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pjbehindthesun · 5 years

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chapter 29: a one-night thing and a date debate

(hey hi hello, in the interest of clarity, there’s a new POV toward the end of this chapter. hope you enjoy!)

Tuesday, November 13th, 1990

“What?? I didn’t think it was that bad.“

It’s rude to gawk at her. I know it’s rude. Yet gawk I shall, when her hair looks like THAT and she’s got the unmitigated audacity to keep eating clementines standing over her kitchen sink like it’s a normal Tuesday evening. It’s been hacked off unceremoniously to several non-conforming lengths, all of which fall somewhere above her shoulders, and the ends are all sticking out sideways, free from the tyranny of the length that used to weigh them down. I never knew her hair could be this … how do I put this charitably… voluminous… she looks like she stuck her finger in a socket…

"Not that bad?? What’d you, cut it with a bowl on your head?"

"Hey, no need to be shitty!"

"No, you’re right, that’s an insult to the bowl community."

"Jesus, Lucy!” she exclaims, choking and looking deeply wounded, although whether at my snide remarks or the food lodged in her throat, I can’t be sure.

“Look, I’m sorry, okay, you just… you don’t even look like you."

Cora beams at me. "Thanks!”

Maybe if I flatten my face into my palm hard enough, I’ll just pass out. Nope, no luck. And now my face hurts. “Okay, I get it, it’s the stereotypical post-breakup reinvention –"

"Huh? This has nothing to do with… that."

”– sure, right, and a cat might have her kittens in an oven but that doesn’t make them… I don’t know… biscuits or something… shit, I’m hungry, I skipped dinner…"

Cora’s eyebrows draw together and we share a moment of silence for the metaphor that got away before we burst out laughing. I join her in the kitchen and she hands me an orange before picking another one for herself. She peels it straight into the sink, on top of a large existing pile of peels, and I follow her lead.

“Okay, okay, you just wanted to look different. I get it."

"Thank you.”

“And you succeeded,” I crane my neck to get a better view of the back of her hair, where the disparate lengths of the sides meet in one jagged scissor swipe. At its shortest, it’s a bit above her shoulders. I can work with that. It’ll actually be a cute length on her, if I can even it out… and get the ends to lie flat… and fix whatever those short pieces in the front were supposed to be… “but I’m contractually obligated as your best friend to ask you this whenever you do anything crazy: are you okay? Like, really okay?”

She nods, sending random pieces of hair bobbing wildly.

“I don’t have to take you into the shop for a tune-up, right? Because this little stunt, this kinda feels like a ‘check engine’ light… "

"I swear, Luce, I’m fine. I just… I needed something different.”

“…because?” I ask, as carefully as I can. She takes her time answering, becoming overwhelmingly interested in removing every last string of pith from her fruit.

“…because Alex called."

Ah ha. Now we’re getting somewhere. Also, that bastard! "What’d you guys talk about?”

“We didn’t. He left a message.” I’m already making a beeline for her answering machine when she adds, “I erased it, don’t bother."

"Okay, and that wasn’t cathartic enough, so you had to erase your hair too?"

"I… I don’t know, he said he thought he spotted me at the store the other day –"

”– creepyyyy –“

”– yeah. And suddenly I just didn’t want to be spottable anymore, you know? I mean, I didn’t change my hair one bit the entire time we dated, it always looked the same. And I just felt like I could make myself a little less recognizable to him, or maybe just make myself feel less like the person he recognized as his girlfriend, or… I don’t know, none of that probably makes any sense.“

"No, it makes perfect sense. How are you feeling now?"

She downs the last wedge of her orange and reaches for another. "Fine. Scurvy-free, at the very least."

"No, I mean about Alex… did he say anything else?"

"Not really. I mean, he left me his new number. Well, her number, I guess. He’s at her place,” she wrinkles her nose at a distaste unrelated to clementines. The thought turns my stomach, too.

“And… are you going to call him back, or…”

“NO! Absolutely not. That’s why I fucking destroyed the tape, even hearing him in this room again felt like a violation. I just wanted to kill any trace, you know?"

"Definitely. Definitely. Now, for the love of all that is good and holy, will you please let me fix… this for you?"

I tug at a sideways strand of hair, maybe a little too hard. Setting aside the insanity of her actions, I admire her resolve. When Cora decides something, she really goes for it, whether it was to move across the country to start her life over, or to try to save the planet with her crazy genius brain, or to try and make things work with Alex even when any idiot could see that their relationship was already long over, or to cut him out of her life and cut off her own hair just for good measure, or even to ignore every ounce of evidence that she and Stone are perfect for each other. Smart or stupid, she really commits to her cause and sticks with it. I’m sure Jeff wishes I had the same kind of commitment capability.

"Is it really that bad?"

"Cora! You cut. Your hair. With kitchen shears!” I clap between words to stress the severity of her situation, but my efforts are undermined by both our cackling. “You’ve gone from a Daphne to a Velma!"

"Hey, what’s wrong with Velma???”

“Y'know, the person we really need right about now is Patch."

"Oh god, he’d disown me."

"Yeah, but at least he’d be able to make you look like Molly Ringwald first. I think the best I can do is, like, Anne Shirley post-chop."

"Hmm,” she muses, her face clouding, “no more pigtails to pull.”

“Huh?”

“Oh… nothing…”

“Come on, Mess."

She lets me snatch up her hand and start dragging her down to my apartment, where I have slightly more refined cosmetological implements than kitchen shears. But once we’re in the hallway she plants her feet, frowning in the direction of my boyfriend’s door like a bird dog.

“Hey. What are you even doing here so early anyway? Weren’t you going to hang out with Jeff before the show tonight?”

“Why don’t you ask a little louder, maybe he’ll hear you and come explain it himself?”

Her face contorts quizzically. I tug hard on her arm. “Ow! Okay, okay! Walking now.”

“Sorry,” I whisper once we’re in the stairs, “just… we’re still in kind of a weird place, we had a really dumb fight, and I should probably go talk to him about it, but…” I trail off, feeling even more undeserving than I usually do of someone as great as Jeff. What’s wrong with me? He’s my favorite person in the world! Why don’t I want to talk to my favorite person in the world?

“…but you needed to take a breather?"

"Maybe? I don’t know, I just know that in the moment I needed to get away, and now I’ve probably fucked everything up."

"Somehow I doubt that.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Well, nothing’s wrong with you, I can tell you that much.”

“Reserve judgment until you hear the whole stupid story, woman. Bathroom. Now.” I open my door and point down the hallway. With a childish groan, she obeys, grabbing a dining room chair and stomping away. I grab the phone, tugging the cord so it’ll follow us.

“What’s that for? Is there a hair disaster technical support line?”

“Pretty much, yeah. I was gonna call your brother, I need reinforcements.” I steer her by the shoulders and shove her down into the chair, maybe a little too aggressively.

“Oof! Fabulous. Double the abuse, no waiting.”

“No less than you deserve,” I snicker as I glare at her until she recites his number, which I stab into the phone. “Hmph. No one’s picking up. Guess I have to fly solo on this one.”

“Well, good, honestly, I don’t want to worry him.”

“You should have thought of that before you hacked off your hair like a crazy person,” I scold as I start to comb it into submission and evaluate the job in front of me.

“Enough about me, Lucy, what the fuck’s going on with you lovebirds?”

“We had our first fiiiiight,” I whine, “it was awful. And it’s stupid, and I’m stupid, and I need to just get over myself and let him win this one because I’m never going to find another person like Jeff so I’m crazy not to go along with him, and –"

”– wait, is this still about you not wanting to move in together?“

"Yes! Or, no, it’s not that I don’t want to, exactly, I just don’t want to… yet, I guess. Which is dumb, right? I’m being dumb. Only the truly dumb among us would blow up an otherwise perfect relationship over something trivial like that."

"Trivial?? Okay, (a), be nice, that’s my best friend you’re talking about, and (b), it’s not dumb or trivial, it’s how you feel, so why would that threaten anything?”

As I start trimming hair, the whole stupid story tumbles out of me. Cora listens solemnly, chewing on her lip, until I’m finally done with my tale of woe.

“It’s over, Cora,” I lament, “I just can’t imagine how he’ll still want to be with me after this, I mean, I’m basically rejecting him."

"If he can’t handle a little rejection, he’s in the wrong business,” she sniffs. “And it’s not rejection. You love him, right?"

"Of course!”

“So, you’re not rejecting him. If anything, you’re trying to hold onto him by not rushing into things."

"Okay, EXACTLY!"

"So, say that to him!"

"I DID! But he wasn’t even listening by that point. He got all huffy because I didn’t want to take the leap or whatever. Hey, hold still, you trying to fuck up your hair even more?” I grab her head to keep her from shaking it in disbelief.

“If he expects you of all people to carpe the freaking diem just because someone else told you to, he’s got a lot left to learn about you. And trying to guilt you about your career? That was bad, and he should feel bad about it.” She glowers at me in the mirror, stabbing the air with her index finger. “You do things in your own time and for your own reasons, because you’re a badass independent thinker, and anyone who wants to change that about you is gonna have to go through me first. He should love that about you the most, not try to overrule it.”

I have to pause what I’m doing and screw up my face to keep the tears pricking my eyes from falling. “Stop being so sweet, woman, it’s really fucking irritating."

"Look who’s talking,” she mutters, her own eyes looking a little red around the edges.

“I know you’re right, I’m just scared of losing this one. You know? I don’t exactly have the best luck in this department.”

“Oh, I know, when compared to Jesus freaks or fish pukers, Stinky Hat Man is a veritable dream come true."

"His hats really aren’t that stinky, you know."

"I’ll have to take your word for it. Anyway, uh… if we’re doing the whole ‘sharing is caring’ bit, then I have to admit that I didn’t quite tell you everything. Before.”

“About what?"

"My answering machine. There was another message. Yesterday. From Stone.”

“Oh?” I struggle to keep my voice and face neutral. Truth be told, I’ve been feeling guilty lately about interfering and telling Stone to back off. Seems like he backed a little too far off, when all I wanted him to do was respect her mourning process and not rush her. I’m really 0 for 2 at this whole relationship thing lately.

“Yeah, it’s just… it was weird, he’s kinda been absentee lately, ever since… well, like a week, I guess… since Alex left. And it’s just a week, and it wouldn’t be a big deal if it were anyone else, I mean, we all have our own lives, but… it’s me and Stone, you know?”

“Uh huh.” Yup, confirmed, this is my fault. Shit. “Well, what did he say?"

"Nothing special, really, he just wanted to make sure I was coming to the show…"

Okay! Whew! A sign of life. I didn’t fuck everything up for them. "That was sweet of him."

"Was it?” She frowns. “He probably called everyone he knows, right?"

Is she fucking serious?? "He didn’t call me."

"Of course he doesn’t have to call you to make sure you’ll be at their shows, you’re boning his bassist."

"Jesus, Cora, real ladylike."

"Ha! I love that you still blush about it, it’s been months. Look, all I’m saying is he has no reason to call you, but he probably checked in with a bunch of other people just to spread the word."

"You’re crazy."

She shrugs. "What other reason could he have?"

Oh, I don’t know, he’s IN LOVE WITH YOU? But I can’t say that. I can’t interfere in their situation again. I obviously don’t know what I’m doing, not even in my own relationship, much less someone else’s. All I can do is send her to the show looking as cute and feeling as confident as humanly possible and hope Stone’s smart enough to take it from there.

"Beats me,” I sigh, tousling the ends of her hair after checking them one last time. “Well, I think I’ve officially finished working my magic. What do you think?”

***

“God damn it, I can’t believe I let you talk me into this shirt."

"What! You look good!"

"But we’re not even the same siiiiize,” I groan, tugging at the low neckline of the tiny borrowed black shirt to try and force it up into a more modest and familiar location. Ultimately I give up and burrow deeper into my giant cardigan as Lucy drags me into the Off-Ramp. This is my payback for the hour she spent salvaging my creative hairstyling skills, of course, but that doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it.

I suppose she did a fine job. Not that I particularly care whether it looks good or not. But she neatened up the ends and made it a little more even than I could manage by myself, and it’s shorter now than what I’d been going for, which is actually a plus. It hits right below my jawline, and she did her best to get the ends to lay nicely and for the shorter pieces in the front to look more natural. The problem now is that those little pieces fall in my eyes, so I’ve got them pinned over to the side rather than worry about them for tonight. There’s enough to worry about here already. Even setting aside the conundrum of Stone’s motivation for calling me, Lucy and Jeff are perfectly capable of producing enough drama for one evening. I can understand both of their perspectives, but if I’m being honest, I want to smash Jeff over the head with his own skateboard for being so self-involved. Can’t he see how much she loves him? Of course they’ll inevitably move in together and pick out china patterns and have a million beautiful little blonde babies and all that domestic bullshit, but Lucy is not a person you rush. I really admire that about her, the way she takes her time making decisions. I could stand to take a leaf from her book. So, Jeffrey, I love you and all, but get the fuck over yourself.

“Up front, right?” Lucy drops my hand and scans the already crowded room, looking for space near the stage.

“Uhm… I was thinking I was gonna hang near the back tonight… we could probably scrounge a couple of bar stools…”

“Transparent much? Don’t act like you’re not trying to hide from Stone.“

"You don’t know me."

"Come on, don’t you want to talk to him? He did call you and ask you to be here."

"I… I don’t know, this is kind of a big night for him, I don’t want to make it about anything else… not that there’s anything else it could be, I mean, he obviously –"

”–called everyone he knows,“ she drones in unison with me, "yeah, right. Ugh, come on, we’ll hang out over on Jeff’s side, Stone won’t even see you.”

“I figured you’d want a little distance from Jeff after today?”

She shakes her head in disbelief. “One stupid fight doesn’t mean I’m not going to support him during something this big.”

And as always, she’s a walking example of class and grace and bravery and being the bigger person, and I love her even more than I thought I ever could. “Okay, fair, you go be all supportive and whatnot, I’ll go keep one of those bar stools from floating away.”

“Cora…!”

“I swear, it’s fine, it’s not even really about avoiding Stone, I just kinda wanna… I feel like I’ll get a better feel for the whole thing back there. You know what I mean?”

“No. Not at all.” But instead of arguing with me, my best friend pulls me into a slightly-too-rough hug and plants a peck on the side of my head before disappearing into the crowd, leaving me to hang near the edge of the darkened room and appreciate the show in my own way.

Of course she’s right. Of course it’s about avoiding Stone. Of course I want to talk to him, but how? I still can’t figure out if the right thing to do is follow his lead and pretend we’re just friends and everything’s fine between us, or try to gently hint to him that I want to talk and see if I can get him to set aside some time, or just completely lose my mind and shake him and spill my guts and ask what the fuck is wrong with the two of us… nope, strike the last one, this is the absolute worst possible night to do something like that to him. And as the lights come up in the middle of the first song, just look at this room full of people who are here to see his new project, or to remember Andy, or just to have a good night. No matter what brought them here, tonight is clearly something special. Even if it’s just a one-night thing.

“Looks like Mr. Gossard busted himself a string,” Chris ribs after a while. He stalls for time while Stone messes with his guitar, but when he speaks again, his voice is halting and vulnerable. “This whole thing we’re doing was originally meant to be kind of a tribute for… for our buddy, Andy Wood, but… what it ended up being was fun, but this next song in particular was written about him, for him, and a tribute.”

Just as the air in the room starts to feel too heavy in my lungs, Chris makes another 180 degree turn and teases Mike about his ridiculous blouse before finally starting the next song. I can’t remember when I’ve heard something more beautiful than the way Chris’s voice pours over the music, filling in all the cracks and broken places. Even my irritation at Jeff on Lucy’s behalf vanishes when I catch him leaning on Mike for support, and skipping over to Stone so they can play together over the end of the song. And for a while, nothing matters except how much I love these friends I’ve found and how much I wish I could keep them all safe from any more loss or pain.

Of course, the show is absolutely amazing, and I’m embarrassed that I ever entertained the idea of staying home. I dutifully catalog every detail in my mind to tell Eddie when he gets back from San Diego, including Chris’s brief crowdsurfing stint during which I lose sight of him entirely, with the exception of his giant black boots. Maybe I don’t need to tell Eddie everything, though… he certainly doesn’t need to hear about the inconvenient heat that slides up my spine whenever I watch Stone play his guitar, or the shameless and hypnotized way I end up staring at his hands until a sharp inhale reminds me that I’ve been forgetting to breathe, or the way the light hits the angles of his face when his hair’s pulled back, although one disobedient piece keeps falling into his eyes, making him occasionally pause in strategic moments to sweep it back… but it’s more than any of that. It’s the geeky way he mouths along, not with Chris’s words but with his own chords. It’s the oddball, chattering riffs that only he would ever think up. It’s the resiliency that drove him deeper into songwriting as a coping mechanism in his grief. It’s the ethic that makes him work so hard but stay so grounded. I miss him. I miss him! What am I doing? This is bullshit!! Okay, maybe I don’t know exactly what words to say to Stone, maybe I don’t know the best way to get my point across, maybe it’s a bad night to even try, but none of that matters anymore. I just need him to know how I feel. I’ve got to talk to him as soon as I can. There’s a thrill that accompanies the resolve, like choosing to jump off a high cliff into the sea. I don’t know how I’ll fare on impact, but the inevitability floods me with excitement.

Before I can figure out my plan, their set is finished, and I watch as they step down into the crowd. Excitement turns back to panic. What am I supposed to say? How can I begin to tell him? But it’s irrelevant for the time being, because the first thing he does is shotgun a beer with a guy in the crowd. I don’t recognize the guy, except as the person who led a rousing chant of “Stoney, Stoney!” during the set. Chant Guy produces two more beer cans seemingly out of nowhere, and he and Stone disappear from my sight. Just as well. I’m still a mess of nerves. People-watching keeps me busy as I huddle up on my stool. Jeff and Lucy are absorbed in conversation on one side of the room. Mike and Selene are absorbed in each other’s faces on the other. I think I even saw Emily a little while ago, although I can’t spot her now, because there are some rowdy idiots in metal band shirts dominating the middle of the room like a bunch of territorial gorillas. One woman with curly, vivid green hair flits around them, constantly snapping pictures, just as she’d done during the set. I follow her with my eyes for a while, until a familiar sight appears behind her head: a baggily sweatshirted elbow, which is connected to a bony hand, which is fidgeting with a soft brown ponytail, which is pulled back from a handsome, angular face, which is deep in conversation with one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen.

I take rapid inventory. She’s a lot taller than me, only a few inches shorter than Stone, with perfect dark hair and a build like one of those godforsaken Baywatch women. I compress my knees deeper into my chest to try to control the roiling in my stomach as I watch her deploy the classic flirty arm touch, and to my despair, Stone rewards her with a smile. Huh. They seem to know each other pretty well. Or maybe I’m just telling myself lies because the thought of him hitting it off with anyone is anguishing, especially someone so different from me. But I need to get the fuck over myself and admit it. I spent too long denying my feelings for him, thinking of him as my twerpy, obnoxious friend, when the fact is, he’s a catch, and I missed out. He’s brilliant, he’s funny, he’s sweet and caring, he’s talented, and he’s stupidly handsome. It figures that someone else would see those qualities too. And it makes sense that this girl with a supermodel build would be more his type than… whatever the hell it is I thought I had to offer.

“You cut your hair??”

The familiar deep bellow draws my mouth into a reflexive quirk, all I can manage by way of a smile of my own, mostly because I’m still battling my nausea. When I avert my eyes from whatever fresh horror is happening between Stone and Big Tits McGee over there, I turn to find Kim staring bug-eyed at me and wielding three freshly opened bottles of beer.

“Yes, it is I, of the shorn locks,” I concede. “Don’t worry, it’s not contagious.”

“I’m not fuckin’ scared,” he scoffs. “Wasn’t that long ago I had short hair too.”

“File under: things I cannot picture.” In spite of myself, Kim has me laughing, and I’m so grateful for the distraction.

“Oh yeah! No beard, Prince Valiant haircut, I had this whole respectability phase. Fuckin’ terrible. Cheers! To not giving a shit,” he hands me a beer and holds up the other two for a clink.

“Oh, no thanks, I’m teetotaling tonight. Someone’s gotta get these degenerates home safely.”

“Yeah, but not for a while. Don’t insult my intelligence, I’ve seen how well you hold your booze.”

I finally accept the offered bottle and his toast before glancing automatically back at the crowd. Like picking at a scab, I don’t know what I expected except for it to be painful, because Stone and the brunette are still laughing it up.

“OH! Crazy Caitlin! This night just got awesome!”

Kim has followed my gaze and is pointing at the two of them, glee etched all over his features.

“Keep your voice down!“

"Oh, I’m sorry, are we spying?"

There’s a question I have no desire to answer. "What do you mean, Crazy Caitlin?”

“Stone’s ex! Haven’t seen her in a while!”

“Is… is that good or bad?”

“Huh? I mean, she’s a fucking nightmare, she cheated on him a whole bunch and made him miserable.”

“I don’t know, he seems pretty happy right now.”

“Oh come on! Rookie mistake! Look at the poor guy, you can smell the panic pheromones from all the way over here. He’s not smiling, he’s baring his teeth like a cornered animal."

"Who died and made you David Attenborough?”

Kim snorts, taking an enormous pull from one of his beers. I press on, trying to sound casual, “so, she’s crazy, huh?”

“Oh, yeah, she’s always a guarantee of interesting times. Melodrama on feet. Also, she’s dumber than a sock full of sand.”

I hope I’m not just imagining things, but when Caitlin rubs Stone’s arm again, I think I see him tighten that side of his body ever so slightly. Is it just the lighting, or is he clenching his jaw when he smiles?

“I can’t picture Stone with a brainless girl, how on earth did that work?”

"Are you kidding me, did you notice her huge… tracts of land?” Kim swerves to a different vocabulary choice when I slice him with a glare.

“Well, I declare you suitably corrupted, time to spread the happy,” he continues, clinking my bottle one more time and strolling off into the crowd without another word. I watch him clap Stone on the back and hand him the third bottle, and I’m mid-sip from my own drink when Stone’s eyes find me. The jolt makes me dribble some of the beer down my shirt. Fantastic. Even better that it’s Lucy’s stupid little shirt, and there’s not even enough fabric to mop myself up, so I’m gonna be sticky and reeking of beer for the next –

“RED!”

Stone’s yelp gives me just enough warning to look back up before he barrels into me and wraps me in a lung-collapsing hug. After the shock wears off and he shows no signs of letting go, I allow myself to hug him back. But the longer he holds onto me, the harder it is to resist the horrifying urge to bury my face into the crook of his neck. I opt to wedge my chin up over his skinny shoulder to try to block out how good he smells.

“Mshohappierhear.”

“What?” I relax my grip on him and he pulls far back enough to face me, but not far enough to let me go and certainly not far enough to be out of kissing range. I bite my lips in to stop them from doing anything foolish.

“I’m so happy you’re here,” he slurs, radiating a lopsided grin. Oh Christ, he’s fucking wasted. So much for the idea of talking to him tonight. This isn’t right. He’s just happy to see everyone, it’s got nothing to do with me.

“Really?”

"Of course. Called you, didn’t I?"

"Yeah,” I force myself to laugh, “I’m impressed. You still sounded pretty genuine by the time you’d made it all the way through your Rolodex to Shaw."

"Rolodex? Hang on, did you… do you think I called everyone I know?"

"Didn’t you?"

My voice is so small, it’s a wonder the words made it out of my throat to his ears. But he heard me. He drops his hands from my waist, steps back looking to the floor, and huffs out a little laugh through his nose. I could swear he gives the slightest shake of his head before looking out over his shoulder, suddenly paying attention to nothing in particular. It reminds me of the night we met, right here in almost this exact same spot, when all I knew about him was that he was Chris’s sarcastic friend who was trying too hard to seem cool by not making eye contact. Hope rekindles in my chest.

"So, you didn’t?"

"Uh uh."

"Not even Crazy Caitlin?"

He looks back with a knowing smile. "You’ve been talking to Kim, huh? Nah, no way. Actually, I owe you one, you gave me an excuse to run away mid-sentence. You saved my ass, Red, how will I ever repay you?"

Easy, I want to say. Tell me nothing’s changed. Tell me you still love me. Strike that, don’t tell me anything, just grab me and kiss me, you stupid smug little…

“Hey, you cut your hair.”

Damn it, can’t anyone talk to me about anything else? “Can’t get anything past you,” I mutter, but I’m no longer wishing for a change of subject when I notice how closely he’s studying me. My heart starts to pound and my brain feels like it’s been replaced with cotton balls and I could have sworn this room was full of people just a moment ago but it can’t be, because a feeling like this is so thoroughly dangerous it has no business being on display with so many witnesses…

“I love it.”

“That… that’s not the point,” I say weakly, willing my knees to stay locked in place and my cotton-brain to remember how to form words. His trademark smirk creeps back into place, albeit a little more crookedly than usual thanks to his level of inebriation, and I’m horrified at how cute the effect is.

“Okay, I hate it.”

“Also not the point.”

“Why don’t you throw a guy a bone and tell me what the point was, then?”

“I just… I wanted something different, I guess… I got tired of being so…” I wave my hands around, like that’s going to help me become more articulate, “so… noticeable?”

“Good luck with that,” he snorts derisively. “OH! HEY! Can I have this? Thanks!”

In another dizzying about-face, he’s plunked his beer down on the bar and reached into my hair to remove the bobby pin holding back the shortest pieces of my hair, which now flop listlessly in front of my eyes. Before I can object, he’s already stowing it in his jeans pocket.

“Hey…” he says slowly, "even better. You should always wear it like that. Really, I did you a favor.”

“Uhm… much obliged.” What the hell’s gotten into him? How drunk can one idiot possibly be? Is it possible to sustain whiplash injuries from a conversation? “I’m really impressed at how shitfaced you are, Stoner, I think this is as drunk as I’ve ever seen you.”

“Eh, people keep buying me shit, it’s rude to say no.”

“How are you getting home?”

He mimes holding onto handlebars and ringing a bike bell. “Ding ding.”

“Is there a specific citation for that? Biking under the influence? Can you get a BUI?”

“I hope not to let you know. I’m not that drunk, really.”

“Mmhmm, sure. Anyway, you’re making me miss my bike, so shut up.”

"Mmhmm,” he parrots, placing his hands on my shoulders and steering me a couple of steps to my right to make room for someone else who was trying to claim space at the bar. My cheeks flame as I remember that we’re in a crowd, and I shuffle to make more space, turning my back to the rest of the room.

“Hey,” he says, his hands dropping from my shoulders to pick up my hands.

“Hey yourself.”

“You look really pretty tonight.”

“You… look really drunk tonight.”

“My drunkness doesn’t negate your prettiness,” he chuckles, tugging alternately on my hands to start swinging us both slightly.

“No, but it does make you a pretty unreliable narrator.”

“Guess you’ve never heard of it referred to as truth serum before.”

“Guess you’ve never heard to it referred to as beer goggles before.”

With a groan that’s undercut by his smile, he lifts our hands up and laces his fingers in mine. “You’re really bad at accepting compliments. Like, really, appallingly bad.”

“I’m out of practice.”

“We should work on that.”

“Okay.”

I hardly care what we’re saying. I’m busy watching our hands tangle together like they belong to someone else entirely.

“Hey, Stone?”

“Yeah?”

“What are you doing tomorrow night?”

Without looking up, I can hear him smiling. “Whatever you tell me.”

“Stop it, I’m serious.”

“Me too. What are we doing tomorrow night?”

Jesus, who needs beer to feel drunk? Stone asking about our plans like it’s the most obvious thing in the world is more than intoxicating enough.

"Uhm… hanging out? Talking, and stuff? With words."

"I’m familiar with the concept, yes.”

“Shut up. I just… it’s been a while, since we… I kinda miss hanging out, without everyone else.” I feel impossibly jittery and have to pull my hands back to try and regain some composure, but when I look up at Stone, he’s beaming.

“I’m all yours. Where? What time?"

"M… my place? Eight?"

“It’s a date.”

A nervous laugh escapes me. "Haha, uh, our first date?”

"WHAT! In no parallel reality is this our first date, Red, this is like date number twelve, minimum."

"Twelve?! Now I know for sure you’re wasted."

"Don’t make me embarrass you by proving you wrong in front of all these people.” He picks his bottle up off the bar top for a drink, waving aimlessly at the crowd around us that has absolutely no interest in our conversation.

“Try me."

"K.” His face oozes drunken overconfidence as he sets his beer back down and snatches one of my hands back up. “Okay, date number one…” he folds all my fingers down except for my index, waving it in front of my nose and fighting my efforts to fold it back in. “The basement. After our first big fight."

"Nuh-uh, no way, not a date."

"And your exclusion criteria are…?"

"Well, for starters, a date is something you plan in advance. Loitering around in a basement after everyone’s ditched us hardly qualifies."

"Even with me providing the mood music, huh?” he scoffs. “Fine. Have it your way. Date number one: ice cream."

"You’re real slow, Stoner. We didn’t plan that either, we just ran into each other in the park."

"Yeah, and then we planned to go get ice cream, so who’s the slow one here?"

"But…” I cast around for objections, “but we each paid for our own, and…"

"Okay okay okay wait,” he crows, “who foots the bill determines whether it’s a date now? It’s almost the new millennium, Red, get with the times."

"Fine. I’ll let you have that one.” I stop trying to crane my finger back downward just as he begins to pry up another one.

“Dirty penguin jokes are a time-honored courtship ritual, after all. Date number two: uhm… do phone calls count? Phone calls where intimate matters are discussed? Like sleepwear?"

"NO!” A few heads turn around us, but they quickly turn back when they realize we’re both laughing.

“Alright, alright, easy. Then the next one was… dinner, your place, the robot show."

"Denied. You just dropped by, it doesn’t pass the pre-planned test.”

“Haven’t had too many nights that ended cuddling on the couch that weren’t dates."

"So what, first time for everything,” I wrestle my hand free long enough to flip him off before he resumes counting on my fingers. “If anything, the next night could qualify since I actually asked you over."

"For sure. Halloween, date two. Which makes date three… that whole thing…” he eases up my ring finger and wiggles it back and forth, squinting at it thoughtfully. I hope he hasn’t noticed that my hands have started to sweat. Is it just my imagination, or is it getting louder in here?

“At… at the park, at your place, yeah."

"So then what would number four be?"

We both stare at my pinky finger, contemplating the options.

"I can't… I can’t think of anything…” I lie. I can, I can think of one big thing, but we can’t talk about it right now, not when he’s wasted, not right now…

He scratches his nose with his free hand. “Yeah, I mean the whole moving day thing definitely doesn’t count…"

Not right now, not right now… "no, definitely not…"

"I mean, that was… that was just… anyone would have come over to help out, I just happened to be around when Lucy called…"

I don’t know whether to cry or slap him. Would I have kissed just anyone who came over to help me? Is that what he thinks?

"So, uhm,” he mumbles, “what about tonight, does tonight count, or…"

But I don’t get to hear the other option, because a commotion behind me makes Stone grab my shoulders again and yank me out of the way. A few of the Aerosmith-shirt-wearing gorillas appear to have gotten into a fight with another faction of guys. We turn around just in time to see Stone’s friend, Chant Guy, take a beer bottle to the face on the outside edge of the scuffle.

"Oh, shit, Eric!” Stone recognizes his heavily bleeding friend and starts to head that way, “I should probably… uh…"

"Go, yeah, go! I’ll see you tomorrow?"

No answer comes back from him as he checks in with the group of people now surrounding Eric, inspecting his nose and debating whether he needs to go to the hospital. I duck past, spotting a glum-looking Lucy by the door.

"You ready to get out of here?” I ask her, grabbing her arm to leave no room for argument.

“Beyond ready.”

***

Okay. It’s official. I’m going to have to tell Marc that’s the last time I let him set me up with one of his Frisbee golf buddies. The dude had enough hairspray in his hair to single-handedly account for the hole in the ozone layer, and he was wearing a Whitesnake shirt. WHITESNAKE. I mean, kudos for letting it all hang out on the first date, but seriously? And he had the audacity to criticize MY hair?? Green is the new black, asshole.

At least it was easy enough to lose him when people started arguing about the music. I thought the show was fantastic, but apparently Mr. W. Snake didn’t like hearing so many mellow songs in a row and started complaining loudly to anyone around us who would listen, which got everyone all fired up. On the bright side, his boorishness is my gain – I stayed long after he fled, and I think I got some really great pictures of the fight. Rowdy concert crowds and paramedics will make a nice bonus to my amateur photo collection. Like Seattle’s own little Altamont. With somewhat less stabbing, blessedly.

I’ve just rounded a corner on my walk home when I spot another potentially interesting crime: a skinny dude kneeling on the curb, trying to pick a bike lock. Ordinarily I’d cross the street and avoid trouble, especially at this time of night, except that I recognize him as one of the guitarists from tonight’s band. The goofy-looking one. He doesn’t exactly strike me as a menacing guy. I walk right up behind him, but he doesn’t even notice. World’s worst criminal.

“Want a little help?"

The skinny guy nearly jumps out of his skin, leaping to his feet and making an unholy racket against the bike rack. "JESUS! Oh, uh, no, my bike, it’s, uh, well, the lock’s stuck, so I was just…"

Uh huh. "His” bike is covered in about a decade’s worth of rust, and he’s using a bobby pin to try and pick the lock. With terrible technique, I should add. And completely shitfaced. Meh. What’s it to me if he’s stealing? Whoever owned the bike originally obviously isn’t coming back for it.

“May I offer you some constructive criticism?"

"Uh… shoot.”

It’s a mighty struggle not to laugh. “You, uhm, you have to unfold the pin first… it’s not going to fit like that… here…"

I crouch down and swipe the pin from his hand, going to work on the lock. "Hey, great show tonight, I love your band."

"Oh, you were there?"

"Yeah, my Neanderthal blind date started the battle royale."

He laughs kind of like a mule, a weird braying noise. "Glad someone else’s date ended worse than mine.”

“Oh yeah? What’s your misfortune?”

“Nothing bad, just ended kind of abruptly. She got out of there after the fight. Well, after your Neanderthal started the fight, I guess. Been drowning my sorrows ever since.”

“You don’t say.” Chatty little fucker. Ugh.

“Anyway, I guess I probably shoulda recognized you from the show, the, uh, well, your…"

”…my hair’s green, yeah, so I’ve been told.“

"It’s cool."

"Thanks. It runs in the family.”

“Ha. You sound like someone I know."

"And is it their bike you’re stealing?"

"Kind of. Hey! No, I’m not stealing it, it's…"

”…yours, right.“ I stand up and toss him the opened lock. "And you are?”

“Stone. Wow, thanks.” He drops the lock on the pavement and yanks the rusty bike loose.

“Child’s play. Well, I’m gonna do that whole 'leaving the scene of the crime’ thing, you might wanna give it a try. There’s still cops everywhere."

I’m already putting the drunk skinny guy behind me when he calls out, "oh, yeah, hey thanks, uhm…?"

"Tracey! Get the hell out of here, Stone!”

His stupid laughter fades as I break into a jog. Weird kid.

#chapter 29 #behind the sun #pearl jam fanfic #and no of course it's not properly proofread #i yam what i yam

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kris10inger · 7 years

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Preorder Open Wounds

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OPEN WOUNDS: ABEL & HOPE

Missing Teal and Trent from Inevitable: Love & War? Check out Rogue in Love, the first of many standalones featuring Trent Reed's new employees!

A Love Against the Odds Novel

If you could see your life from inception to your death, would you change things or would you let your death play out as fate intended?

Abel is in search of only two things. A stable job and a safe place to lay his head at night after a mistake that cost him eighteen months of his life. As if fate had plans made only for him, Abel is offered a complicated job, and a chance to redeem himself to his old boss, from an old friend. And then he meets her… And Abel adds another item to his list—Hope.

At only twenty-six, Hope has only ever slept with one man, and at her boss’s unsolicited advice, Hope plans to forget the abuse and degradation she suffered at her husband's hand by seducing and bedding the next man she meets. Only, after Hope finds a promise of death at her doorstep, her plans are derailed and only chance at staying alive rests on the dedication of her new bodyguard and her own sheer will to live the life she deserves.

*Lightly Edited Preview*

Hope curiously eyed the gaudy, purple and pink plastic engagement ring on Thea’s finger, as she held her hand up in the air. Her friend gazed lovingly at it while wiggling her fingers. Bright, adoring eyes met Hope’s as she gushed over the ring and continued the story of how Lex had proposed.

“I’d given it to him as a gift, never once realizing he’d use it to ask me to marry him all these years later.” Thea sighed dramatically, as if she could barely continue without another squeal bubbling out. “He bent down on one knee, looked me in the eyes, and promised me forever.”

Hope had zoned out halfway through the story. Not that Lex’s proposal hadn't been adorable and romantic, but she often found herself drowning in memories of the past whenever anyone brought up marriage. The idea was to leave the past in New York, but Hope found that hard to do with all the wedding talk and secrets she held inside. She smiled, but seeing the solemn look Thea gave her, she was sure it hadn't reached her eyes.

“Oh, shit,” her best friend and boss said. “I keep forgetting that you—”

“Stop right there.” Hope waved a dismissive hand at her words. “Don’t think for a second I am comparing this to my own life. You get to enjoy this. Lex is amazing, and nothing like Mark.” She crossed her arms over her chest in frustration. Hope had never meant to make her feel like she couldn’t talk openly, because Thea was the only person in her life who she could converse with candidly.

Thea’s soft voice met her ears. “I know, but it’s like talking about getting pregnant around someone who can’t carry a child. You want to be excited, but you also don’t want to hurt their feelings.”

“I know, and that puts a damper on your good news.” Hope shook off the sadness threatening to overwhelm her. “No more walking on egg shells around me.” Thea’s engagement was amazing news, and Hope was acting like a big-ass wet rag. She pushed back the agonizing memories and smiled again; this time, conveying her happiness for a friend who’d saved her ass. “Can we both agree to put my shitty past where it belongs? Way the hell behind us. Now, let me see this thing.”

Thea moved closer, placing the hideous ring out for her inspection. Seeing Hope’s reaction, her nose wrinkled and her forehead dipped. “I know, right?” Hope looked up to her. “Ugly as sin, isn’t it?”

Both women laughed at the truth because the ring was seriously fugly.

Thea took her hand back. “Maybe you should get out there and try the dating game again?”

Hope groaned inwardly. She didn’t want to hear the ‘just move on’ speech again. Because she had tried—with no success. After looking high and low, no matter who she ended up dating, she always found them to be . . . lacking. Unsure of whether it was her past, or her inability to trust, she found it painfully hard to even consider dating anymore.

“Hell, I say, the next man who walks through that door,” Thea turned to Hope with a calculating smile, “you ask on a date!”

Hope’s eyes widened at the crazy idea. The possibility of her hitting up the next man to walk through the clinic’s front door was laughable. “No. I couldn’t possibly. You’re crazy. I don’t think—”

“That’s right. Don’t think,” Thea spurred. “Just do.”

Hope huffed, then saw something out of the corner of her eye. Turning to look at the door, she jolted in surprise. “Oh, for cripes’ sake.” Ms. Collis stood there, angrily banging on the door, leaving fist-sized smudge marks on the glass—a line of people standing impatiently behind her. Good thing Hope had painstakingly cleaned the doors the night before. “I think today is going to be one of those days. Is it a full moon?”

Thea followed her gaze. “Oh, God help us.” Running to the door, she turned the locks and guided the woman behind Ms. Collis inside. As she passed the front desk, she elevated the woman’s bloody arm and whispered to Hope, “The next hot guy that isn’t dying . . . ask him out.”

Hope’s face flushed with embarrassment.

Behind her, a crowd of people entered, some looking as if they were drowning in snot, while others bled, or just appeared angry and annoyed. Regardless of the clientele, Hope loved her job. She’d always enjoyed the feeling of a good day’s work. In fact, the past six months at the clinic had been a way for Hope to temporarily ignore the past and focus on a possible future.

And in the beginning, Thea had been able to keep her employment hush-hush, paving the way for Hope to work without fear of one day looking up to find Mark, waiting for her. But now that employment papers were signed and turned in, Hope’s worrying increased with each passing day. She shuddered. The idea of Mark following her to Blackwater had become a waking nightmare and a monster under her bed to fear.

Pushing those feelings aside, she looked up and smiled at Ms. Collis, handing her a clipboard with documents attached. Seconds later, a biker in leather pants—crazy in this heat—a ripped and bloody shirt the size of a mountain pushed through the doors of the clinic, blood gushing from his nose. He favored his right side, and pressed his free hand to a wound seeping blood through the tattered shirt. Hope’s eyes travelled up and up the huge behemoth until her eyes met and connected with his unconcerned gaze.

Shaking herself from the shock of such a huge man, Hope pointed to the side door where the motorcycle club, or the MC, had claimed the waiting room as their own. Locals who weren’t affiliated with the gang, sat in the open waiting room to the right, while the MC took residence in the small room to the left. He nodded his head and made his way to the door.

“Ma’am, if you could take a seat and fill this out, I’ll be right back,” Hope instructed. Ms. Collis was in to have her cast taken off. It wasn’t the least bit serious, so she would have to wait her turn as Hope triaged the more seriously injured. Hope made her way over to the bleeding man, who still hadn't opened the door to the waiting room.

“Sir?” She came up behind him and he swiveled around to meet her gaze. Unfortunately, since Thea’s grandfather had ties with the MC before he passed, most of the gang came to her clinic when in need of medical help that didn’t require the coroner. At first, Hope had doubts, but when she got the text from Mark threatening her life if she didn’t return to his side in New York, Hope decided it wasn’t so bad if these huge, gun-toting men were there often.

The man’s dark eyes flickered to the waiting room. “Didn’t want to get blood on the door.” His deep voice and heavy, Irish brogue caught her off guard. This man was new, or at least, had never been in the clinic while Hope was there. Since she worked five days a week, and twelve hours a day, she assumed he’d just been one of the lucky few in the MC to not have gotten stabbed recently.

Hope glanced to his bloody hands and nodded. “Okay. Let me get that for you.” She went to open the door, when Lucy, the clinic’s receptionist, burst through the front doors, apologizing for being late as she headed to the counter. Now that she was at work, Hope could take him straight back and get him stitched up. “Actually, why don’t we have you come on back with me. We’ll see how serious these wounds are.”

He followed her to one of the rooms in the back. Hope hadn't bothered getting him to fill out any forms. The MC members never bothered with the patient information form, and always paid in cash. Hell, the clinic would probably go belly up without the money the men provided.

Sliding a pair of purple gloves on her hands, Hope pointed to the paper-lined bed. “Have a seat.” Making her way to the cabinet, she found a pair of sterilized scissors. Routinely, Hope would ask the patient what happened, but when it came to these men, the fewer questions you asked, the better.

“You have any allergies?”

“No, ma’am.”

Hope was long past the initial shock of the MC members having manners. At first, she hadn't expected them to be polite, or for them to pay, but they did, and they weren’t raucous in the least. It was extraordinarily ironic that men who looked like beasts could be so composed and gentle, yet Mark, who normally wore a three-piece suit, could transform into the monster of her wildest nightmares.

After a quick assessment, she knew his side needed to be treated first. Asking him to lift his arm, she cut open his shirt and inspected the knife wound. Unfortunately, she’d dealt with stab wounds often, in her professional and personal life. His wound was shallow and not life threatening. A few stitches and he’d be fine. Then she could treat his nose.

“I don’t need any stitches, doc.”

Rolling her eyes for the second time today, she said, “Yes, you do and you are getting them.” Ignoring the growl emanating from his chest, she continued to clean the wound. At 5’5 and one-hundred-twenty pounds, Hope didn’t stand a chance against the mountain man, but she knew the first and most important thing to remember when dealing with the MC members. Never show weakness. Once you did that, your ass was grass. The men, while not complete assholes, would play on your fear. Find one sexy? Well, you’d most likely end up on your back.

Hope didn’t have time for that shit. And while Mark had put the fear of God in her, Hope was resolute that not all men were created equal. On top of that, she and Thea, were off-limits to the members, per some scary man named Gator.

“Piss and vinegar." His laughter pulled her from her thoughts. “Well, doc . . .”

“Not a doctor, just a nurse.” She winced at her words. She wasn’t just a nurse, and she regretted saying it like that. Doctors and nurses worked hand in hand, and Hope thought neither would be as effective without the other.

“Well, nurse . . .” He ducked his head down blonde hair falling over his eyes, he pushed the strands away as he tried to read her name badge.

“Hope,” she supplied, just as she stuck the first injection of lidocaine into his skin.

“I’d rather you fuss with my nose,” he grunted. “My face is my money maker.”

Hope couldn’t help but laugh. This man, while not ugly, would not be considered a model under any circumstances. His face held a crooked nose, dark eyes, and wide-set lips. Maybe he could model tactic wear for the military?

She glanced up as coal-colored eyes shined with mirth. “Oh really? And here I thought it was your great fashion sense.” Hope plucked at the bloodied Foreigner shirt.

Glancing down, the huge man smiled. “Yeah, that too.”

Shaking her head, she set up her equipment and got to work. The man, who she later found out was called Spooky, asked her out a few times before realizing it wasn’t going to happen. Mark had been persistent as well. He’d asked her out a total of twenty-two times, before she’d broken down and finally said yes. Back then, she hadn't known it was a sign of systemic hostility; she’d been naïve enough to consider it charming that a man like Mark would be do persistent in wanting to get to know her.

Hope finished up with Spooky’s stitches and nose and sent him on his way. After cleaning up the room, she headed back out to see Lucy wrestling a line out the door. Being the only low-income clinic in Blackwater had the entire staff working twelve-hour days. Hope jumped into the madness until the line dwindled, and the sun was no longer in the sky.

Heading home that night, she huffed up the flight of stairs leading to her home, and froze when she made it to the top of the landing. There, in front of her door, sat a blue and white package. Her heart jumped in her throat, heaving her into the past.

After every beating, he’d sent her the very same Tiffany-colored box. On one particularly horrific evening, Mark had broken her ring finger, then rewarded her with a three-carat diamond, and a card stating, When that nasty mistake heals, you can wear this.

Mark’s face flashed in her mind and Hope had the sudden urge to run. Instead, she reached into her purse and pulled out the Glock Thea had made her buy. Scanning the area, she didn’t find anything out of place. How had he tracked her down? She’d been so careful.

It has to be my new employment status. Thea had been paying her under the table, but the clinic received government funds, and in the long run, it could have hurt Thea’s clinic. So, Hope had made things right and her official paperwork was turned in.

Hope turned back to go inside and noticed a note tucked inside her door. She pulled it out and flipped the card open.

I’ll give you to the count of three to come back home to me.

ONE.

#preorder #teaser #steamy romance #romance #love against the odds #open wounds

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nugget-lover-boy-draws · 7 years

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so what i put below the read more is a collection of blurbs i wrote for a story i had, but i wrote them whenever i was very depressed. all of them are not happy, but i’ve put enough plot points in them for them not to be too confusing.

i’ve not put these here for any other reason other than to just put them out there. i’ve had these personal for a long time, but i just want them to float on the internet.

warning: these do get dark and there are some detailed descriptions of gore and depressive thoughts and language.

There was too much blood, too many warm colors. Too much pink of Jacy’s exposed muscle and black of his burnt flesh. It was all Malachi saw, but yet two pure white eyes stared back at him. Those foggy orbs were bright and clear, a complete contrast to everything around them. What made Malachi die inside was the happiness that danced in them.

Jacy was smiling, despite everything. There was a hole where his heart should be, only some of his skin still held on, death was getting nearer- yet he smiled. Malachi held him in his arms, the wet, squishy shell of his partner while he saw time flow steadily before him. He didn’t try to fight the inevitable, but clung to the now and tried to stay strong for Jacy. With all his lover had done for him, he at least owed him this.

He knew how to kill a Wendigo. Rip their heart out and burn it; burying it and the body was just extra precaution. That was how you officially killed one, and Malachi knew that is what happened to Jacy. He knew his partner didn’t have one chance of living, so he knew he had to be the best he could in these final moments. Yet, Jacy talked like Malachi didn’t just pull him out of a burning abandoned mental hospital, like he still has his heart in his chest.

“All these years I never thought death could reach me. I believed this curse would follow me until this planet burns out. But it’s here, and it’s beautiful. I can finally be free of my inner torment. I can have the freedom I’ve dreamed of, but... The only thing I regret...” Jacy’s head slowly turned to look at him again, the smile leaving his lips. Color slowly returned to his partner’s irises again, letting Malachi see the swirl of brown that had captured him many times before. Jacy’s hand twitched its way to the human’s face and settled on his cheek. Malachi cupped the burned, wet hand in response and tears finally started falling.

“Is t-that I-I..-” Jacy coughed and spit up more blood that should have stayed in his body. “That I am not… With you.”

Malachi cried silently, keeping a good grip on the hand on his cheek, breaking, as it was slowly losing to gravity. Jacy stared at him long enough for the human to think he passed, but a phrase he had heard countless times before reached his ears. The words that Jacy had said before he went back to his time, words he said as they laid in bed for hours, when they went on hunts, when they were alone, when they were in public. The phrase had lost its value over time, but that phrase meant more to him now than ever. The words ‘I love you’ in his partner’s native language.

Malachi didn’t have much time until Jacy’s hand went fully limp in his.

He didn’t know how long he cried in that position with Jacy’s body slowly going cold and drying up. He didn’t stop wailing and screaming until he could no longer form a sound, until no more tears came. He sat back and rested Jacy’s head between his crossed legs, petting what was left of his hair just like they did to each other not even two months ago. He brushed his knuckles over Jacy’s cracking cheeks just like he did so many times before. He tried humming the tune Jacy had taught him, but his vocal chords were unresponsive.

He sat there for years and minutes, but only moved when the world around him shifted.

“You know that Destiel is totally canon; you literally can’t deny it, like seriously!”

The TV was playing Supernatural and Jacy was waving his arms wildly. Everything was warm and comforting, Jacy’s soft hair in his fingers and familiarity of their apartment. How long had it been?

He stilled and fought to understand which was reality. Jacy’s hair in his hand and the weight of his head on his lap felt very real, but so did his death. Everything felt strange and bile started to rise in his throat.

His partner’s head tilted back in his lap and looked up with a confused expression, “Hey, you okay?”

Malachi didn’t respond, but looked at Jacy with an intense stare. He studied the other’s features and tried to figure out what was real, but was halted when Jacy lifted his hand. The finger that Jacy raised to poke into his chest passed through him as the world blew away like smoke.

Jacy’s bloody, broken body still rested in his lap, his fingers stuck in the Native American’s hair.

“Oh… Oh my God!” A shrill voice echoed from behind him. He knows that voice.

Before Selene can say or do anything else, Malachi moved. He slowly and carefully places his partner’s head on the floor and places both crumbling hands on his still-damp chest. He ignores the stiff dryness of his pants as he stands up and faces the woman.

“M-my god, what happened?”

Malachi suddenly remembers how Jacy died, or, how he was murdered. By the man that laid not even three meters away.

Immediately, a searing rage engulfed him and he didn’t think straight anymore. Other urges inside him that he never knew he had manifested and sunk their claws into his brain. He heard his blood boil in his ears and felt a sweeping rush sear through him, like something inside him just unleashed itself. He was moving and suddenly the petrified face of Simon was in front of him, the bastard’s neck held tight in Malachi’s hand. He lifted the man with such an ease he’d never experienced before and enjoyed the writhing the pitiful, damned man tried.

Malachi felt something within him grow and strive, slither and come to light. He felt such urges, familiarity and power that would have overwhelmed him had he not had a clear task at hand. Such thoughts and instincts of an animal raced around his head and he couldn’t tell which idea he liked better. Suddenly, everything gained a clarity and he was acutely aware of everything going on. He could feel Selene’s horrified aura behind him and the pure terror that radiated from the man in his hand.

Blood began to swell in Simon’s eyes as he started violently convulsing. One of his eyes deflated and a black-speckled, clear substance poured down his cheek. Simon’s mouth opened and his tongue shot out, slowly getting longer and longer. Blood steadily started dripping down his jaw and onto the cold, concrete ground as he heard the ripping from the other man’s mouth. Malachi could understand that he was the one doing this, but it was far too satisfying to stop and figure out how a human could tear a man apart with his mind.

A cut appeared on each cheek and slowly grew larger, the skin slowly peeling back to expose pink, bloody flesh. Just how Jacy looked. Looks.

Soon and fulfilling, Simon’s face was being pulled back while the sorry piece of existence was still breathing. He should fix that.

Soon, two loud pops sounded from Simon’s throat and his breathing was replaced by what sounded like wrinkling tin foil as he tried to suck in breaths with his now deflated lungs.

Malachi let go of the man’s neck and found himself impressed at how Simon stayed suspended in air. He watched as his thoughts pushed Simon back until he was pressed against the wall, and smiled as the other’s arms stretched wide. The instruments that he used to cut open Jacy levitated up and shot themselves into the man’s hands, now suspending him like a brutal reincarnation of Jesus’ crucifixion. Before Malachi let the man fully die, Simon’s chest ripped open and Malachi pinned the flaps of skin to the wall with more scissors, scalpels, and other blades. Immediately, his guts fell to the floor in an ugly heap.

The moment Malachi did this, Simon stopped moving, but he didn’t stop his fun because of it. One by one he plucked a rib bone from its place and stabbed them into random parts of his body. His lungs hung like deflated balloons. Malachi noticed the flaps of skin pulled back on his face were hanging in an ungraceful way, so he fixed that by ripping them off completely and pinning the skin on the wall above Simon like a grotesque trophy.

Suddenly, an anguished cry rang out from behind him and he remembered Selene was here. The urges he felt just moments before dissipated like ashes in the wind. He turned and stared at the woman, seeing her cup her mouth and cry, shaking violently. She sank to her knees and sobbed, but only then did Malachi feel again. His heart throbbed and he found himself falling to his knees as well, all the immense power he felt left him in an instant.

..oo0oo..

“Malachi, stop!” He wouldn't have listened, but Selene cast a charm to make him immobile. He grew angrier at her interference, but didn't break out, even though he knew he could. She approached him and stood tall in his face, but he could pick out the lingering fear in her eyes.

“What are you doing, Malachi?” She asked. He was about to reply with something along the lines of, ‘What I've been craving.’, but she continued. “What would Jacy think of this? What would he think of what you're doing right now?”

“I'm avenging him!” He screamed, anger bubbling through his being. He brushed off the charm and walked forewords, glaring at Selene. She backed up, but didn't lose her composure.

“You avenged him when you skinned Simon alive. Now you're just killing innocent people because something in you broke beyond fixing.” He didn't know how to respond, so she ignored his silence and continued.

“Jacy spent his entire life saving people from bad guys, and what do you think he'd feel if he knew you became one of them, huh? He gave everything he had to make sure people were safe, and you're throwing away all his life’s work by doing this. If you keep going like this, then you didn't care about him at all.”

Malachi felt tears fall down his cheeks and the hole in his heart throb. Her words echoed in his head and a battle started taking place behind his eyes. He was losing the part of him that could differentiate right from wrong, but the part of him that fought alongside Jacy had been screaming at him ever since he first killed an innocent. He felt the need to kill, but somewhere he knew he shouldn't be.

He fell to his knees, surrounded by desperation and agony. He looked up to the blurry ceiling as Selene followed him and wrapped him in her embrace. He cried and screamed as a flurry of repressed emotions finally came through.

“I'm losing myself, Selene. Everything is slipping and I can't hang on. I can't do this; it's so hard to continue. I want to kill myself so badly, but something inside me always stops. I kill other people because it soothes me for a while, but it's not enough. It's smothering me and I can't do this.”

By the end of the vocalization of his emotional turmoil, Selene’s green shirt was ripped by his clenched fists and his head was spinning. Her arms were tight around him, the only thing keeping him from collapsing. She didn't say anything for a long while, but eventually started humming a familiar tune.

His heart sung along and he started wailing. He tried to push Selene away, but she held firm and continued the melody. He gave up and just laid there in her arms, listening to the song that Jacy had sung to him.

Her fingers danced through his dirty and greasy hair, and he soon met darkness.

I miss him too.

When he woke up, he felt almost at peace. He recognized the smell of cinnamon and the soft purple walls of Selene’s house. He was wrapped up in a handmade, quilted blanket and was lying on her living room couch. Other than getting up and assessing the situation, he elected to lay there. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do because that hollow, dark part of him still persisted, but the human part of him was stronger now.

..oo00oo..

The ocean lapped at his bare feet, the warm wind hugged him and blew his hair around his face; it was a most peaceful, innocent thing, but the familiarity sent unpleasant shivers down his spine. He could imagine Jacy swimming out in the distance, happily yelling and giggling. His partner always had an infatuation with water and absolutely loved the ocean, which is probably why Malachi chose this spot. He didn’t deserve this good of a place, but it was the only place he felt most guilty. None of the other places he tried really pushed him over the edge into despair like this one.

He absentmindedly wrapped the thick, rustic chain around his neck and secured it strongly as he thought about old memories. The old chain was heavy and scratchy around his exposed flesh, but he didn't feel uncomfortable. If anything, he was at peace. This feeling must have been what Jacy experienced as his smiling self died in Malachi’s arms. Completely at peace with everything.

He stared at the mix of pinks and oranges on the horizon as he began treading on the water towards it. He stared at the swirl of cool mixing with warm, casting such a wondrous glow on his skin, he was reminded on how beautiful the world can be. The beautiful world that he tried to destroy.

The ocean was cool, but he didn't mind; the sunset was warm and welcoming enough. It was like Jacy had painted it just for him. Like Jacy was making this night pure and beautiful just for him; just for his broken self. Trying to provide solace for the lost.

He hoped Selene wouldn't take his sudden absence too badly since he wasn't going to come back from this. He already apologized enough in the letter wrote for her, so she didn't need to come for him. There was nothing left of him left worth saving. Anything good about him had withered away ever since Jacy died, and no matter how hard he tried to cling to his sanity for everyone’s own good, he didn’t succeed. His morals slipped between the gaps in his fingers as he tried to bury his feelings six feet under.

He tried to put up a good front for Selene these past couple years. At first he was perfect at it, it was just like slipping into another form of mind, the one he had before Jacy was murdered. But as his mental health dwindled, that front was harder to put on. His ability to feel had crumbled to the point where he couldn’t convincingly react to things like he would before. Out of all of this, he was able to feel only a few things. Anger, pain, and emptiness.

When he wasn’t putting up a front for Selene, he was out. Or, more specifically, taking people out, and he wasn’t talking about dates. Malachi was in such pain and experiencing so much trauma, he didn’t want to be the only one with this torture.

At first, it had been innocents, random people he would snatch off dark streets when the pain got too much. He would tear them apart and cry the entire time, crying at the satisfaction he got from their terror and agony. He was so disgusted at himself for finding solace in killing innocent people, but eventually found that voice in his head was getting muffled every time he did it again. Soon, there was a name floating around the city. They called him the ‘Black Demon’.

Selene heard of this and was smart enough to put two and two together. He didn’t stop until she confronted him during one of his kills and reminded him of what Jacy lived for, what he fought for. Malachi spent a year murdering and mutilating innocent people while Jacy had spent centuries slaying the monsters that did exactly that. He became the creature that Jacy pledged himself to defeat.

After that, he stopped, from what Selene knew. He kept it up, but this time he found reason to kill people other than the rage and hurt in his soul. He preyed on the scumbags and criminals of the city and ripped them apart in the worst ways. He never cleaned his messes, so controversy started over the ‘Black Demon’ on which the murders were by the same man and if the Demon was good or not. Malachi knew which one he was.

He did this for two years, gained a mainly positive reputation, and played witness to what he was becoming and what he was doing. The agony was never going to end, and he knew that. If there was a Hell, he knew where he was spending eternity.

Despite this, he was happy with the current events, happy that he finally lost his fears and worries. He didn't feel the gut-wrenching terror he felt before, nor the warnings in his head that this was a bad idea and he should turn back now. He was empty, so it was about time he filled himself again.

However, he did make sure Selene knew how much he appreciated her efforts for him, how much he loved her and cherished her soul. He made sure she knew none of this was her fault; he didn't blame her. He didn't blame anyone anymore.

He focused once more on the darkening sunset, studying its brush of colors and swirl of clouds. It was one of the most beautiful things he'd seen, so ironic for the pitiful event he planned tonight. Yet, Malachi knew Jacy would have loved to have seen the distant view. He would have taken so many pictures and deleted them all because they ‘couldn't catch the essence’.

At the memory of Jacy scowling at his phone and complaining to him over the quality of the photos on it caused Malachi to stop. His heart dropped and he was disgusted that pain was almost the only feeling he had anymore.

He turned around and judged his distance from the shore. He walked maybe a mile, which would be good enough.

He looked to the large cinder block that floated next to him, the same chain around his neck looped through its holes. With the reality of his plan right before him, he understood he was not going back. It was time.

He faced the sunset once more, the orange and pink replaced with a variety of blues. The horizon glowed so comforting, he felt relaxed and reassured. He was welcomed, no matter how hellish his afterlife. He felt comfort in its presence, but was still aware of the chain hanging from his neck. He closed his eyes.

With goodbye on his lips and sorrow deep in his heart, he let the cinder block drop.

His body was ripped backwards and he instantly found himself plunged in the cool, salty waters of the ocean. He watched the bubbles from his nose and mouth rise to the surface that he was sinking from. He watched as darkness grew thicker and as pressure built in him. The leather of his long, black coat whipped at his sides and his hair moved in the same manner. As he sank deeper, the swelling in his head doubled, and then, there was nothing.

00-00-00-00

He woke up. Why did he wake up?

The smell hit him first. It was fresh like far in the woods where civilization never touched. It was crisp and old, but had a toxic edge.

Was he dreaming?

He opened his eyes. No, he couldn't be dreaming. It was like he opened his eyes into a video game, something of fantasy.

The walls surrounding him were made of wooden boards and all the supports were wood too, no windows to be found. An old cottage or cabin or sorts, and everything looked like it was brought from the Medieval Era. Just one large, single room. No electricity in sight, candles and lanterns took that place. There was a unique desk and chair with papers and books towering high. A small fireplace took residence near the bed.

He was cocooned in a heavy, quilted blanket on a wooden bed with a headboard so simple that he had to sit up and process better.

He looked around again, understanding the wool in his hands. The paintings that hung on the walls were just that- paintings; not printed or copied. There was enough of a draft to know that there wasn't insulation, but the ground was carpeted.

Suddenly, he realized why he wasn't freaking out at this new development. This place felt familiar, like a very distant memory. But there was still a very prominent concern.

He died. How was he here? This is some strange afterlife if that's the case.

He watched the covers pull away from his legs. So he still had that feat. He didn't have longer to think.

The large, wood door began to open and he stared intently, waiting for whoever to give him answers.

A petite, blonde woman stepped in. Her hair was pulled back into a fancy braid and her clothes confirmed he wasn't in his own world. She wore form-fitting, green cloth leggings that looked to be stitched up on both sides, shoes that mildly resembled that of a pilgrim, but without the large buckle on top, and a decorative white blouse.

"Oh, good. You're awake." Her voice and words contradicted her appearance. She didn't seem to be fazed by his presence, so he chose not to be either.

"Where am I?"

"Not avoiding the big question, huh? I can tell you one thing; you're alive."

"You didn't answer my question."

"Because the better question would be 'when are you', not 'where'. I believe I best explain."

He watched as she casually walked over to the desk, swung the chair around, and sat facing him, straddling the back rest.

"Everything you lived was an illusion. The world you lived in only existed in your head. You do not have a sister, you do not have those parents. You were born and raised here and put under a powerful sleep-hypnotic spell so we could advance your powers and mind faster. Being under the spell for so long has dwindled your memory of this place, but this is where you spent the majority of your life. I can promise you, you went under the spell willingly."

Malachi took a second to ponder the information. The world he experienced was fake; all the science and history wasn't actually true. So nothing he did before mattered? Interesting. Although, he still felt guilt.

"You're looking at 3002. Nuclear war set right after the little world you experienced wiped out plenty of the population. There was some truth to the world you were set in. Not everything was accurate, but that's the basics of our history. What you're seeing now is the slow recovery being set. And right now, war is on the horizon again, but this time it could wipe out the entire planet as a whole. We need warriors, and the fastest way to do that, Sebastian and I figured, was to make people like you age and develop in your own worlds faster than you would in this time. Think of it this way, 24 hours in your world was 1 minute in ours."

Malachi understood the information presented to him, but the reality still hurt.

"Am I the only one? No one in my world existed?"

She hesitated, but her face remained stern, crossing her arms on the top of the chair.

"No, actually. We discovered that by doing the ritual at the same time on people in close proximity actually made them share the same world. Jacy and Selene are real and alive, although Selene still is yet to awaken."

He looked at the soft, red carpet. All the agony he endured and caused was fake. His heart and mind tore themselves apart because of an illusion. Jacy's death wasn't real, but he spent three years believing it was, suffering the consequences of a mirage.

The image of Jacy's dead, burned, bloody body will never leave him, and all for him to develop into a cold, merciless warrior to fight a war he knows nothing about.

"I had to endure my mind shattering and my humanity falling to pieces because you need warriors to fight a war?"

"In our defence, that was never our intention. We did not expect you three to share a world, nor did we predict you would all meet at all or develop such bonds. We only have minimal impacts on your world, but the rest was up to the spell. You have my apologies, if we had known how Jacy's death would have affected you, we might have avoided it."

His blood boiled, "Might?"

"Yes. It was only after Jacy's death did your abilities awaken, of course at the cost of your mental health. All it usually takes is a small push like that. It's common for us to have to experience something traumatic before we unlock our assets. It is also what makes us perfect for war. We're colder, less hesitant to perform a needed slaughter of the enemy. When you were 20 in your world, your heart dropped at the thought of accidentally killing a dog. Now, you don't bat an eye at stringing up a rapist by his intestines in the woods. These are the people we need, not afraid to make the final blow. Of course, we also need leaders and other teammates, for we are only the hand that forces."

He understands, but he's not happy about it.

"What's this war about?"

She didn't skip a beat, talking like she's rehearsed.

"After the nuclear war, the people that survived started slowly noticing changes. Minor changes at first, then came the more drastic, noticeable effects. People that were closer to the blasts got it the worst, we call them Finsa. They are the very things children in your world feared in their closets. Their bodies mutated, and along with that, their minds. They're savage and animalistic, but a sense of mind still remains and that makes them dangerous. They can plan, understand, and ruin; they are predators, and we are their prey.

"The ones that were affected by the radiation a bit less are the Tvral. They are mutated, but still have many human characteristics. They have a more stable sense of mind, and can be our allies, or our enemies.

"And we, the Valran, have been affected the least. Minor physical changes and we have the most sensible mind, in my opinion. We usually have the most civilized communities and orderly conducts. You and Selene are Valran, Jacy is a Tvral. In his world, well, your world, he was able to shift between forms, Wendigo and human. We found that very surprising, since he does not have that ability to take a human appearance. What I'm telling you is that Jacy has the same mind he had in the world, just like you do, but he does not have the same appearance."

Malachi did not respond. He was still trying to get over the hurdle that Jacy was still alive, but now Jacy probably permanently looked like his true Wendigo form. He decided to ignore that.

"So why is there a war?"

"For a while, all of us had lived in moderate peace, as much as you can get with those savages trying to slaughter anyone that's not them. However, something started changing. The attacks on us started increasing. More travelers went missing, merchants not arriving, ambushes on smaller villages. They have become more skilled in murdering us. However, that was only the beginning.

"Recently, we found out why they've started growing in power. They have found a leader, one that has more power than all of us. He is grotesque and malicious, and he wants more than his minion army. We've heard whispers of his name- Galyisiam. He is a very real threat and if he gets what he wants, it's the end for all of us."

"So I can't kill myself again out of spite for all the shit thrust into my arms?"

"If you do, you might have just caused Hell on Earth. We need everyone we can get, especially with advanced powers as your own."

"So, in this world it's common for people to have powers?"

"Yes. Finsa are the most common to develop powers, which is a disadvantage to us. They're usually born with abilities, while us Valran have to awaken them, if we have any at all. If we Valrans do not possess any ability, we are able to pursue artificial magic, as I and Selene do. It's very difficult, and only looked to by the capable and daring, the rest are commoners or trained into the Order as Plavven- the common soldier.

"Those who are educated suspect that humans have always had the ability to do more than what our history speaks. Tales of monsters and of the supernatural might not have been as fiction as we all assumed, but the more we advanced, we grew farther from the truth. The radiation from the war might have gave the kick that we needed to unlock that tucked away potential."

She paused, watching him. He stared right back, now noticing the smaller features he didn't before. Her light skin tone was normal enough, but as he looked closer he could see her veins cast a subtle green hue. Her eyes were also lime green, along with her lips.

He stopped looking.

"The only way you were eligible to undergo the ritual was if you joined our organization. We breed soldiers that are strong and dependable to be on the front lines. We take the brunt of the enemy and actively search them out. We have connections and recruits that make us more of an army than a band of misfits that don't like to hide from danger.

"We are the soldiers of this army. Our boss is Commander Kellansei, he gives us orders and we complete them. And he takes orders from our big boss, Leader Sammiel. He has power over everyone here, but he's reliable."

She stood up, walking to the door. "I'll fetch you a meal while you process all you've heard. We'll head out and give you a run of the town later."

She shut the door behind her and silence greeted him again.

The moment he stood up, he fell to the floor. His shoulder smacked on the carpet and his head followed next.

..oo00oo..

Malachi tore the head off the Snivel, watching the dark creature slump to the ground and he dropped the elongated head next to it. The deformed head rolled next to the black, tar arm and faced up at him, eyes vacant and cold. He spared the monster only a glance before turning back into the woods. He planned to do more scouting and secure the area, however, he wasn’t alone.

“So you’re Worrin, Demon of the Shadows.” The voice was a mere whisper in the trees, sliding around him and coming from every angle. He stopped, focusing his mind to find the source. It was weird, like whoever was speaking was just the wind.

“I’d have thought you’d look different, you know. After waking up and donning a new identity. Old habits are hard to kick, I guess.” The voice circled around him and held his breath. He finally looked around, uselessly trying to find who was talking to him.

“Who are you?” He demanded, for once in a long time, feeling vulnerable. The voice didn’t respond, but he could still feel its presence around him. It was unnerving and he was preparing for a fight. Suddenly, it all gathered in one spot behind him.

“You didn’t come for me. You didn’t wait for me when they told you I was alive. You hid from everyone; you hid from me. Why?”

Malachi suddenly placed the voice. He knew who was behind him. He didn’t turn; he couldn’t. He didn’t speak. He didn’t know what to say. However, he did hear Jacy gently and slowly approaching him.

“They told me what you did after I woke up. They told me what you were doing in our world. You- You’re not the same man I once knew, are you?” The Wendigo’s tone told Malachi that Jacy already knew the answer, told him it really wasn’t even a question. The words fell hard on his chest, but he swallowed the guilt.

“Ever since I woke up, a hole opened in my heart, though I know it’s not as vast as yours. I knew we would reunite, so I was able to tolerate the pain again, like when we first met. However, I didn’t realize in what circumstance that would be. I just need to know- Do you still care for me?”

Malachi’s heart thrummed with yes, but it wasn’t strong, not that he could feel. However, this statement prompted him to turn around, to finally face Jacy.

Everything startled him, but the intricate network of antlers above the other’s head is what fascinated him the most. They twisted and curled like mystical branches, but he could see that they were trimmed, probably to keep decent mobility. They didn’t reach more than a foot above his head.

He still had long, wavy black hair, framing his white face in such a contrast, Malachi wouldn’t class him as a monster. Jacy’s eyes were snow white, skin pulled tight over his entire frame, but his face didn’t lose appeal. He still had the same features, just a little more sunken.

He was maybe a foot and a half taller and Malachi assumed he looked damn near like a skeleton, but his assassin garbs covered his body. He had a hunch, menacing and ready to lunge. Malachi pondered that it was probably the default posture, having to bend over all the time to talk properly and enter buildings.

Even though the man looked near completely different, it was still Jacy. He could see his common fidget, rubbing his thumb over the side his pointer finger, the way his legs were spaced in his stance, and the eyes. They looked at him, and although they were slightly harder to read, Malachi could still pick out the emotions. Hope, guilt, pleading, despair.

Malachi redirected his attention to the question. He asked his heart, and voiced the response.

“Not in the way I did before. I lost too much to be able to do that again. The only reason I still do care for you are our memories.”

Malachi had to lay witness to the absolute agony that took resident in Jacy’s features. His mouth drooped in defeat, his eyes glimmered in affliction, and his eyebrows drew in betrayal. As he watched, he could see his former lover wither and his own soul throbbed in empathy. He didn’t provide any comfort, since he didn’t need to. Jacy was too naive and ignorant to fully grasp Malachi’s change, so he didn’t have much sympathy for the other.

His heart couldn’t heal, even with the fact that it could long for Jacy again. The world damaged him too far, and he didn’t have the strength to pick up the debris- it had blown away, so if he could or even wanted to, he didn’t have the pieces to fix himself anymore.

Jacy laughed, bringing the Valran’s attention back to Tvral. It was a broken, forced sound. “I was foolish to think I could have you back. I didn’t grasp that the Malachi I loved died back there just as I did to you.”

He didn’t say anything, but he agreed.

“Well, Worrin, let fate decide if we meet again.” Jacy said with a faded smile, then became a white blur that disappeared into the trees in a second. The moment he was truly gone, when Malachi could no longer feel him, he wept in sorrow. His muscles lagged and he fell to his hands and knees, dropping his head in shame. He let every emotion he thought he’d abandoned sweep over him and do their damage. Because now, Jacy was truly and completely gone.

He screamed into the burning air and dug his fingers into the Earth. Such torture bubbled in his being and such pain gripped him and it rivaled the agony he endured when he first thought Jacy had died. He trembled and unleashed cry and wail to the ground, feeling his mind turn into a ravaging storm of emptiness, sadism, and abandonment envelop his entire being. He was lost in maltreatment and abuse and couldn’t see his way to the light.

Eventually, the storm cleared and he tried to blink away the blurriness. There was a prominent, unpleasant pressure behind his eyes and found he was lying immobile on his side. The emptiness he’d grown used to returned in a heavy robustness that he stared ahead at the trees. He didn’t need to blink, as the tears came steadily. He just watched the vague, rough outline of the trees sway.

#depressing thoughts #depressing story #depressing #story

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kris10inger · 7 years

Text

Meet Abel and Hope

Only, after Hope finds a promise of death at her doorstep, her plans are derailed and only chance at staying alive rests on the dedication of her new bodyguard and her own sheer will to live the life she deserves. Inger Iversen presents a standalone contemporary AWWM Romance in her best-selling Love Against the Odds world featuring Hope & Abel.

Hope curiously eyed the gaudy, purple and pink, plastic engagement ring, as Thea held her hand up in the air. Her friend gazed lovingly at it while wiggling her fingers in delight. Bright, adoring eyes met Hope’s as Thea continued the story of how Lex had proposed.

“I’d given it to him as a gift, never once realizing he’d use it to ask me to marry him all these years later.” She sighed dramatically, as if she could barely continue without another squeal bubbling out. “He bent down on one knee, looked me in the eyes, and promised me forever.”

Hope had zoned out halfway through the story. Not that Lex’s proposal hadn’t been adorable and romantic, but she often found herself drowning in memories of the past whenever anyone brought up marriage. The idea was to leave the past in New York, but Hope found that hard to do with all the wedding talk and secrets she held inside. She smiled, but seeing the solemn look Thea gave her, she was sure it hadn’t reached her eyes.

“Oh, shit,” her best friend and boss said. “I keep forgetting that you—”

Thea’s soft voice met her ears. “I know, but it’s like talking about getting pregnant around someone who can’t carry a child. You want to be excited, but you also don’t want to be insensitive and hurt their feelings.”

“I know, and that puts a damper on your good news.” Hope shook off the sadness threatening to overwhelm her. “No more walking on eggshells when you’re around me.” Thea’s engagement was amazing news, and Hope was acting like a big-ass wet rag. Pushing back the agonizing memories, she smiled again; this time conveying her happiness for a friend who’d saved her ass. “Can we both agree to put my shitty past where it belongs? Way the hell behind us. Now, let me see this thing.”

Both women laughed at the truth because the ring was seriously fugly.

Thea took her hand back. “Maybe you should get out there and try the dating game again?”

Hope groaned inwardly. She didn’t want to hear the ‘just move on’ speech again. Because she had tried—with no success. After looking high and low, no matter who she ended up dating, she always found them to be . . . lacking. Unsure of whether it was her past, her inability to trust, or the fact that she was on the run she found it painfully hard to even consider dating anymore.

“Hell, I say the next man who walks through that door,” Thea turned to Hope with a calculating smile, “you ask on a date!”

“That’s right. Don’t think,” Thea spurred, “just do.”

Hope’s face flushed with embarrassment.

And in the beginning, Thea had been able to keep her employment hush-hush, paving the way for Hope to work without fear of one day looking up to find Mark waiting for her. But now that employment papers were signed and turned in, Hope’s worrying increased with each passing day. She shuddered. The idea of Mark following her to Blackwater had become a waking nightmare and a monster under her bed to fear.

Pushing those feelings aside, she looked up and smiled at Ms. Collis, who was handing her a clipboard with documents attached. Seconds later, a biker in leather pants—crazy, in this heat—pushed through the doors of the clinic, blood gushing from his nose. He favored his right side, and pressed his free hand to a wound seeping blood through his tattered shirt. Hope’s eyes traveled up and up the huge behemoth, until her eyes connected with his unconcerned gaze.

Shaking herself from the shock of such a huge man, Hope pointed to the side door where the motorcycle club, or the MC, had claimed the waiting room as their own. Locals who weren’t affiliated with the gang sat in the open waiting room to the right, while the MC took residence in the small room to the left. He nodded his head and made his way to the door.

“Ma’am, if you could take a seat and fill this out, I’ll be right back,” Hope instructed. Ms. Collis was in to have her cast taken off. It wasn’t the least bit serious, so she would have to wait her turn as Hope triaged the more critically injured. She made her way over to the bleeding man, who still hadn’t opened the door to the waiting room.

“Sir?” She came up behind him and he swiveled around. Unfortunately, since Thea’s grandfather had ties with the MC before he passed, most of the gang came to her clinic when in need of medical help that didn’t require the coroner. At first, Hope had doubts, but when she got the text from Mark threatening her life if she didn’t return to his side in New York, she decided it wasn’t so bad if these huge, gun-toting men were there often.

The man’s dark eyes flickered to the waiting room. “Didn’t want to get blood on the door.” His deep voice and heavy Irish brogue caught her off guard. This man was new, or at least, had never been in the clinic while Hope was there. Since she worked five days a week, and twelve hours a day, she assumed he’d just been one of the lucky few in the MC to not have gotten stabbed recently.

Hope glanced to his bloody hands and nodded. “Okay. Let me get that for you.” She went to open the door, when Lucy, the clinic’s receptionist, burst through the front doors, apologizing for being late as she headed to the counter. Now that she was at work, Hope could take him straight back, get him stitched up, and send him on his way. “Actually, why don’t we have you come on back with me. We’ll see how serious these wounds are.”

He followed her to one of the rooms in the back. Hope hadn’t bothered getting him to fill out any forms. The MC members never bothered with the patient information form, and always paid in cash. Hell, the clinic would probably go belly up without the money the men provided.

Sliding a pair of purple gloves on her hands, Hope pointed to the paper-lined bed. “Have a seat.” She made her way to the cabinet, and found a pair of sterilized scissors. Routinely, Hope would ask the patient what happened, but when it came to these men, the fewer questions you asked, the better. “You have any allergies?”

Dark eyes followed her movements as she worked. “No, ma’am.”

Hope was long past the initial shock of the MC members having manners. At first, she hadn’t expected them to be polite, or for them to pay, but they did, and they weren’t raucous in the least. It was extraordinarily ironic that men who looked like beasts could be so composed and gentle, yet Mark, who normally wore a three-piece suit, could transform into the monster of her wildest nightmares.

After a quick assessment, she knew his side needed to be treated first. Asking him to lift his arm, she cut open his shirt and inspected the knife wound. Unfortunately, she’d dealt with stab wounds often in her professional and personal life. His wound was shallow and not life threatening. A few stitches and he’d be fine. Then she could treat his nose.

“I don’t need any stitches, Doc.”

Rolling her eyes for the second time today, she said, “Yes, you do and you are getting them.” Ignoring the growl emanating from his chest, she continued to clean the wound. At 5’5” and one hundred ten pounds, Hope didn’t stand a chance against the mountain man, but she knew the most important thing when dealing with the MC members—never show weakness. Once you did that, your ass was grass. The men, while not complete assholes, would play on your fear. Find one sexy? Well, you’d most likely end up on your back.

Hope didn’t have time for that shit. And while Mark had branded the fear of God in her, she was resolute that not all men were created equal. On top of that, she and Thea were off-limits to the members, per some scary, sharp-toothed man named Gator.

“Piss and vinegar.” His laughter pulled her from her thoughts. “Well, Doc—”

“Well, nurse . . .” Ducking his head down, auburn hair fell over his eyes, and he pushed the strands away as he tried to read her name badge.

“Hope,” she supplied, just as she stuck the first injection of lidocaine into his skin.

“I’d rather you fuss with my nose,” he grunted. “My face is my money maker.”

She looked up, her coal-colored eyes shining with mirth. “Oh really? And here I thought it was your great fashion sense.” Hope plucked at the bloodied Foreigner shirt.

Glancing down, the huge man grinned. “Yeah, that too.”

Shaking her head, she set up her equipment and got to work. The man, who she later found out was called Spooky, asked her out a few times before realizing it wasn’t going to happen. Mark had been persistent as well. He’d asked her out a total of twenty-two times, before she’d finally broken down and said yes. Back then, she hadn’t known it was a sign of systemic hostility; she’d been naïve enough to consider it charming that a man like Mark would be so persistent in wanting to get to know her.

Heading home that night, she huffed up the flight of stairs leading to her efficiency, and froze when she made it to the top of the landing. There, in front of her door, sat a blue and white package. Her heart jumped into her throat, heaving her into the past.

Hope opened her eyes, confused as to when she’d shut them. With trembling fingers, she opened the box. Inside was a diamond-studded choker. Beautiful, white diamonds sparkled in a straight line, surrounded by blood-red rubies, in a platinum setting. Covering her mouth, Hope held in a strangled sob. She didn’t want to leave Blackwater, but once again he’d found her sanctuary. The one place she’d fooled herself into believing she was safe. How could she have been so foolish as to think a man like Mark wouldn’t make her pay for leaving him? She was his possession—his toy.

Mark’s face flashed in her mind and Hope had the sudden urge to run. Instead, she reached into her purse and pulled out the Glock Thea had made her buy from a pawnshop. Scanning the area, she didn’t find anything out of place. How had he tracked her down? She’d been so careful.

It must be my new employment status. Thea had been paying her under the table, but the clinic received government funds, and in the long run, it could have hurt Thea’s clinic. So, Hope had made things right and her official paperwork was turned in.

Turning back to go inside, Hope noticed a note tucked inside the lip of her door. She pulled it out and flipped the card open.

I’ll give you to the count of three to come back home to me.

ONE.

The next installment in the Teal and Trent series is coming soon! Preorder below!

#excerpt #hope and abel #love against the odds

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