“Are you all right, Treajure?” Caleb asks. I can’t answer him. I’m not really all right, but what did I expect for being in love with a fantasy? I played at pretend, and now, I’m paying the price of realizing that it wasn’t real.
“Hazel is not his type.”
I’d like to ask Caleb what’s Cassius’s type is, but I think he’s just doing it for my sake. Caleb turns up the movie in the back, down in the front.
“To tell you the truth, I don’t think Hazel would be a good fit, and not because she works in Vegas. Everyone needs to earn a living. Cash doesn’t need another Kennedy, and from what I’ve heard, she reminds me of Kennedy. He had that, and it was hard on everyone. We wanted to like her, we did. I couldn’t love her. She was the vilest creature I have ever met. True story. Don’t tell Cash. I told Clayton I didn’t like Kennedy once, and he punched me in the face. I don’t want to fight my brother. Kennedy isn’t worth brothers to fight over.” Caleb’s voice is hushed as he looks in the review mirror at the kids, who are now eating crackers and drinking their juice boxes, watching their favorite movie. I can never work the controls back there, but Ken’s mastered it.
“You know if you need somewhere to stay, you can come back?”
I reach out and pat him on his cheek.
“Will you shank me again?” His voice is a hard set of words. I shrug my shoulders, not knowing what to answer because I can’t promise that.
Caleb throws his head back and laughs. I’d like to ask him if he really thinks Cassius will fuck Hazel. I don’t ask; I keep the questions to myself. Deep down I know what he’s doing. Deep down I know.
Whenever we see someone he knows on the road, he waves and gives a honk.
“Who says you can’t live your best life driving a minivan?” The windows are down, and he’s smiling as if he owns the world.
Pulling up to the farm, Rya is standing there holding a bouquet of wildflowers. Her belly is slightly showing; she’s having a female. It’s the first time ever for a Valentine to have a female in their alpha line. Dallas puts Chance down to run toward the van when we stop.
Rya always smells better than the entire field of wildflowers. She makes me want to take big breaths in and out until I’m full of her scent. It tingles at my bones and makes me feel giddy, almost drunk, if I stay too long around her. Those are the times I want to kiss Cassius the most or touch him. My skin feels alive and excited when Cassius and Rya are out and I’m there with them. I get hungry, just not for food. For skin in my mouth, for teeth to scrape against flesh. For my tongue to taste him. Some other females say the same thing; they say they get horny for their mates being around Rya.
Cassius isn’t my mate, but when I’m around Rya, he feels like he could be. Those tingles, the feeling of his eyes on me, his scent changes, and I can actually taste it at the back of my throat. Once Cassius put his arms around me and held me on his lap and told me I smelled different when we had a sleepover at Rya’s house because Dallas was away at a seminar. He was stone hard underneath his pants. I felt it. His cock was hard, and I was on his lap. His hands were on my thighs, and I felt the shift of his hips. His breathing was hot, and I was on fire. Rya walked in on us and Cassius mumbled he had to go to bed. In the morning he said sorry that he had a lot to drink and it got away from him. Those words felt like an execution.
Cash hardly drank after that.
“Treajure, where are your earrings?” Rya curls my hair around my ear.
“Sore subject, Rya,” Caleb answers for me.
“What happened?”
“Cash is an idiot.” Caleb walks away, and Dallas and Rya are left staring at my face.
“I’m making wildflower soap today, Treajure. Do you want to help?” I nod my head with a smile, but a shriek from Ken has the Wild evacuate skin to fur with dizzying speed. The warrior goose has him lying on the ground as wings spread wide over the top of him. We smell Ken’s blood, and there is an execution of a goose that stood no chance against the teeth of a Wild. She tears into the bird, she rips out its feathers, she tosses it in the air. The Wild disembowels the fowl.
When Caleb tries to approach, the Wild shows him blood-dripping teeth that are sharper than a silver shank.
“That was aggressive,” Caleb says to chastise the Wild, but when he sees Ken’s bloody knee, even he wears a white flash of teeth.
“Don’t worry, Treajure, the goose had it coming,” Dallas says as he picks up Ken in his arms and looks at his gravel-riddled hands and his torn-up knee. Ken is still screaming as if all his lifeblood is coming out of his body. He cries as if he’s been torn apart.
“Ken, you get to choose the Band-Aid. Let’s clean that up.” Dallas has him in his arms—Dee and Chance are holding hands, following Dallas with concern in their eyes.
When Caleb tries to get close to the now torn apart goose, the Wild nips at his hand. Her kill, she won’t release it. She might even eat the bones; that’s how mad she is about Ken getting hurt on her watch.
We are left outside until nothing remains of the goose except feathers. Alpha Clinton has come to inspect the injured, and the Wild is so full she’s laying belly up in the sun with her tongue hanging out. He bends down and takes her jaw in his hand; her teeth remain tucked in tight, just like her tail.
“Good job.” He lets her face go, gives a quick scratch behind her ear, and walks toward the house. Ken has stopped crying, but his limp is excessive.
“Are you sure he didn’t break his leg?” Caleb asks. Dallas doesn’t answer him back.
“Good thing our little warrior was here.” Alpha Clinton picks up Ken and holds him to him, smelling his neck with a small bite to his shoulder that doesn’t break the skin.
The Wild is full, Ken is safe, and her Alpha just called her little warrior. Her life is simple, and she rests in the sun, soaking up the rays, keeping one eye on the twins, content and happy.
Letter 11
Cash,
You asked me what was wrong last night before bed. I wanted to tell you, “Everything.” Everything is wrong; this entire situation between us is wrong. I’m wrong. You’re fucking wrong for not giving up on me. I’m not someone you should fight for, Cash. I’m not worth your fight. Instead of telling you what’s wrong, I faced the wall and pretended to fall asleep. You turned your back, pressed your spine against mine, and fell asleep for real.
I’m afraid Clayton will forget about me in time. He’s going to forget about us and how much I loved him. I don’t want to be forgotten by him, and it kills me inside that I might be. I’m afraid for him to move on, and what’s really screwed up is that I want you to forget about me. Forget about all of this; turn this into some kind of obscure dream that you can wake up and move on from.
I was tired today. I’m so tired. It was hard to lift the paintbrush, so you took it from my hand and finished the spot I was working on. You’ve gotten so good. I think in time, you’ll be a better artist than me. You should practice in all mediums, clay, charcoal, acrylics…try woodworking or stonework. I think you could be good at anything. It just takes time and patience, and I know you’ve got patience.
If the twins show promise in their art, cultivate it. Praise them and make them feel as if what they are doing is something meaningful and not just stupid drawings that will never amount to anything. My parents never supported my art; they didn’t think it was something you could make a living off of. I never went to art school. I should have gone. I was afraid to be away from Clayton, and he was afraid for me to be away from him. He didn’t support me going, so I stayed home.
That is a big regret in my life. I should have gone. I should have left and gone to art school instead of staying in the pack. Maybe we would have met under different circumstances? You can’t go back in time. You can only go forward until your time is up. I really don’t have much time left. You know it. I can see the devastation in your eyes.
Whenever I bring it up, you shut me up. You can’t talk about it, and I can’t bear to see th
at look in your eyes. Life’s not fair. You want the things you can’t have, and I want the things I can’t have, either. It’s not easy, Cash. This isn’t easy on me, I know you want me to be stronger, to fight harder, but I’m too tired to want things anymore.
I heard your mother on the phone with Caleb. I guess Rya cheated on Dallas with Clayton. She’s not so perfect now, is she? Your mother turned to your father and told him Dallas is coming home by himself.
That’s what made me really upset today. Dallas is coming back, and I don’t like your brother at all. I don’t like the way he looks at me. I don’t like Caleb, either. He’s an asshole. A giant asshole who thinks he’s this masterpiece of a wolf. He’s not a masterpiece. He’s a masterpiece of shit. You know he called me a bitch to my face, and maybe I deserved it, but fuck him for saying it. He’s no different than me in a way; he’s fucked females that aren’t his mate, yet he judges me but can be friends with Clayton? I don’t want the twins around him.
Carson, I’m neutral towards, and Crane is a disgusting little mess of a wolf. I’m afraid your brothers aren’t going to be good for the twins to be around. They don’t like me, and what happens if they don’t like the twins because they come from me?
You’re all they’re going to have. Protect them, Cash. Protect them from things that they don’t even know they need protecting from.
Everyone feels sorry for Dallas. I don’t. He had to have known it was coming. How could Rya resist someone like Clayton? How? Rya’s a cheater. Your good friend is a cheater, but you still love her like a sister. She cheated on your brother, but you still consider her a friend, but you can’t see how Caleb can like Clayton? Ask yourself some meaningful questions, Cash. Ask yourself why you can be friends with a cheater who devastated your brother, but Caleb can’t be friends with Clayton?
Double standards. Your family loves Rya, but they hate me? I know, a different situation, but I think even if I was to live, I’ll only be tolerated by your family, not loved. Only tolerated.
Clayton’s mother used to love me. We would go everywhere together. Our mothers were best friends. She loved me so much, and I loved her, I think, more than my mother. That all changed when Clayton knew I wasn’t his mate. Everything changed that day we told them we weren’t mates. From then on, I was only tolerated by her, never loved again.
The fights we would get into, the way his mother would drag her eyes down me whenever she saw us hugging or kissing. It’s like she wanted to throw up and she blamed me for everything. I heard her talking about me and how her son was pussy-whipped. I wanted to yell at her that it wasn’t my pussy he loved; it was me. Me. I didn’t. I kept it to myself and tried to be this perfect wolf without any flaws, but she’d paw at me constantly. Nothing I did was ever good enough. Ever.
She would brag sometimes about Rya at the dinner table right in front of me, how proud that she’s become a midwife and that she would be a contributing member of the pack. Clayton stood up for me then and said he’s never going to sit at their table again if she can’t stop talking about Rya. Clayton didn’t want to hear about Rya; he didn’t give a shit. His mother blamed me for their distance. I was blamed for everything. Loving Clayton was the easy part. It was everyone else that made things hard between us.
Sometimes I catch your mother watching me, and I don’t have this need to be perfect. I’m just me, and for the first time in a long time, it feels good not to have to act that I don’t make mistakes. Your mother’s nice. We got off to a rocky start, but I understand that you’re her child and she will protect you, even from your own mate.
Your father hardly speaks to me, but when he does, it has a lot of layered meaning that hits me at odd times, and I might laugh out loud or cry from it. He’s a good father. I think you’ll be like him. I hope you will be like him. I want you to be like him.
I never thought my life would turn out this way, and I bet you never thought your life would turn out this way, too.
Kennedy
Chapter 12
Change is a Grief-eater
Cassius
The men in the bar eat up Hazel with their eyes as if she’s some sort of raw meat that’s prepackaged in a form-fitting black dress.
“Do you know who that is?” I ask the bartender.
“Her name’s Hazel. She’s a freelancer.”
Hazel makes her way to a table filled with pretty women and men in suits that don’t hide their distended guts. The smell of money drips off them like water. Those eyes are exactly like Kennedy’s. I breathe, once, twice, a third time before the smoke-filled air burns my lungs, and I want to choke on the thought that this might be another bad choice.
“What does that mean, freelancer?”
“See those girls at that table? Most work for the lady sitting by the stage in the blue dress. Hazel is her own employer. She’s an independent.”
This female I’m looking at doesn’t seem like the same one who sat across from me at the house with her eyes half-closed, mumbling. This female seems composed and well made up. She places ice at the bottom of the heavy glass and uncorks the whiskey bottle, filling the cup only enough to get a few swallows down.
“Does she come here a lot?”
“Once a month like clockwork.”
“What’s she like?”
“She’s quiet, she doesn’t cause any trouble unless someone messes with her, and when they do, she fucks them up.”
“She fights?”
“No one will mess with her anymore, not even him.” He nudges his chin toward a man near a door watching with his back leaning against the wall.
“Who is that?”
“No one you want to know.” The hinges on the bartender’s jaw flex.
“If you don’t mind me asking, who let you in here?”
“Who let me in?” I try to play it off.
“You don’t fit the clientele here.”
“Are you profiling me?” I point my beer toward him before taking another sip.
“Yes, yes, I am.”
“I slipped in. I’ve never been to Vegas, let alone VIP. I wanted to see if it was like the movies.” Taking another sip of beer, I still watch Hazel in the mirror.
The bartender laughs. “It’s nothing like the movies. It’s better.”
“So far, not impressed.”
“Wait till Hazel goes on. Most of these men came for her.”
“She strips?”
“I like the term visual artist,” he corrects me respectfully.
A man pats his thigh, and Hazel sits on his lap, like some sort of pet. It’s hard to finish the rest of the beer when she puts her glass to his lips and he finishes the rest of her drink. She nudges him with her nose before leaving behind the smudge of red against his neck.
Hazel spreads her legs, and the man’s hand disappears underneath the hem of her dress. Her mouth is parted slightly and her eyes de-focus. Is she enjoying the man pawing her?
“Have you slept with her?”
“I tried, not enough cash in the wallet. Hazel does nothing for free.”
The more the man finger fucks her, the more straight whiskey she drinks. She doesn’t even use ice. She’s watching the new dancer on stage, and the man is watching his finger sliding in and out of her. Hazel drinks more and more, and the man mauls between her legs.
The back of Hazel’s head is leaned against his shoulder, her back is arched, and her hips shift slightly. At first, I think she might be enjoying it, but all I can see are hollow hazel eyes.
“Hey buddy, she’s out of your league. See those women over there? Those are more your style. Hazel’s premium.”
She gets up and takes the stage. Red flashes from the bottom of her shoes.
Her nose lifts in the air, her eyes find mine, and I give her a little nod to say hello. There is something rancid that traces along her lip line. Turning around to fully face her, I lean back. If she’s putting on a show, who am I not to watch?
She stiffens up for a second before I se
e the roll of her shoulders. Her eyes go blank, and she moves to the ghostly rhythm of the song. Her eyes re-focus on the man in the chair, and all the men are concentrating on Hazel. The women try to look unimpressed but fail.
Hazel owns the space of the stage; she moves, and the crowd shifts in their seats. I can even hear some of them gasp when she slides that dress down her body slowly until she steps out of it with only a bra and panties and those red bottom shoes.
Her red shade of lipstick matches the shoes. It’s a startling combination; the eye traces up to her lips, down to her feet. Up and down, she’s gorged by eyes that can’t look away. The man leaning against the wall looks at Hazel like she’s prey, that he’s going to devour this beauty and spit her out in pieces. A part of me wants to throw him through the window, but this might be what Hazel wants, to be eaten up like this. Who am I to interfere with her business?
I’ve never seen a female so confident. She sculpts beauty with movement.
Taking another sip of beer, feeling the way the cold liquid slides down my throat, I’d like to fuck Hazel, but that thought fades away because the Wild won’t have any of that. He’s giving me what I need, but he won’t let me take anything more than tomorrow night. I’m not here for Hazel. I’m here for something else.
Cassius (The Wildflower Series Book 3) Page 10