Tied (Devils Wolves Book 2)

by Carian Cole

  Excitement bubbles up inside me. “We’re going to decorate a tree?” I ask, almost hopping up and down with happiness. His lips turn up into a handsome yet slightly snarky grin. “Yeah. This one is late.” I wonder what that means as he pulls a Santa hat out of the box and puts it on his head. “No laughing,” he warns. “I have to wear it.” I can’t help smiling, but I don’t laugh. There must be a story here, with the trees and the hat, and I’m not about to do anything to make him not want to tell me all about it someday.

  Poppy and Boomer accompany us as we walk up into the woods, farther than I’ve walked before.

  “You pick,” he says.

  I glance up at him. “I get to pick the tree?”

  When he nods, I start to scope out all the trees in the area, trying to find the perfect shape and fullness, but it’s an imperfect tree that catches my eye, set apart from the others, almost like it’s the outcast. It’s short, its branches aren’t as full, and it has a few dead spots, but once the decorations are on, it’ll be beautiful.

  “This one,” I announce.

  Tyler sets the box down on the ground and silently starts to decorate it. I watch him for a few minutes, admiring how meticulous and thoughtful he is about placing the decorations, and then I help him. When the last red globe has been hung, he places six wrapped boxes under the tree, just like in my photographs and the tree I saw in the woods the day I saw him and Poppy.

  “This is the last tree,” he says. “Until next year.”

  “How many do you decorate?” I ask.

  “Six.”

  Six. I wonder if it’s a coincidence that there are also six wrapped presents.

  “I’d love to hear how you started doing this,” I say. “The girl in the store where I bought the photos said it’s like a legend out here. She said the little kids love to hear about it, and people hunt for the trees.”

  He nods, the white pouf on the hat bouncing, the small bell jingling. “My father started it. When I was little, he brought me up here to look for a tree to cut to bring home.” He pauses and clears his throat. “I was like, why can’t we just decorate it here? For the animals? Why cut it and drag it out of its home?” He smiles at the memory, and I smile too, picturing a young Tyler in my mind, same shaggy blond hair and blue eyes. “The next day we came back. We both wore the hats. We sang. We decorated the tree. I was all excited.” He takes a deep breath. “Dad said, ‘We’re going to do this every year and make it our own tradition, just me and you.’ Christmas day was my dad’s birthday. He wanted to do something special with me. I’m one of six kids, and he tried to make each one of us feel special. This was our thing.”

  “Ty…you should have told me it was your father’s birthday too,” I say, but he shakes his head.

  “We don’t celebrate it anymore. Other than doing this.” He stares off to a faraway place I can’t see, his face shadowed.

  “Why six trees?” I ask softly, hoping to bring him back.

  He takes out his pack of cigarettes, pulls one out with this mouth, and lights it.

  “One for me and one for each of my brothers and sister. It was my idea, when I was little, to decorate one for each of them even though they never actually saw the trees.”

  Poppy and Boomer frolic around the tree, the fox especially interested in the present boxes, sniffing them and nudging them with his rust-colored nose.

  “It means a lot to me you told me. I’ve been fascinated with the story since I heard about it, and it’s even more special to me now.”

  He moves a few ornaments to different branches as I talk, not meeting my eyes.

  “Your Dad sounds like a really nice man.”

  “Yeah. He was.”

  Was. Past tense. Meaning he’s gone. He must be heartbroken missing him, and that must be where his sadness is stemming from.

  “Thank you for letting me share this with you,” I say. “I’m not part of any of my family’s traditions. I’m not even sure if they have any or ever did. To be honest, they barely even talk to me. You’re lucky.”

  He kneels and puts the lid back on the box. “I was lucky, Holly. Now I’m just a mess.”

  He ends the conversation by picking up the box, whistling for the dogs, and walking back in the direction of his house. All I can do is follow him in silence.

  I’m not sure how I never noticed it before, but he has an old pickup truck parked on the other side of the garage. It’s tan and rusty with oversized tires, the leather bench seat ripped from age. It suits him perfectly, though. He drives me home in it, and it’s loud and bouncy, the tires rumbling over the road like an animal. Neither the radio nor the heat works, but I’m not bothered by it. I’m on a high from spending half the day with him, Poppy, and Boomer.

  When he parks in the small lot in front my apartment unit to let me out, I’m not sure how to say goodbye, and the awkwardness reminds me how socially behind I still am. I put my hand on the door handle, my other hand clutching my backpack, wondering if and when I’ll see him again or if today was just a one-time thing. He doesn’t look at me as I hesitate; he just stares out the windshield, deep in thought once again.

  “Thank you again for the phone,” I say. “And for today.” Is it appropriate to thank a guy for sharing part of his life with you? Or am I hammering more nails into my own coffin of social inadequacy?

  He nods at me again and I tell myself it’s because he talked a lot today and his voice grew hoarser and hoarser as the day went on, so he’s probably tired. Taking a breath, I try to pull the inside handle of the truck door, but it’s stuck, not budging under my grip.

  “I can’t—”

  He reaches across the bench seat, his arm stretching across my body, and yanks the door handle. It opens with a loud creak, and I worry it might break right off its hinges. His face is so close to mine his hair brushes across my cheek, soft and wispy like a feather. Leaning back into his space behind the wheel, he takes his sunglasses off the rearview mirror and puts them on, hiding his eyes from me just when I want to see them the most. Does he feel like I do when we’re close to each other? Does he feel that odd shimmy shiver?

  “Talk soon,” he says. “Slam the door shut.”

  I jump out of the truck and gingerly push the door shut, still nervous it might crumble into a pile of rust, and he immediately drives away. One thing I’ve quickly figured out is Tyler is really bad at hellos and goodbyes. I feel a small amount of consolation that he’s even worse at it than I am, so maybe he doesn’t notice how much I struggle.

  Later that night, when I’m lying in bed reading one of the books Zac and Anna gave me for Christmas, I hear a strange noise in my room. Putting the book down on my comforter, I glance around the room in confusion, and I hear it again.

  The sound of a tiny bell, coming from my leather trunk.

  I crawl out of bed, pull my backpack from the trunk, and fish inside it for the cell phone. It’s screen is lit up, and the text message indicator is on.

  My heartbeats speed up to an unnatural and frightening pace. My first text message. Holding the phone close to me, I get back in bed and pull the blanket over myself before sliding my finger across the tiny screen to read the message, which is, of course, from Tyler Grace.

  Tyler: :-)

  A tiny yellow smiley face.

  I type one back, just like he showed me.

  Holly: :-)

  Tyler: :-)

  I frown at the screen. Is this what texting is?

  The phone dings again.

  Tyler: You asked me two questions today. About my voice and the trees. Now it’s my turn.

  Holly: Okay. That’s fair.

  Tyler: Tell me about the backpack. You had it that day I found you. You always have it.

  He went from smiley faces to something so deeply personal and hard to talk about that I don’t even know how to begin to explain. I suppose I did the same to him, though, asking about his voice and the decorated trees, and he answered me.

  Holly: My favorit
e books are in it. I read them every day when I was little, before I was kidnapped. I had it with me the day he took me. He let me keep it, and I kept reading them every day. I had nothing else. Maybe it’s silly but the books made me feel safe. I made myself believe I was part of the stories.

  A few seconds go by, and he replies.

  Tyler: That’s not silly. Not at all. We all need something to help us escape

  Holly: They still make me feel safe. I feel unsettled without them with me all the time.

  I read the text back to myself, and I’m afraid I sound like a weirdo.

  Holly: Its hard to explain.

  Tyler: You explained it perfectly. Now I understand.

  I let out a small breath of relief.

  Tyler: I get another question

  Holly: Okay.

  I brace myself for what could be next. I had no idea texting could be so stressful.

  Tyler: Do you want to see Poppy tomorrow?

  Smiling, I type back quickly:

  Holly: Does Poppy want to see me?

  Tyler: You can’t answer a question with a question. It’s in the texting rulebook.

  Ah, he has a sense of humor.

  Holly: I would like to see Poppy

  Tyler: He says to be ready at noon. That a good time?

  Holly: Yes

  Tyler: We’ll pick you up :-)

  Still smiling, I keep my eyes on the screen, waiting to see if he sends something else. How do people end texts? Am I supposed to say goodbye? Send another smiley face? Send a different face? I fall asleep with the phone in my hand and dream of sky-blue eyes.

  16

  Tyler

  This lost girl with the stormy eyes has become my caffeine, my morphine, my new drug of choice. I can no longer get through a day without a shot of her, whether it be seeing her or just a simple text message. And like any addiction, as much as I enjoy it, I know it’s something that I can’t do forever, and I’ll eventually have to quit it and forget it.

  For the past month we’ve texted and had random conversations in the garage while I work, and she’s become the closest thing to a real friend I’ve had in a long time. With each day that’s passed, I’ve noticed little changes in her. Her confidence has grown. She smiles and laughs more. She’s developed her own style. She reminds me of how Boomer was when I first found him, so scared and timid at first, afraid of me getting too close to him. Slowly, over time, he learned to trust me and grew attached to me. I realize that was a mistake on my part because it prevented him from going out and living a normal fox life.

  I can almost feel the same thing happening with Holly, because as much as I want to see her go off on her own, move to New York, and do amazing things with her life, I’m going to miss the hell out of her.

  I’m selfish as fuck. I want to keep her all to myself.

  Finders, keepers…

  Right now she’s burning the shit out of my clutch and giving me whiplash while I try to teach her how to drive my old pickup, and I can’t even be mad because she looks so cute and serious in the driver’s seat, barely able to reach the pedals or see over the steering wheel.

  “Aren’t there easier cars?” she asks as she stalls it again on the dirt road and both our heads slam forward. My inner mechanic groans.

  “Yeah, an automatic, but I don’t have one.”

  “Maybe having other people drive me around wasn’t so bad after all,” she says, trying to start the truck again.

  “You’re doing great.” I try to make my voice sound reassuring. “You’re going to pass that test.”

  I hate this shit of her parents not letting her have a car or wanting her to have a cell phone. I can’t wrap my head around what they think they’re accomplishing. Making her walk or take a taxi everywhere is in no way safer than driving, and if they think it is, they’re out of their damn minds. The more she tells me about them, the more I don’t like or understand them. It’s almost like they want her to continue to be secluded.

  She doesn’t know it, but I already have a car for her, waiting in the parking lot of my brother’s motorcycle shop. It’s just a little all-wheel-drive SUV with about ninety thousand miles on it, but it’s clean and dent-free, and it runs good. If she’s moving to New York, she won’t need a car anyway, from what I gather, but at least while she’s here, she’ll be able to get around like the adult that she actually is. In the meantime, I don’t want to think about her moving to New York because it makes me feel ragey.

  “I think without this clutch thing I might be okay,” she says, almost sideswiping the corner of the garage with the side mirror as she parks. I nod and rub the back of my neck, which is starting to ache from the constant jerking of the truck. Seeing her smile and learn something new makes it worth it, though, and it reminds me of when my father taught me how to drive his old truck. This same truck, actually.

  I jump out of the truck and walk around to the driver’s side door, open it, and help her out. She touches my shoulder lightly as she jumps down but quickly pulls it away as soon as she’s on her feet, and that old familiar burn of rejection manifests in my chest.

  What I wouldn’t do to feel her hands on me. Just once, even for sixty seconds. Fuck, I’d settle for ten seconds.

  A gust of wind blows, and she hugs herself against it as we walk around the garage to the side door and step inside, but I don’t go to my workbench like I normally do. Usually, she likes to sit on a mat on the floor, play with Poppy and Boomer, and watch me work, but today I don’t have much work to do, and I’d rather be inside with the fire going, just chilling. I’m getting sick of spending all my time with her in my workshop-slash-garage, surrounded by tools, weights, lawn equipment, and my collection of horror masks. The thing is, she’s never been inside my house because she’s afraid of small spaces after being kept in a room for ten years. My house is tiny, just three hundred square feet, with only one way in and one way out. A claustrophobic’s worst nightmare.

  “You feelin’ good today?” I ask her casually, leaning against my workbench.

  She smiles. “Yeah, I’m happy.”

  “I want to go in the house.” I say.

  She stares up at me and, as usual, my eyes take a sweep of her, wearing jeans with tattered holes in the knees, black boots, a soft sweater, and a leather jacket that’s more stylish than warm. I’m struck by how incredibly beautiful and normal she looks, like any other girl hanging out with her friends, and it makes me believe she’s going to be okay out in the world. Her damage is easier to hide than mine. It’s not until the long sleeves are gone, and the sun sets, that glimpses of her reality come to light.

  “Oh,” she says. “I can go home then. I can call a taxi…”

  “No… I want you to come with me.” Her eyes narrow on me as she absorbs the words she’s never heard from me before. I wonder if she’s been hoping for them or dreading them.

  She looks out the window toward the house, worry creasing her brow.

  “Holly…it’s okay if you don’t want to. I’ll take you home. But there’s a fireplace in my house, it’s warm, you can sit on the couch and be comfortable—instead of on the ground. I’m a little tired of you sitting in the dirt every time you’re here.”

  Torment flashes all over her face, the fight-or-flight instinct kicking in. Her teeth clamp on her bottom lip, her pink lipstick smudging her perfect white teeth. It only makes me want to kiss her and smudge it even more. She has no idea she makes me feel this way, and it’s real innocence, not that fake clueless act some women put on in an effort to flirt.

  “How about this,” I say as softly as I can force my voice to be without it fading to inaudible hisses. “You go inside first. I’ll wait here. Look around. Leave the front door open. You won’t feel trapped. See how you feel. If you don’t like, just come back out.”

  “Really? I can do that?” she asks.

  I nod.

  She takes a few deep breaths, her chest going up and down.

  “Okay. I’m going to try
it,” she finally says. “You’ll stay right here? You won’t move? You promise?”

  “Promise.”

  She takes two steps and turns back to me. “Is anyone in there?”

  “Nobody. I live alone.”

  I watch from the garage window as she walks toward my house, with the dogs following her, opens my front door, stands on the threshold for a few minutes, looks back toward the garage, and disappears inside.

  She’s braver than I am, confronting her fears. Unlike me, hiding from the world like a pussy.

  My cell phone rings, and I pull it out of my pocket to see Holly’s number on the screen.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes,” she says. “Your house is so cute and cozy. But…where is the rest of it?”

  I laugh into the phone. “What?”

  “The other rooms? How do I get to them?”

  “There aren’t any more rooms. Just the bedroom loft upstairs. Use the stairs to go up there and look around. It’s one room with a bed, some drawers under the bed, and a small window. Nothing else.”

  “I don’t think I want to go up there.”

  “Then you don’t have to.”

  “Where is the basement?”

  “Don’t have one.”

  There’s a long silence as she contemplates whether this could be true.

  “You’re sure?” she asks suspiciously. “There’s no rooms under the house?”

  “No lie. Cross my heart.”

  Another long silence, except for the sound of her breathing.

  “I think I’m okay. You can come in now.”

  “You sure? You can have more time.”

  “No. I’m okay.”

  I end the call with a grin on my face that comes partly from being proud of her and partly from finally having her in my house and being able to smell her perfume in my personal space.

  When I go inside, I find her sitting in the small leather chair right by the door with Poppy on her lap.

  “I’m sorry, Ty.” She says, looking down at the dog.

  “For?”

  Her shoulder lifts in a slight shrug. “Being difficult.”