by S. J. Pierce
Jaxson refuses to let me clean up, so I sit at the island and sip coffee while watching him do the dishes. His back is to me, but he’s turned enough so I can see his profile, the ends of his drying hair curling around his jawline.
And I thought sweaty, just-went-for-a-run Jaxson was sexy. Men doing domesticated things is a serious turn on. It helps that from this angle, I can see the ropes of muscle along his upper arms and shoulders flex with every movement. His glorious, tight glutes through his shorts. The way his waist tapers into a perfect V.
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches me studying him, tosses a smile over his shoulder. I don’t try to pretend I was doing anything else and smile back. He returns to scrubbing a pan, and my lips part to ask more about his woodworking, but something catches me off guard—his jaw flexes as it clenches, his face now tight with unease. He’s either in pain or something is plaguing him. I remember back to the pool, the darkness in his eyes, when he didn’t think I was watching. I don’t feel like I know him well enough to pry and ask what’s wrong.
He beats me to the punch. “Hey, Rhee,” he says but doesn’t meet my eyes. He’s now gripping the edge of the sink with his head down and turned away, the faucet still running. The tone in his voice is unrecognizable, something I’ve yet to hear from him, and the sudden change in his demeanor is jarring.
It takes me a second to reply because I’m unsure what’s coming after. “Yes?”
“I, um. There’s something we need to chat about.”
He finally turns the water off, faces me and leans against the counter with crossed arms. The darkness in his eyes has returned.
My stomach hollows. What would he have to say that’s so serious? And why now?
I clear my throat with unease and hold my breath. When he sees how his shift in mood has affected me, his eyebrows pinch together. Eyes drift down to the floor. A sharp exhale through his nose. “About what I said last night. About how I…” His words trail, and he perks. Glances out the back window.
“Last night?”
He holds up a hand. Something’s grabbed his attention.
He hurries to see better and stares into the mist-shrouded pines. Throws a worried look back to me.
“Jax, what is it?” I slide off the stool.
“You might want to get some pants on. We have company.”
* * *
“Company?” I whisper to myself in the laundry room as I tug on my freshly washed jeans. I find my hair elastic in the pocket and pull my unruly hair into a high ponytail. Put on my bra, change into my shirt, and slip on my socks.
I’m shaking. Why am I shaking?
Who would be here?
The back door opens and closes as Jaxson steps out, and muffled voices chat about something. I creep to the kitchen and watch as he talks on the deck with a shirtless man, who is a good bit shorter than him but broader. The man looks worried. Authoritative. Alert. Like he’s on the hunt for something or someone.
I don’t know much about the hunters or their wolf pack, but if I was a betting woman, I’d say he was one…if not their leader. Anyone else would have knocked on the front door, not come from the woods, shirtless and sweaty.
I move further into the kitchen and look below. More wolves. The rest of the pack. In wolf form, which confirms my suspicions.
The few things I do know about them is they go after rogue wolves and witches (which mean they’re up to no good and out to hurt someone), and they sometimes help the authorities with crimes. My dad mentioned them a time or two, but I was young and it was boring ‘adult talk’, so I mostly tuned it out.
Why are they here?
Is that why Jaxson seemed worried?
I release the breath I didn’t know I was holding and stumble back as Jaxson and the wolf shifter come inside. I plant myself on the stool because I don’t know what else to do.
Our visitor takes one good look at me, cuts his eyes at Jaxson. Jaxson recoils from the intensity but recomposes. “You know who she is, man?”
“Her name’s Rhee. I met her last night.”
Who I am? “Well, I’m not a rogue witch,” I say. “If that’s what you mean.”
I can tell by his blank stare that it wasn’t, in fact, what he meant, and he gives a Jaxson another pointed look before he sniffs the air and heads to the bedroom. A look that says, we’ll discuss later.
It makes me feel like a child, and I grunt with annoyance.
They ignore me and continue on their way. What do they need back there?
I hold my breath as I eavesdrop.
Something about a…witch. Her scent trail led them here. Then to the bedroom. So, it is a rogue witch they’re after. She’s been here.
When?
I think of my dream.
No…it was a dream. I woke to an empty room.
They debate how long it’s been. They can’t tell. Maybe last night before we came back from the bar? No. Jaxson would have smelled her.
Wait…smelled her? Why would he have smelled her?
They decide it was sometime this morning, after he left for a run. He didn’t smell her when he came back because of the food I was cooking. They’re silent for a second. Probably realizing she was in here with me this morning. Alone. While he was gone.
I feel sick. Grip my stomach.
It was only a dream, but could it be related? It has to. Maybe my subconscious was trying to warn me. Wake me. And she was gone by the time I came to because she could sense Jaxson coming back.
But a human wouldn’t scare her.
A wolf would.
That’s when it hits me.
I stand, anger igniting inside me, my spine tingling. And suddenly, being alone with a rogue witch this morning is the least of my concerns. I’m fine (in the physical sense, anyway), but Jaxson’s not about to be.
He’s a wolf.
The asshole lied to get me into bed.
By the time they make their way into the living room, I’m already shoving my feet into my shoes and grabbing my purse. Jaxon is following the hunter to the back door, and his blue eyes search for me and find me. I shoot him a look that could kill.
It wounds him.
When I’m opening the front door, the wolf is making a joke about Jaxson joining them, then adds, “You’d get yourself killed. Leave this one to us. This rogue is more elusive than we’d like.”
Jaxson laughs, but it’s strained. And that’s the last thing I hear when I softly shut the door behind me.
17
Nothing and Everything
Other than walk, I have absolutely no plan on how to get back to my car. If I’m lucky, I’ll find someone to hitchhike with, but there’s hardly any traffic all the way up here. And my phone is nearly dead. At least I have a couple bars of service.
As I round his mailbox to the road, I go to call my sister, and one of Jaxson’s garage doors lift. An engine roars to life.
I walk faster.
His gunmetal-colored Jeep pulls up next to me in a matter of seconds, rolls beside me as I speed walk. Thank God I’m wearing tennis shoes. His passenger window slides down, and he calls for me. “Rhee…I’m sorry.”
I ignore him.
“Rhee, baby, I-”
I halt, fists balled, and he pauses to see what I’ll say. I’m so mad I’m shaking, and dammit if tears aren’t burning my eyes. Why do I cry when I’m mad? It’s the worst. I don’t want him to think it’s because I’m crying over him. Not the way he would think. I’m infuriated.
I suck in a breath and look at him. What he finds there devastates him. “You don’t get to call me that,” I say, a hard edge to my voice. “You don’t get to call me anything.”
He sits there a second. Carefully chews over his next words.
“You lied to me,” I continue. A defiant tear squeezes out and rolls along my cheek. I start to say more but think better of it. There’s nothing left to say. He lied. We’re done.
The end.
My feet jolt into motion agai
n, crunching against gravel. His Jeep keeps pace. “I’m sorry, Rhee,” he says. “I am. I was going to tell you.”
Doesn’t matter, though, does it? Because he’s had every opportunity to tell me since the bar. And he didn’t, because he knew it meant a difference in whether he got laid. I know his type. I know his type all too well, unfortunately. They tell people what they want to hear so they can get what they want.
I hold my phone to my face, and a tear drops against the screen. I go to hit the phone icon to call Maddie and it blinks black.
Great.
It died.
I shove it in my back pocket.
“Let me at least take you to your car. I get you’re pissed, you should be, but you don’t need to be up here walking around by yourself with a rogue witch around.”
I pause. Exhale. Start walking again. He’s right, but I’ll take my chances.
I should have seen the signs…right? Keen sense of smell (he smelled strawberries on me). An unnerving intuition…particularly with my body. Like Trenton had. And surely there are more I can’t think of right now.
I didn’t want to see it.
I come to a stop sign and head right, remembering the cab driver took a left last night before we stopped at Jaxson’s house. He’s eased up a little to give me some space, but still following closely behind. He’s not leaving me, I know that, but I’ll be damned if I get into the Jeep with him. He can follow me all the way back to the bar in town for all I care.
* * *
Another fifteen minutes into walking, and clouds now veil the sky in shades of grey. Tiny raindrops patter against the ground and ping into the metal hood of the Jeep, and within moments, the sky is falling in waves of heavy sheets. I’m fully drenched in no time.
I wrap my arms around myself and shiver against the cold. Until now, the chill in the air hasn’t bothered me. My anger was keeping me warm. But it’s no match for wet clothes.
He shouts from the Jeep behind me, something about a jacket, but I ignore him. Continue on.
I no longer feel my toes, my shoes soaked through. But I don’t stop.
His Jeep roars up beside me. “Rhee,” he cajoles. “We don’t have to talk. Just get in the Jeep. You’ll get hypothermia.”
My teeth are chattering now, and my face is going numb. I pause with a sigh, but I can’t bring myself to look at him again.
He’s right, though. I won’t last up here, soaked to the bone in the cold. No phone.
I look his direction but don’t lock eyes. I can barely get the words out from how hard I’m shaking. “N-no talking,” I warn. That’s my condition for being in the same space as him.
He motions for me to join him.
I don’t hesitate.
When I’m safely inside, he rolls the window up and blasts the heat.
We sit for a second, me soaked and angry, him frayed and desperate. Nothing and everything we want to say buzzes in the space between us.
But he keeps his word and doesn’t say anything, just continues down the road.
* * *
The ride is long and painful and silent, and when he pulls up beside my car, I don’t hesitate in getting out and leaving the whole situation behind.
I’d say I deserve it, that I had it coming. I should have listened to my gut last night when it told me to drink and go home. What else would you expect when you meet a random stranger at a bar? But I learned a long time ago I’m not responsible for other’s deceptions. Their actions are their own. He showed me who he was, and that’s all I need to know.
I’m just glad I found out as soon as I did.
As I hurry over to my car through the rain, I notice the one he left a couple spaces over from mine. Another Italian-looking thing. I briefly wonder how he’ll get it home, but I don’t care.
He doesn’t stick around, the tires of his Jeep squealing as he cuts out of the parking lot and heads back the way we came.
As I round the trunk of my car, I brace myself against the bumper for a moment. Make myself breathe. Feel. Too many emotions over the past twenty-four hours. Over the past week.
The past twenty-five years of my life.
I’ve been sucked into a cyclone and spit out. Then trampled on.
I allow myself one last, emptying cry, tears mingling with rain and snaking down my face, and then make my way to the driver’s side door.
I won’t lie, I’d like to drive back up there and smack him. Tell him off, really tell him off this time. Even track down Zenesha and tell her what an ass he is so she can tell him off too. But right now, all I really want is get warm and dry and collected before I head home.
Maddie and Carson can’t see me like this.
18
Love Note
Leave.
That’s the word someone painted on my driver’s side door in bright red. Luckily, it was with some kind of washable paint because the rain is already helping me out.
I look at it a moment. Scoff. I have nothing else in me, no space left in my head for any other reaction, even fear. Which, judging by the cryptic way this person decided to send the message, that’s exactly what he (or she) wants. For that reason alone, I allow myself to stay numb to it.
I’ll be ‘leaving’ in two days anyway.
Turning for Main Street, I hug my purse against me and head for a clothing store. I’ll get an umbrella and some dry clothes, maybe another coffee, and allow the rain to finish erasing the rest of the love note on the side of my Jetta. Then I’ll be back at dad’s by lunch.
As I head west, I flip through my mental rolodex of who my secret admirer could be. Of all the people I’ve pissed off in the past. There are many. Trenton and Naomi would be the obvious winners, but I can’t dismiss the laundry list of girls who also wouldn’t be happy with my coming home. Anyone could have seen me at Thirsty Thursday. My enemies here probably have a private Facebook group to talk shit about me and send alerts. Rhee is back in town! Hide your husbands, ladies! Get out your pitchforks and red paint.
There’s Candice—a girl who wanted to beat my ass freshman year, and I honestly don’t remember why. I only recall the tension between us on the bus and in the lunch line. She was trash and wanted to fight everyone, so I can’t say there was anything special about our interactions. I could see her being a twat and writing on my car, though.
Then there’s Ashley—a rich girl whose parents I worked for one summer. They owned a clothing store here on Main Street. I stole from them often since I knew how to remove the sensors, and they eventually caught me on camera and pressed charges. That same Christmas, they went out of business and Ashley blamed me. Sure, my theft didn’t help, but it wasn’t all because of me. I at least paid restitution. Apparently, her dad had been hiding money and lying on his taxes, so he eventually went to prison and his wife left him, and Ashley cut off all her hair and started hanging out with the goth crowd. They’d throw things at me at lunch and leave death threats in my locker.
That was fun.
Then there’s this bully girl at school—she liked to trip freshmen in the hallway and stick gum in their hair, so one day at a pep rally I tipped my drink in her lap and got everyone to chant about her peeing her pants. Pee-pee Pants Sarah is what she was known as through her Senior year.
Totally worth three days of ISS.
Let’s see…then there’s Alicia. Her dad owned property near the water tower, so we’d cut through to get there. Smoking pot and spray-painting artwork on the side of the tank were our favorite things to do on Saturday nights. He eventually had enough and chased us with a shotgun. Of course, we outran him, and the next morning there was a news report that he’d broken his knee on an exposed tree root and died of hypothermia. Alicia went out looking for him when he didn’t come home.
Only our friend group knew the reason he was in the woods at night with a gun. Well…us and Alicia. We denied it, of course, and they couldn’t prove what she was saying was true. No charges were pressed, and Alicia never recovered. Not long a
fter, her mom shipped her off to a mental ward in Seattle, but eventually she was supposed to come back and live with her grandmother. Her mom turned to drugs when she was gone and hasn’t been heard from since.
So, in other words, my secret admirer could be anyone. Do I feel bad about any of it? Yes. Especially about Ashley and Alicia’s parents, but here’s the thing I’ve learned about remorse—yes, it means you’re human and not a total sociopath, but it doesn’t ease the pain of the ones you hurt. Just don’t be an asshole in the first place…Jaxson. Trenton. Dad. Apparently, that’s not a life skill Jaxson and Trenton have mastered yet. Or is interested in mastering. My dad lived his whole life never mastering it.
I look back to the car, the red words now a hazy blob with a few faint streaks. Speaking of assholes, I can’t say I don’t deserve someone writing on my car. They don’t know I’m not the same person I was seven years ago. That I’ve changed.
To be fair, people usually don’t.
* * *
A store named Dazzles is my first stop because, as far as I can tell, it’s the only place along Main Street I can get a dry change of clothes. When I step in, I don’t pay much attention to anything else other than getting warm.
A girl from somewhere in the back yells, “Welcome to Dazzles!” Other than her, it appears I’m the only one here.
When my shivering wanes, my fingers burning as they thaw, I take a second to scan the store and get an initial idea of what my clothing options are. The apparel here has multiple personality disorder. Half of it is lumberjack-looking clothes, the other half should be in a sex shop. A nearby rack has wolf-themed shirts with goofy sayings. Shoot me now, before I’ll wear one of those.
As if on cue, a wolf softly howls over a set of hidden speakers, and I deadpan. Then I notice the mural of a forest on the wall to my right.
I turn, contemplate leaving and staying in wet clothes.
The same voice calls after me. “Back here! Looking for something?”
