Coveted

by Shawntelle Madison

  “I see our customer wasn’t satisfied with the anal filing system you developed.” He cursed under his breath. “I’ll catch you later, Thorn. I have to go stuff crazy into a can.”

  Bill stalked away, leaving Thorn and me to stare at each other.

  My breath caught in my throat when he said, “Hey, you.”

  “Hey, you.” We used to greet each other that way five years ago. I thought I’d know what to say to him, but my brain locked up. All of a sudden everything in the room that needed my attention called out to me. The furniture against the west wall wasn’t lined up correctly. The vases on the fourth table were in a precarious position. Three kids with their preoccupied mother ran around a table full of lamps. I tried to ignore the loud thumps of my heart.

  He took a step toward me. “You look good.”

  Welcome back to Earth, Natalya.

  “Nothing much has changed.”

  “Oh, I can see it has. When I left, you were on your way to becoming a hotshot New York content editor if I remember right?”

  “That kind of fell apart.”

  The job was perfect for someone like me. Content editors were the thorough souls who read over books and check to make sure everything was true. With my keen eye, and my neurotic tendency to remember everything, I ascended quickly up the business ladder. But after Thorn left, I just couldn’t cope with anything anymore, and receded into my own little world. And that was the end of my dream job.

  His eyes bore into mine. “I’m sorry about that.”

  I wanted to glance away in submission, but he held on to my gaze steadily, as he always did. Not in a battle for dominance, but in a dance of sorts, where he read my mind and caressed my soul. If I were a cat, I would’ve rolled on to my back and purred.

  But then the door opened, and in came three werewolves to shit on my parade. Rex, accompanied by his two younger brothers, strolled over to Thorn and me.

  “We got the supplies. You ready to head out?” he asked. As the eldest, Rex spoke for the other two as if they were mutes. I thought of it as a sign of their lack of intelligence. One of his brothers fingered the antiques while the other one stood with his hands in his pockets.

  “Yeah, just a moment. Go wait for me.”

  With his dark eyes and attractive coal-black hair, Rex was Thorn’s dark mirror image in every way. Except for the need to dominate. For Thorn authority came naturally. Rex just tried it on like an oversized coat.

  Rex turned to leave, but his eyes flitted in my direction. I averted mine immediately, but not in time. “You got a problem?” he asked.

  “No,” I mumbled.

  “Rex, go wait in the car.” Thorn’s growl rumbled in his chest as a warning.

  When a wave of anger floated off Thorn, Rex backed away. My feet locked into place as my heart skipped a beat. Longtime rivals, the two men had always vied for dominance when we were growing up, but Thorn always emerged as the stronger one.

  “It’s good to see you, Nat.” He touched my hand briefly and headed for the door.

  As the men left, Rex barked, “We got fifteen minutes to get to the mill. What are you doing talking to her anyway? She’s not pack anymore.”

  His words bit into my neck and slumped my shoulders. I’d heard them before, but it was worse knowing that Thorn had heard them. Now he knew I was living in South Toms River as a rogue werewolf.

  For a brief second, for the first time in a long time, I had hope for something new and positive in my life.

  But with the impeding attack from the Long Island werewolves, I knew things in South Toms River would go downhill—and I’d come tumbling after.

  Chapter 2

  I didn’t bother turning on the radio for my drive home. Instead, I rolled down the window and listened to the sounds of the twilight. The forest’s symphony lulled me as I followed the twists and turns to my cottage on the southern edge of town.

  The woods surrounded my home, offering a wall of protection from the outside world. As I drove down the long driveway, I spotted my serene two-story cottage. With its bright red shutters and whitewashed wood, the house stood out beautifully against the foliage surrounding it. It was an escape for me.

  But isolation had its drawbacks too. It was only because I was so far away from the rows of homes in the subdivisions that I hadn’t won any awards for my curb appeal. I’d spent hours meticulously lining up golden sunflowers and fragrant chrysanthemums—and hardly anyone ever saw them.

  Just another sad example of a life without friends and family hounding you for attention.

  I parked my Nissan Altima in the garage and entered the unlit home. With my keen eyesight, I didn’t need the fading lights of the setting sun to see the shameful thing within my own home.

  My hidden shame.

  But I looked away from it and headed for the kitchen, then pulled a glass from the cupboard. The perfect rows of wine glasses gazed back at me, beckoning me to check their alignment. I resisted the urge and fetched some water from the fridge door’s dispenser instead.

  Silence permeated the house as I entered the living room. To get in, I had to pick my way through a narrow path between the white boxes that crowded the room. But in just five minutes, I was perfectly cozy: I had a fire burning in my grand fireplace, and with my Costco-sized bags of marshmallows, chocolate bars, and graham crackers, I made four generous s’mores.

  As I did every Saturday night, I sat there alone. Instead of spending a night in the city with friends, I watched the light of the flames dance against the walls. The only sounds were the snap and crackle from the fire echoing along the stacks of boxes.

  Nevertheless, the neat lines of boxes offered a strange sort of comfort. They didn’t make snippy comments about my behavior. The enticing scents of nutmeg and cinnamon floated over them. And inside every box were smaller boxes.

  With a baby wipe I cleaned off my hands and picked out a large maroon-colored box from inside one of the white boxes. I felt a rush building inside my belly, and a sprinkle of goose bumps on my arms. From inside the maroon box I carefully pulled out a Christmas nutcracker.

  The wooden figure gave me such joy. The jewels on his hat cast giant green and red lights into the corners of the room. To keep him safe, I used a plastic bag to protect his hand-sewn clothes. So he appeared pristine every time I took him out, even his tufts of white hair and black dots for eyes.

  Everything about him promised a perfect holiday filled with a Christmas tree and family. Everything I owned made me the same promises. All I had to do was buy it, stack it neatly in boxes, and then take it out to feel comfort.

  How I longed for someone to comfort me.

  “You look so handsome. I bet you’d take out a hazelnut without a second thought, buddy.”

  When silence answered me, I peeked at my phone. Maybe my mother would call like she had last week. She’d joked that it was purely by accident—that she’d meant to call Pizza Hut or something. But I knew she worried about me once in a while.

  And, well, my mother thought fast food like pizza violated the sanctity of her kitchen. So I knew she had to have been thinking of me.

  Reluctantly, I wrapped up the nutcracker and put him back into his box. What would Thorn think if he ever saw me like this? Trapped in a house alone with hundreds—no, keep it straight—I was trapped here with exactly 423 Christmas, Hanukkah, and even Kwanzaa holiday decorations.

  I even went out of town on special trips to buy them. I remembered the nice elderly black woman at the Africa Emporium in Middlesex staring at me as if thinking, What’s this crazy lady doing stroking all the Kwanzaa candles?

  I bit my lip and sucked in a deep breath. Seeing Thorn had released an ache in my soul. I wasn’t the same woman he knew when he left suddenly five years ago. I wasn’t like this back then. The ache spread deep into my stomach as a tear trailed down my cheek.

  His scent lingered in my nostrils. I imagined his golden eyes. The memory of those eyes gazing at me from the middle of the fores
t filled me with a happiness I thought I’d forgotten. Those beautiful nights of running free without the chains of order and organization pulling me down—

  But am I destined to live like this for the rest of my life? Alone in a house with ornaments in boxes to occupy my time?

  Why do I dwell on things like this? I cleaned up my food and went upstairs. Might as well head to bed and concentrate on surviving tomorrow.

  But after tomorrow? The months to come would include the possibility of seeing Thorn, yet not being able to be with him. In the meantime, I’d continue to live here with my friends. Yeah, my “friends.” I snorted.

  Pretty sad that a nutcracker couldn’t warm a lonely bed.

  Around three a.m., the sounds of footsteps outside my house forced my eyes open. I froze. Heavy footsteps stomped on my flowers near the front bay windows. I angled my head to catch any scents but, from my downwind position, all I could smell through my upstairs bedroom window were the fall-blooming flowers in my garden.

  The subtle sounds of fingers gripping the living room windowsill doused me in fear. Of all the houses in this town, I bet the Long Island werewolves had picked the house without a decent weapon. (And I most certainly couldn’t use my reindeer cake-cutting knife. I refused to soil my cutlery, and even butter knifes were sharper.) And what if they broke into the house? Tore through my things to search for me? They might step on one of my boxes or knock a figurine off the fireplace mantel.

  Did I have anything deadly to use other than my claws or bare hands? I could see the local paper now: Crazed Woman Brings Down Burglar with Hordes of Holiday Cheer.

  Without a sound, I crept from the bed and opened my door. Of course, it squeaked. I winced and mentally added a can of WD-40 to the grocery list.

  Since my sneak-attack plan was squashed, I thundered down the stairs and swung open the door. Instead, my attack would come on strong. After all, I had boxes of ornaments to protect.

  The stone porch chilled my feet as I plodded down the steps. To my keen eyes, the front yard was alive with late-night activity. A single fox scurried toward the far grove, while a cottontail chased after another. But I detected nothing large moving—until something stirred in the dark shadows among the ivy that clung to the side of the house.

  Light blue eyes peeked from around a corner. A scent drifted to my nose—one that I’d never forget, since it brought memories of a more pleasant past.

  Cheetos.

  “Come on out, Aggie. I can smell the Cheetos crumbs on your jeans from a mile away.”

  A groan from the distance. “Hey, Nat. I didn’t want to wake you up.”

  “With that racket, you’ll wake up half the Jersey shore.”

  Agatha McClure walked up to the porch with a small bag in her hand. Eyes the color of shiny sapphires peered back at me and I quickly remembered her from my teenage years. Aggie was tall, rich, and outspoken, but from our past experiences together, I knew something more swam underneath that shiny veneer.

  I took a step forward as she advanced toward the house. “What are you doing here? I thought you moved back to New York.” I hadn’t seen her in over five years. All this time I would’ve expected her to be married and socializing in the Hamptons, not standing here with a single suitcase. How time had changed for everyone.

  “I did. I couldn’t take the negative vibes up there anymore.” She pushed her red hair behind her ear. A streak of blonde highlights framed her face. “I’m moving out west to Vegas.”

  I nodded with a wry smile. “The city of opportunity.” She wanted to come inside, but I didn’t plan to invite her in.

  “My Greyhound bus stopped here and I need a few days to build up my reserves to buy another ticket.”

  “Well, I can drive you to the Motel 6 down the road. They have comfortable rooms.”

  She took another step toward the porch. My heartbeat accelerated.

  “Nat, I don’t have a place to go. If I had the money, I would’ve gone there.”

  I rolled my eyes. Oh, why didn’t she have some well-to-do relative up north in Englewood who could offer her a place to stay? My home was my sanctuary, the one place where no one judged me.

  She smirked. “You act as if you’re hiding dead bodies in there.”

  If she only knew the truth.

  Aggie tilted her head and gave me a knowing smile. “What’s wrong, Nat? You’re acting funny.” She’d known me so well once—during the darker days and the lighter ones.

  I released a long sigh. After all, this was Aggie—not some stranger who’d judge me. “Come on in.”

  Aggie bounded for the steps and let out a soft squeal. “We’re going to have so much fun. It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other.”

  She continued to ramble as we entered the house. On any other day, I would’ve wished I’d had time to shift the boxes in the foyer to make more room for visitors, but this time I didn’t.

  “Did I catch you at a bad time? You moving?” She peered at the boxes.

  “No.” I left it at that. She’d figure it out soon enough. A fog of silence fell over us and I led her to the kitchen and turned on the light. As a hostess who was also hoping to distract her visitor, I knew I had to offer her something to eat. I opened the fridge and pulled out some deli meat. “You want a roast beef sandwich?”

  I didn’t glance at her face after I asked the question. From her body language, I perceived her concern. The tilted head and the thin line of her rouged lips spoke volumes. She didn’t need an explanation. Most homes didn’t look like mine.

  “I’m not too hungry.”

  I tried to find my voice so I could scramble out of this awkward situation. “If I remember correctly, you were never one to turn down a roast beef sandwich with all the fixings.”

  “Nat …” She approached me. Her shoes scraped against the shiny floor. I didn’t dare check to see if she’d trailed in mud.

  “I even have fresh dill pickles from Barney’s.”

  If she’d had ears on the top of her head, they would’ve gone up. “Barney’s still sells those things?”

  “Yep, and if I remember right, other than Cheetos, you ate those things every time you visited me.”

  I pulled out the items I needed to make the sandwiches. With the subject of my home temporarily tabled, Aggie set her bag on the floor. I abandoned the food to put it someplace other than the middle of the kitchen.

  She frowned. “I can take it to my room.”

  I picked up the bag and headed for the guest room off the living room. “No need. I keep an efficient house.” I shook my head after I said it. Oh, the irony.

  She followed me but stopped cold when she reached the guest room. “Where do I get to sleep?”

  I placed her bag on a box on top of the bed—a bed covered with ornament boxes, plastic-covered doodads, and other holiday stuff like gaudy sweaters and lawn ornaments. The only thing missing from the scene was “Jingle Bells” playing in the background.

  “You can sleep here. While you eat I can clear this little bit of stuff out. I have room … in the garage.” This was my overflow room. Oh, shit.

  “Nat, where did all these things come from?”

  I squeezed past her to return to the kitchen. “You know, lots of places. The Home Shopping Network, flea markets, brief trips to New York.” I waved my hand as I spoke. I offered her that, “Oh, everyone does this kind of thing” look.

  She leaned against the counter and frowned. I briefly inspected the floor and was relieved to find it free from mud.

  “Nat, I thought you’d improved. It’s gotten worse, hasn’t it?”

  I turned on the radio to the local jazz station to calm my nerves. I knew this would happen. “The last couple of years have been a bit hard, but I’ve managed okay.”

  With a flourish, I added condiments to her sandwich and placed it on a perfect plate with a dill pickle on the side. The meal was almost good enough for a professional photo in a magazine. She took the offered food and sat down
to eat. On the surface, I knew she wanted to press further. But Aggie rarely turned down food, and I used her own vice against her.

  We’d met each other years ago at a camp for “troubled” werewolves. At the time, my parents had told me the place would help me focus on important things. I didn’t do well among the others until I met Aggie.

  Her rich parents couldn’t find a regular therapist to help their daughter with her overeating problem, so they sent her to Camp Harold for the summer. I had fond memories of the ten whacked-out werewolves who’d sat in a circle around the campfire talking about their problems.

  Aggie tore into the sandwich, grinning widely between bites. If someone had to show up at my door, the best person in the world was her.

  With Aggie settled, I left the kitchen to figure out where I could move the ornaments I was storing in the guest bedroom. I couldn’t use the bathroom. (No way in hell.) The attic was out. (Filled to the hilt.) And so the last possibility left was the tiny shack I’d bought a year ago.

  While Aggie slept into the early morning, I lumbered about outside. I’d originally bought the tall tin shed at the local home-improvement store as a place for my stuff. But then a few years ago, a flood drove me to bring my precious ornaments into the house.

  One hour later, as the sun peeked over the horizon, I assessed my work. I’d have to suck in my stomach to enter the tiny space, but I’d done my job and created a box-free space for my guest.

  But what bothered me the most was the certain knowledge that, by tomorrow, I’d be sneaking some of the boxes back into the house.

  Chapter 3

  Most people slept in on weekends. But since I worked in retail, I woke up early in the morning like clockwork to perform my duties at The Bends. So it was quite unfortunate that I’d spent the past three hours moving boxes around. Now I had only thirty minutes to rest before work.

  As the alarm clock droned, I stared at the flashing digits with disdain. I could’ve hit the snooze button, but such a move was completely against my nature. I had never arrived late to work. Never. Even if I’d participated in a triathlon before work, I would still show up on time.