State of Independence

by Sherry L. Brown

  I turn the key off on my ignition and hop off the bike.

  “Yes!” I high-five Marc.

  “I love it! It runs great! It feels great!” I tell him.

  He laughs. “Maybe one day, you’ll upgrade to a real bike.” He pats the seat of his Harley.

  I roll my eyes at him. “C’mon. Let’s get in here before the lunch crowd. I’m starving.”

  It’s just before noon, and the restaurant is filling with hungry patrons.

  We are seated in a booth and place our drink order.

  “I’m not sure what’s up with your Dad,” I start, “He’s been extra grumpy lately.”

  Marc’s been my sounding board for venting all things Grayson. He knows firsthand how demanding and perfectionist Grayson can be.

  “He made me re-draft a letter three times. And I ordered the ‘wrong’ pens apparently and he threw the whole box in the trash!”

  I’d never in my life seen someone have such a silent temper tantrum over something so small and trivial. He didn’t yell, or demand, or even ask. He’d just said, “these aren’t the right pens,” with a cold stare and dumped them in the trash can.

  “I think he’s got a lot on his plate.” Marc offers by way of consoling me.

  “I know there’s a lot of pack business…he’s been making me stay for all the personal disputes and squabbles. Asking my opinion on punishments and stuff. You know that guy, James? He bit a human woman two weeks ago!”

  “You know he’s just preparing you, right?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  The waitress delivers our drinks then.

  Marc leans back in the booth after placing his lunch order.

  “Indy, we’re friends right?”

  I feel my eyebrows scrunch together in confusion.

  “Well of course.” I wonder where he is going with this.

  “And you know, I’d never do anything to hurt you, or never presume to tell you what to do…”

  “Where are you going with this Marc?”

  He leans his arms on the table and taps his fingers contemplatively.

  “The council has ordered that you and I get married now that you are of age.”

  “What?” I am dumbfounded. Speechless.

  “Its just a line of succession thing. It’s always been known that Dad will hand over the pack to me at one point. And a strong pack is a pack with an alpha and a mate.”

  I stare blankly at him.

  “Look. It’s not how I wanted this to go down. Marriages among us are always arranged. You know that.” He attempts to smooth things over.

  “No. I mean, it’s hardly a romantic proposal.” I quip angrily.

  “Don’t get bent out of shape, Indy. It’s not going to happen till your ready. Dad promised.”

  His words ignite a burn of fury brewing in my belly.

  “Oh? Till I’m ready? How nice of you!”

  I grip my cup and spin it on the tabletop, trying to figure out this news.

  Its arranged that I’m to marry Marc.

  My life over before it begins.

  “No.”

  I look up from my cup. “I’m not going to marry you. Ever.”

  Marc’s face is a mixed of resigned sadness. He sighs.

  “Just give it some time Indy. I mean, we’re friends. We don’t have to get married tomorrow or even next year; Having our engagement out there will keep the other guys off your back. Give you time to grow up. And in the meantime, we’ll still be friends. Love can grow from friendship.”

  I shake my head at him. Rubbing my forehead while I take in his heartfelt speech.

  I want to shut down his hope. But he is right about one thing. How long can I expect to remain single? Female wolves are a rarity.

  Our lunch is delivered then, and I eat it, but taste nothing.

  The one thing I do have is time. I have time to figure out how to get out of this.

  Chapter 11

  It’s early May, the last week before Marc is set to graduate. In just a week, he’ll be moving home and it feels as if the ever-present bomb in my life is ticking down to inevitably. I step into Gray’s office like I normally do, but I am in a state of delusion. I’d slept poorly the night before, too mad and too anxious to rest. I’d imagined confronting Grayson, demanding freedom, demanding release. I’d imagined him reluctant at first, but being able to change his mind with logical arguments.

  But it seems unreal and impossible in the light of a new day. None of this feels like home anymore, and I don’t want the path that is set out before me. I want to choose.

  Grayson comes in shortly after me. In that instant, as I watch him place his coffee cup beside his computer and give me a gruff good morning, I have the wildest thought. His signature scent, the bergamot and soap bouquet I crave, fills my lungs.

  I tap nervously on the desktop and chew my lip. Is this…? Can I…?

  He stopped wearing his wedding ring months ago. I saw the email with divorce papers myself.

  If I don’t ask, I’ll never know. And the more I think about it, the less I’m likely to do it.

  Strike now. I think to myself, he’ll be your choice. I can hardly believe what I’m about to do.

  “Grayson?”

  “Hmm?” He doesn’t look away from his computer.

  “I want to ask you something.”

  Ice blue eyes turn on me.

  “I don’t want to marry Marc. I want to marry you.”

  Just like that. I state it out there. Embarrassing to my own ears, but the truth. I’ve had a crush on him from day one. I could love this man. The feelings are so confusing to me at this point, so many rushing through me, that I have to shut them down.

  The blood rushing to my ears. The heat suffusing my face. I wait.

  “No.” One word. One answer.

  Anger, swift and sharp plunges through my stomach, my limbs, my heart.

  “You don’t get to make this decision, entirely Gray. We are all adults here.”

  His head shakes back and forth. “I’m the alpha and what I say stands. You and Marc will be married.” He pushes off his palms to stand straight at the desk. He eyes me for a minute before turning to the window.

  I have to do something.

  I have to prove to him.

  I have to be bold.

  I stand. Cross to him and place myself between him and the window.

  On my tiptoes I press my lips to his.

  His hands come to my arms.

  And he pushes me back.

  His expression is grim disappointment.

  Pain. Cold. Pain. He has rebuffed me. Is unwilling to negotiate. His shoulders are set with finality.

  I spin on my heel. I’d love to stomp off making noise, destroying things, destroying his world. But...I stop in the doorway.

  “I hope your honor is worth it.” I whisper. I know he can hear. I hope his honor is worth the price of losing me.

  Cause there is not a damn thing to make me stick around now. I’d been living on borrowed time ever since that silver dagger went through my shoulder a year ago.

  There’s not a place in this world for me.

  I walk out his office door, through the foyer of his grand mansion, and out the front door.

  I turn to walk the path that leads to the side garage. I turn the key on the bike to give it time to warm up. Despair, deep aching loneliness, and searing fury burn through my soul.

  He just expects everyone to toe the line to his wants. The alpha’s orders. I’m not that girl.

  I throw my leg over the vibrating bike and give the throttle a few twists for optimal loud satisfying revving. I’m alone.

  I’m angry. I’m dangerous. And Grayson just set me free.

  Chapter 12

  I am numb. I ride through back highways, and circle around the main part of town without knowing what I am going to do. I can’t go back to Grayson. It is pride and stubbornness. I pull up to the main stop light in town, and on the right is the main branch
of my bank.

  When the light turns green, I speed up and turn my blinker on. I park and stare at the front doors. It is a little after ten in the morning, and there are a few people coming and going on their banking business. I watch them and listen to the ticking of my bike’s engine as it cools off.

  A plan is formulating in my head. Nebulous, but still a plan. Take out all my money in cash and hit the road. Grayson thinks he can control me, make me dance to his tune? Well, it isn’t going to happen.

  I swing my leg over the bike. Less than fifteen minutes later I have my life’s savings in my backpack and am on the highway headed south.

  I give up looking in my mirrors after the first two hours.

  Finally am able to relax and enjoy the damn ride.

  And what a ride it is. The Rocky Mountains provide highways of switchbacks amid late spring mountain beauty.

  I follow signs south, all the way to Pagosa springs.

  I gas up and consider staying the night. It’s about fifteen degrees warmer this far south.

  Chapter 13

  I’m not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

  Actually, it’s not New Mexico or Texas either.

  Nope, I’m well into Louisiana.

  I’d driven as far as El Paso, with thoughts of continuing on straight through Mexico to the bottom of the world. It’d would’ve been epic. I might have capped it off with a Thelma and Louise style ultimate ending. But.

  When I’d pulled into that last gas station seventy miles from the border something happened. I’d just come out of the bathroom and was pursuing the beef jerky options.

  The rumble of many engines reached my ears.

  A biker gang pulled into the parking lot. Matching leather vests and the straight up ride-hard, criminal variety with a little something extra. A little something wolf smelling.

  I slipped out quickly. I got stares as I pulled out of the parking lot.

  But I went back the way I came. Not to the border like I originally planned.

  A single female wolf has to listen to her instincts. And my instincts told me that gang was headed south and would be trouble for me.

  I hopped on I-10 and made it all the way to Houston. A full twelve hour day. Hard riding. Seven-hundred plus miles. I’d collapsed at a motel and slept till late in the afternoon the next day.

  So here I am. My thoughts now? Ride to Florida and have a pina colada on the beach.

  Maybe I can find a job out there working some beachside bar.

  That’s what my thoughts are on as I speed along the most southerly highways. I’d turned south at Lafayette, tired of the major traffic corridor.

  Highway ninety cuts over to New Orleans. It’d make a place to stop and grab some z’s. I could then head north and east, along the coast.

  The beach is sounding more and more enticing with each mile. I’m road-weary. Although, I have to say riding at night is a new kind of pleasant. A break from hot sun. Sure, the humidity this far south still swelters, and the bugs hitting my visor have to be scraped off every sixty miles or so. But every now and then, to add to the respite, there’s a rain cloud.

  Steam drifts up from the hot pavement in a mystifying vision.

  There’s a particular feeling I can’t quite identify. How many days since I left Colorado?

  This is what I’m pondering when a man steps into the road. Really just a dark shadow outside the reach of my headlights.

  I ease off the throttle, slowing.

  He doesn’t move. He’s smack dab in the middle of the road and I am approaching him quickly.

  Weird.

  I’ll blow by him. The minute I think it, I’m near enough to register the details.

  Dark suit. Cut impeccably. Arms crossed over his chest. And an eye patch.

  I’m so enthralled I’m near even with him. I switch my focus to the road in front of me.

  Five more men stand shoulder to shoulder creating a wall. I slam on the brakes, but know I’m going to go down. My back tire slides on that wet pavement and the speed is too great.

  It happens fast. On my left side, sliding along the road, as the bike comes out from underneath me.

  When I stop, I open my eyes. I’m in the middle of the highway. In the distance, the orange-yellow glow of the city illuminates the sky. Oh yeah. I’m close to that big city. The Big Easy. Isn’t that what they call it?

  I stand up, groan at the aches and pulls of my muscles. My skin on the left side along my hip is on fire.

  I pull my helmet off, and suck in a breath at the fresh pain everywhere in my body.

  “You’ll want to turn around and go home.” A voice from behind me.

  I turn. This time of night, there’s no other cars on the road. We stand facing each other.

  A veritable showdown. Me and this one-eyed motherfucker.

  “Oh yeah? Well what if I don’t have one of those?” I ask nonchalantly.

  I know a threat when I hear one. But I’ll be damned if I run away.

  It is, after all, a free country.

  “Then you’re definitely headed in the wrong direction.”

  I feel the men close in behind me. I keep my eyes on the stranger in front of me. But lift my nose to the air to get the scent.

  What are they? Not human.

  “You don’t know what direction I’m headed to know if it’s wrong or not.” I say to give myself some time.

  I am processing. What are the options here?

  None. Because with a displacement of air, a moving shadow is on me from behind.

  I swing the helmet still in my hand, connecting with another shadow.

  My fist hits meaty flesh, but my feet are kicked out from beneath me, and I fall awkwardly, hitting my chin on the pavement. A heavy fist hits my temple and my vision grays.

  The last thing I see is a pair of fancy dress shoes.

  Chapter 14

  I’d like to say I’m the epitome of grace and class when I wake up. But the truth is, the pillow is wet with my saliva. My left hand is beneath my chest, my legs akimbo.

  I roll, realize I’m not in my own bed, and panic.

  I jump up, or attempt to, but I’m tangled in a mass of linens. My hand shoots out to stop my fall, but it’s numb from lack of blood flow, that pins and needles feeling making it impossible to grip the nightstand.

  As I result, I’m on the floor, in pain and stunned when he speaks.

  “No one is going to hurt you.”

  I push up to sitting, my back against the bed, on the balls of my feet.

  Mr. One Eye. Elegantly dressed. Looking lethal. And he definitely doesn’t smell human.

  I take him in from the top of his dark hair, down his thick eyebrows, pause at the eye patch before continuing down to measure his shoulders and tapered waist. Pretty tall. Lean though, not bulky. He’s got an exotic look. Slightly darkened skin with chocolate eyes. Full mustache and beard. It’s man-scaped impeccably. His hair is some kind of mix of fashionable hipster-barbarian - shaved on the sides and long on top pulled back into a braid and a small knot at the back of his head.

  I’d never seen someone with so many visual contradictions.

  “Yeah? Well...you’ll have to excuse me if I don’t believe you.” I stand fully, still tense.

  Knowing the threat is in front of me, I scan my surroundings.

  Plain room, functional furniture, neutral tan walls. Nice stuff. Real wood. Real paintings on the wall. Sturdy bed, clean smelling sheets, luxury duvet. Only my scent in them, thank god.

  I’ve been stripped down to my tank top and underwear. I can feel a thick bandage on my side down to my hip.

  “You hungry?” Cyclops asks with a tiny lift of his eyebrows. The door is behind him.

  Perhaps I amuse him.

  “Does the sun rise in the east?” I counter.

  He smiles, and pushes a button on the bedside old-school phone putting the earpiece up to his head while giving me a look. It hits me that this is a hotel.

  “Bring up a filet
mignon. Medium rare. Potatoes. Vegetables. A slice of chocolate cake. And my standard.”

  Is this the last supper? Feed the lamb a carrot before it’s slaughter?

  He sits at one of the two club-style chairs placed along the wall. Between them a small round table. When he does it, he unbuttons his suit coat, pushes the fabric to the side with a flick of his wrist. Real elegant. His mannerisms are polished. Practiced. Controlled.

  My body is like a gun cocked. It’s either time to pull the trigger or stand down.

  The thought of food has me standing down. Just till I find out what this guy is.

  Till I can get a shower and get back on the road.

  Breaking bread is a universal sign of peace, right?

  He’s still silently watching me. Hands steepled at his lips.

  Contemplative.

  “So...um.” I have to break the awkwardness.

  “I’m Lucian St. Clair.”

  “Nice...to...meet...you?” My reply is uncertain. A question of his intentions.

  He smiles at the dubious tone.

  His cuspids are very sharp. I’d dare call them...fang-like.

  “Sit down. Independence.” He indicates the seat across from him with an open palm wave. I don’t really like the seat. It makes it so that I don’t have a clear line of sight to the door. If I sit there, I’ll have to cross him to get out the door.

  I’m not that stupid.

  “Actually…”

  His eyes narrow a fraction. Mexican standoff.

  There’s a knock at the door, and he gets up to open it. Saved by the bell. Room service actually. I use the time his back is turned to sit in the seat he just vacated.

  When he comes back into the room on the heels of the server-guy, he smiles but takes the less-than-optimal seat in the corner.

  Server guy is busy setting out a full spread. Complete with cut-crystal wine glasses and a single rose centerpiece. A still-sizzling steak is placed in front of me, and I can tell they grilled it in butter judging by its heavenly scent.

  “I’ll pour, John. Thank you.” Lucian St. Clair takes the bottle from server guy’s hands after he’s uncorked the bottle with a flourish.