Accidental Alpha

by Laurel Curtis

  Making her laugh, making her memories, and taking her on her own fucking adventures.

  “Wade!” Allison yelled from two inches away, poking me annoyingly in the shoulder.

  Shit.

  Flipping my grilled cheese over quickly, I cringed at the blackened remains of what was the bottom piece of bread.

  “I think you burned it.”

  My eyes jumped to hers and her face got squinty-er.

  “Okay, now you’re scowling at me. I just want to point out I didn’t burn your sandwich. In fact, I tried to get your attention for about thirty seconds before you responded, so you can just turn that ugly mug around and point it at yourself.”

  The art of rearranging my face on command was something I’d yet to fully master, but I gave it my absolute best effort, straining and stretching the skin from the downward tilt of my frown up and around into a brilliant, if a little fake, smile.

  Her answering smirk couldn’t have been more real, and like it was made of magic, transformed mine to be exactly the same.

  “Beer,” I grunted monosyllabically. I could have said please. In fact, I probably should have. Added a couple words for decoration like women seemed to need. But with the memories of what seemed like a past life—and the lingering effects of permanent and unchangeable decisions and actions—I didn’t really have it in me.

  She didn’t call me on it though.

  “Wine,” she gestured, nodding her head to the bottle on the rustic, eat-in table and moving out of the kitchen, down the back hall and into what looked like a mudroom.

  Bottles clinked, and the seal of the refrigerator she was obviously raiding popped loud enough for me to hear it.

  Like a call to action, I jumped at the sound, moving quickly to the bottle of wine, searching her drawers for a corkscrew while plotting the cabinet that would be the best one for finding an appropriate glass.

  Obviously attuned to her style of kitchen sorting, I found them pretty painlessly.

  She walked lightly, the sound of her shuffling feet just barely alerting me to her return as I pulled the cork from the bottle and poured the minutely yellowed liquid into the glass.

  “Say when,” I called, not bothering to look behind me as I did it.

  A whirlpool swirled in the glass, the glug of the multiplying liquid filling the silence. More and more settled and grew, and before I knew it, wine was about to overflow out of the glass. I spun quickly, nearly knocking it over, for fear that she’d fallen victim to another fainting episode.

  “I thought maybe you passed out on me again,” I explained, her eyes wide from stepping back in a hurry to avoid getting swiped by a powerful fist.

  “Sorry,” she apologized. “I just kind of zoned out.” Extending an arm forward, she stated, “Here’s your beer. Corona’s all I have.”

  “That’s fine.” Spending numerous hours in a bar for my cover, you’d think that the feel of the cool bottle would feel less foreign in my warm hand. But the grip of my fingers had the grace of a foal taking its first unsure steps. For the last twenty-five years, I’d been “on.” That meant keeping a clear head at all hours of the day and night. I’d forgotten where to find the power button to turn myself off.

  The brush of her forearm sent a jolt through my side, and my timid grip on the bottle turned dangerous.

  An awareness crackled, but it was beyond obvious that neither one of us was in the position to do anything other than ignore it.

  Our eyes shuffled, scooting away rather than toward each other, but despite the fumbling, I ended up with my hips settled against the counter behind me, beer in my hand, and she mirrored me against the counter opposite, wine in hers.

  I would have expected her to say something. To fill the silence with simple chatting or exploratory questions. But she didn’t, and I suspected it had something to do with the bags under her eyes. Their weight seemed to pull at her face, aging her in a way that all of the years of her life hadn’t managed to do.

  She looked tired. She looked spent. And she looked like someone who needed to drink her wine, and when it was done, drink another glass. And she would have preferred to do it without me in her house.

  So I stood silent, the alien amber liquid coating the dryness of my throat and sliding easily the rest of the way. The weight of her thoughts sunk her face even further, and I watched unabashedly, studying the swoops and contours of her soft skin, the flit of her eyes as they worked though numerous emotions—contemplation, grief, denial, and acceptance—all wrestling for dominance but coming up short to the overwhelming power of resignation.

  She seemed oblivious to my stare, the sweep of her long hair falling and covering one eye. The wine dwindled, slowly but steadily, the last gulp sliding down her throat without one word being spoken.

  Her fingers fiddled, and the stroke of her thumb against the smooth glass hummed a soft rhythm. Likewise, my beer had nearly disappeared, the sips I took in between deciphering blue from turquoise in her uneasy eyes making quick work of a liquid I didn’t even taste.

  I refilled her glass without asking, fetched myself another beer, and was just settling back against the counter when she spoke.

  Soft and unprovoked—the lack of eye contact making it feel almost like she was talking to herself.

  “I was only twenty-three when Nick died. The way it felt, you’d have thought I understood the depth of life.” She played with her wine, making the liquid slide back and forth between the sides of the delicate glass. “Its twists and turns and the reality of our own mortality.” She watched the wine settle again as she stopped moving it. “That’s the way it hurt. Not like it was unbelievable or like somehow it wouldn’t be real.” A sad, soft chuckle. “No, it felt real from the very first time I heard he was sick. It didn’t feel like make believe; it felt like the end of my world. I knew he was dying. I knew he was going to be gone, as in forever. I thought that would make me more ready somehow.” One deep breath altered the line of her chest, lifting and shaping it with all that fresh air. Carefully, she let it out. “But the truth is, I didn’t know a freaking thing about anything, and it only took me a few days on my own to realize it. I wasn’t ready, I hadn’t actually known. I’d had no fucking clue.” Her eyes jumped to mine so suddenly I startled. “Days to realize, years and years to live it.”

  My jaw clenched at the pain in her voice, and my fist clenched to disperse the tension.

  The floor became interesting again, the flush of her cheeks suggesting that she might have even been embarrassed, but she didn’t let it stop her. “Years to be alone. Years to wonder if that was my one and only chance. Years to think it was.” Dropping her volume to barely audible, she explained, “I don’t like being alone. I’m used to it, but I have never, ever wanted it.”

  Her lips had obviously loosened. Though, whether it was the result of frustration, alcohol, or the combination of the two, I couldn’t be sure. Contrastingly, I couldn’t seem to pry my uncooperative lips apart with a virtual crowbar.

  I wanted to comfort her. Offer her some kind of camaraderie in the similarity of my feelings.

  But I couldn’t.

  When the words finally formed, mined deep from somewhere within me that I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen, I gave her more honesty than I’d ever given anyone. Melly included.

  “That’s funny. Since Melly died, all I’ve ever strived to be is alone.”

  For the first time that night, her eyes were the ones doing the searching.

  But I didn’t stick around long enough for anything to be discovered.

  I pressed one soft kiss to the rosy apple of her cheek and let my fingers drift softly along the cotton of her shirt as I made my way out of the kitchen, down the dark empty hall, and up the stairs to bed.

  Some demons were best kept locked in Pandora’s box no matter how compelled you felt to let them escape.

  SLINGING MY PURSE ON MY shoulder, I made my way to the front of the house, pausing briefly by the stairs to listen.

 
Still quiet.

  Wade’s sleeping habits weren’t exactly common knowledge, so for all I knew, he always slept this late in the morning. Maybe he was one of those nighttime people, roaming the dark and doing all their everyday deeds at two o’clock in the morning.

  Not that he’d done that last night.

  I felt bad leaving without saying something, but time wasn’t stagnant, and I didn’t have time to sit around and wait.

  I had a few errands to run, an appointment to keep, and I had to go stock up on supplies for a house guest. Not only was I obviously lacking in groceries, but I was dangerously close to running out of stuff you really didn’t want to ever run out of.

  Like toilet paper.

  Just the thought of it made me shudder.

  Pulling the door open, I crossed the threshold with my head down, digging in my bag for sunglasses. My light-colored eyes were vampiric, positively hating the sun. If I didn’t work fast to shade them from their enemy, a sneezing fest would ensue, and the meaning of that was much deeper than it had been prior to giving birth to kids.

  As they settled on my face, I threw the length of my shimmering hair over my shoulder and walked briskly to the door of my Chevy Tahoe. It tangled only slightly in my lip gloss, but with a huff and the aid of my pinky finger, I managed to put it back where it belonged.

  Fall was in full swing (Okay, technically it didn’t start for a week or so, but I was cold-natured) and the nip in the air was quickly turning to a chill. Leaves crinkled under foot as I walked, reminding me that the chores of someone who cared never ended.

  For years, I’d been the person who cared. Cutting the grass on a schedule, raking the leaves as soon as they fell. Luckily, I wasn’t anymore. Life is far too short and completely unguaranteed. If you like raking leaves, then by all means, do it.

  I, however, don’t like raking leaves.

  Rays of sunlight sluiced through the morning air, glinting, dancing, and twisting to create little spears of rainbows reflecting off of the sparkling white paint of my Tahoe.

  The handle fit easily into my grip, and I looked over my shoulder one last time at the home I’d spent years creating and nurturing. I hadn’t thought I’d have to do it alone, but all in all, I felt like I’d done alright.

  My eyes jumped to the front top window, the one that belonged to my only occupied spare bedroom, and tried desperately to see past the barrier of my blue damask curtains.

  The room wasn’t manly in the slightest, but I hadn’t heard any complaints coming from that direction once we’d retired last night.

  Of course, the construction of my house was pretty sound.

  Tugging the handle and turning back to the car simultaneously, I swung the door open and lifted my foot to the running board, just in time to shriek back in horror after almost hopping straight up into a masculine jean-clad lap.

  “What are you doing?” I forced out, one splayed hand to my rapidly surging chest. Involuntarily, my eyes flicked back to the window I’d just been surveying.

  The one he very obviously wasn’t behind at all.

  “Chauffeuring you on your errands.”

  My eyes narrowed as I swung them back to his face.

  “I didn’t ask you to come.” My words were steelier than even I expected.

  He shrugged, completely nonplussed. “I’m being helpful.”

  Frustrated, flustered, and still reeling, I slammed a fist onto my hip and ignored his boyish expression. “I didn’t ask you to be helpful.”

  For one fleeting second, he looked unsure. Then he didn’t, mostly repeating himself and making my blood pressure soar.

  “But I wanted to help?” His damn brown eyes twinkled, the warmth in them so powerful I could almost feel it through the chill in the air.

  “Are you mentally ill?” I asked, losing my cool.

  He could not come. I had to go the doctor today. Forget the fact that I hadn’t told anyone what was going on, I was headed to the gynecologist. Despite our talk last night and his temporary residence in my house, this was a man I still viewed as a practical stranger.

  Put that together with the uncertainty and self-loathing I was feeling for my own traitorous body, and I didn’t even want him in the building while someone looked at my vagina.

  “No more so than your daughter,” he teased, easing the would-be sting of his words with a damnably charming smile.

  Weary from the battle, yet intrigued at the same time, I hung my head in defeat and let my purse drop gracelessly from my shoulder into the low hanging grip of my outstretched finger tips.

  “Come on,” he prompted, shooing me out of the door, pulling it closed, and firing the engine.

  I shot daggers out of my eyes as I rounded the hood hoping to pierce the glass, pulled the passenger door open on my own car, and climbed in.

  Distended air pooled around me in a body temperature cloud as I huffed. “What’d you do? Dig through my purse to find my keys? Classy.”

  He laughed, placing his long-fingered hand on the headrest of my seat in preparation to back up, and looked me square in the eye. “These are your spare keys. They were on the hook in the hall. I’d assume your keys are still in your purse, but I wouldn’t know because, no, I didn’t rifle through it.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Too many scary possibilities.”

  His eyes turned away as he pushed his foot down on the gas, backing up with speed and accuracy and making the lines of my house grow tinier and tinier as our distance grew. Instead of watching the house disappear, I studied my hands, watching as my aggravated fingers rubbed at each other.

  The feel of his arm leaving my seat brought my eyes up from my lap and up to look out the windshield in front of me.

  There were lots of things to go over. Probably most importantly where we were headed and the directions he would need to know to get there.

  But that’s not what I talked about. Instead, I focused on the facts I couldn’t change—the things that were already happening, no matter the reason.

  “How’d you know I was going anywhere? It’s not like we talked about it last night.”

  No, I’d spilled my guts like a lunatic, and he’d left me with one vague parting line and the sense that his mind had much more to say. “And I didn’t see you at all earlier this morning.”

  “Ah,” he breathed, relaxing into what I considered a “man driving pose”—left wrist casually draped over the top of the steering wheel, right elbow and forearm resting carelessly on the console, left knee hitched slightly higher than the right, which was of course extended marginally toward the gas pedal. “Yeah, well, the sounds of a woman getting ready are pretty easily identifiable. Shower. Blow dryer. Muttering and cursing about one outfit looking even worse than another. The sound of said outfit being thrown back into the shelves of your closet.”

  “I get it,” I grumbled.

  “They’re all very cute sounds,” he assured me with a familiar squeeze of my left knee. The touch itself was innocent, but the effect of it lingered, pulling my eyes to the scene of the crime and holding them there, trying to see the burn marks eat through the denim of my pants.

  Rattled, I lifted my eyes quickly, looking left and feeling my breath leave me in a silent whoosh.

  Fine-lined wrinkles stretched and scrawled into the tan skin around his heavy-lashed brown eyes, and the growth of his facial hair from yesterday peppered the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheek, and the edge of his upturned rosy lips. His precise goatee wasn’t so precise anymore.

  A long-sleeve, plain, black t-shirt covered the skin of his arms all the way to the wrist, and worn denim encased his legs in the perfect fit.

  I’d known he was attractive. God, I’d made a fool of myself the first time I’d noticed just how much so. And arguably, also the second.

  But this time was different.

  This time he looked real. He looked like a full-grown man—far away from old but way the hell past boy. He didn’t look like an imitation of Tim McGraw, surrounded by
the allure of being a celebrity.

  He looked like Wade.

  And he looked dangerously tempting.

  Ah, crap.

  Closing my eyes, I fought to keep my burgeoning stupidity at bay.

  The bleat of a song coming from somewhere other than the radio startled me out of my thoughts. Wade struggled to get his phone out of the clip on his belt, and I just managed to stop myself from reaching over the console and unclipping it for him.

  What the hell was wrong with me?

  The surprise of finding out I could be coming up on turning fifty years old and still find myself feeling like a teenager was throwing off my equilibrium. When you turn fifty, you’re supposed to be secure in your life, secure in yourself, and most likely, secure in your partner. And I wasn’t any of them. I didn’t like where I was in my life, I was uncomfortable with myself—especially the frequency with which I found myself depressed—and I didn’t have a partner.

  And it freaking sucked.

  Wait a second.

  “Is that a Taylor Swift song?”

  “How the fuck should I know?” he snapped as he finally got it unclipped. “Your daughter’s asshole boyfriend changed it before he left, and I haven’t been able to figure out how to change it back.”

  We weren’t even a couple, and he was still trying to find a way to blame me for the kid he raised.

  Men.

  “What are you, ninety-five years old? How can you not know how to change your ringtone?”

  He shot me a silent glare.

  Raising my hands in surrender, I accepted, “Fine. I’ll change it for you when you’re done with this phone call, Grandpa.”

  Wisely ignoring my teasing, he swiped his thumb across the screen and brought the phone to his ear.

  “Hello?”

  Unabashedly, I found myself listening, trying to hear the person on the other end of the line, even though it couldn’t have been less of my business.

  Unfortunately, my wolf abilities of extra-sensitive hearing had yet to kick in.