makes his way to sit on the opposite side of the bar. His white v-neck shirt falls in just the right way to show off his well-defined chest, his black leather jacket creaking as he adjusts himself in the chair. A cascade of dark hair brushes the rounds of his shoulders, but that’s the extent of what I allow myself to notice. I refuse to make eye contact, my drink suddenly the most interesting thing in the room. He came here alone, and I don’t want to attract his attention. I want to be left alone tonight.
Another swig. The burn blossoms.
Besides, the Thirsty Thursday women will start pouring in soon and he’ll have the pick of the litter...pun intended. They’ll be way more made up and fun than me anyway. The black sheep of the town who’s been wrestling her emotional demons doesn’t make for a good one-night stand. Unless he’s into that kind of thing.
I huff a laugh. Sense his eyes on me.
My cheeks flame, and I take another swig, but I manage to not meet his gaze. “Another?” I say to Janey, then down the rest of it. Why can I feel his eyes burning against my skin?
It’s going to be a long night. I can feel it in my bones.
Janey nods in acknowledgement, then tends to Mr. Leather.
When he turns to survey the bar, I allow myself another quick peek. No ring. Beaded cross necklace. Strong, masculine hands.
I can practically feel them gripping my thighs.
My body responds with a squirm against the leather cushion, and I take a sip of the next drink Janey hands me before I set it down. Maybe I don’t want to be left alone tonight. A little distraction wouldn’t be the worst thing. Gin and tonics are nice and all, but a hot night with Leather Jacket could be just what the psychologist ordered.
No. Get it together. I sling my purse over my shoulder and head for a bathroom break. I’m here for a funeral, to see Maddie and my nephew, and then split back to Portland. I can one-night-stand a guy when I’m home. Besides, Mr. Leather could very well be a wolf and I have no desire to mess with one of those again.
Once burned, and all that.
* * *
When I return, Mr. Leather already has a busty companion, and I sigh in relief as I settle onto the stool. I can focus on my drink again and not worry about him moving to sit beside me and striking up a conversation. My resolve might crumble if he were filling the space next to me. If I smelled him. Felt the heat of his body. Got an up-close look at his eyes and lips. And God help me if he has a killer smile. Something about men with killer smiles and a sense of humor turns me to mush. I’m theirs.
The only thing to kill it would be these three little words—I’m a wolf.
Not that human men can’t also be assholes. I just have a particularly bad taste in my mouth for those of the canine variety.
The rest of the hour flies by and the bar fills up quickly. It’s a swarming hive of overdone, eager women, wolves and human men looking to take advantage, and a few creepy pervs thrown in. There’s at least two in every bar. And they somehow manage to zero in on me.
After swatting the second away and ordering some potato skins and a water to start sobering up after my four gin and tonics (I nursed the second two), I head outside to smoke. I’d quit five years ago, but on my way in, I picked up some cigarettes at a gas station. There’s no way I’m making it through the weekend without a little help for my nerves.
The first puff is like heaven to my taste buds. I hold it there and savor it before breathing it the rest of the way in. The smoke burns my throat and makes my chest ache, but I manage not to cough. The instantaneous rush of nicotine to my head is a welcome reprieve. Mixed with the gin buzz, it’s almost euphoric.
Under the dark green awning that’s mostly keeping me dry, I s
tudy the little paper stick and exhale through my nose. A wave of memories from my adolescence rolls in. Funny how smells and sensations take you back to certain places and times. Not all my memories are bad. My friends and I had fun. Too much fun. And sometimes, a dangerous and illegal kind of fun.
Much to my father’s dismay. A cop with an uncontrollable daughter.
I do feel a tad remorseful about that—how much hell I gave him. But not remorseful enough to think too hard over it. He did his fair share of damage to our family, so in that regard, we’re two peas in a pod.
I shiver against the cold October chill, cussing myself for forgetting a jacket, and take a long drag, the tip burning orange against the dark. My eyes drift to the stained-glass window beside me, then into the drizzle ahead. Two women hurry by so their hair won’t frizz, and a man with a hood pulled over his head trails after. Something about his gait, the width of his shoulders, and his cleft chin gives me pause.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. My chest tightens.
The cigarette falls to the ground and sizzles against wet concrete.
Trenton.
3
Beautiful Men
I’m trembling by the time he passes and makes it inside, and I’m not sure if it’s from the cold or seeing him after all these years. What are the chances I run into him my first night back? Then again, wherever a group of drunk, horny women are, cheating assholes are sure to follow. And if Trenton is anything, it’s a cheating asshole. And, unsurprisingly, a wolf.
