Frayed

by Blakely Chorpenning

  Chapter Eighteen

  For the next few weeks, everyone tried to return to their regularly scheduled lives. I went back to training again. Fighting again. Screwing again. Laughing again. I was closer than ever to Darien and my roommates. My thigh healed from Drey’s bites so I looked good in mini’s once more. We were eating Sunday dinners at Mom’s again. Everything was back to normal. It should have felt right.

  It didn’t.

  I ate, even though I was never hungry. It had no taste. I fought, but the sport was gone. It wasn’t fun anymore. I laughed out loud with everyone else. Inside, I was just numb. I shifted, but my leopard refused to do little more than lean from left to right. And Brice didn’t know how to please me anymore.

  It wasn’t until the fifth Sunday dinner after that I realized all involved were struggling silently. We were like soldiers home from war. Everyone expected us to revert to our pre-war selves. They didn’t understand that certain transgressions make that impossible. Nightmares and physical reminders make it unfeasible to live like we hadn’t danced with evil.

  Sitting at my mother’s table, I looked around, watching her playfully threaten my sister, Tawny, with a baked potato. Tawny’s black hair was straightened in a soft ponytail, and beside our mother, she was considerably darker. But they talked, picked up their cups, and made jokes the exact same way. And Frank always laughed at the table like he’d never seen them act up together. His laugh was a boom, thunder before a much-anticipated rain. Darien usually took part in the show, too, elbowing Frank and rolling his eyes at the crazy women in our family. These things reminded my heart of home, though I lived elsewhere. Even the roomies had a place at the large table. Gage always ate an extra ear of corn because it used to be his mother’s favorite, and Mom gave Lydia an extra hug every Sunday. She said it quelled Lydia’s anxiety. I didn’t know what she was talking about, but who was I to second-guess?

  On this particular Sunday, I noticed Darien giving Frank half-hearted nods rather than elbow nudges. A mound of food lay on my plate, untouched. Marisa and her mother were there, too. Marisa maintained a gracious smile the entire time, never wavering. She also never spoke more than to say "thank you" or "please." The smile was a total facade.

  After dinner, I found her sitting alone on the back porch, so I sat down, too. I leaned over my knees, not sure what to say. The wind blew our hair. A cardinal landed on the step railing and I imagined catching and eating it. It flew away. Then a bunny hopped into the edge of the yard.

  "I want to be like that bunny," Marisa whispered.

  I watched the little gray ball of fluff sniff the grass. "No, you don’t."

  "Why not?"

  "You’re something better. You can eat that bunny."

  "I don’t think so, Fray. I’m not like you."

  I sat up. "I’ll teach you."

  "To fight?" She sounded scared but excited.

  I nodded.

  Marisa smiled. It was a real smile. "Okay."

  Before I left to go home, Mom and Frank each gave me an extra hug. And I took them because I was overdue for a real smile, as well. I also promised Tawny a shopping trip with the non-zombie versioned me. Then I gave her an extra hug, pretty fucking thankful she hadn’t been one of the unlucky to fall prey to the Dissenters.

  Later, at the house, I was searching for my gym bag so I could fit in a few training hours before bed. Finally, Warren told me someone had moved it upstairs, out of the way.

  "When is under the table in the way?"

  "I don’t know, but it wasn’t me."

  "Yeah, yeah," I mumbled, ascending the staircase.

  On my bed was the duffle bag with a small black box lying on top of it. Staring for a long moment, I yelled to no one particular, "This better not be another fucking body part!" To myself, I reiterated, "Please don’t be anything bad," as I opened the lid.

  It was the heirloom pearl necklace I had ruined in the rampaging of my room. Yet, I was holding the intact version in a satin lined box. It only took a second to flip it over and discover a card.

  You’ll need this one day.

  "Damn it, Blaire! That’s such a Cale thing to do. Why can’t you just be a bastard and let me get over you?" Though, as I said the words, I slipped the card in the box and shut the lid, already eager to take it out later and read it again.

  In the week to follow, I found myself frequently in the gym, but not for training. I was teaching Marisa, Genevieve, and Mira the Werewolf self-defense moves. They had more fun than initially expected. Turned out to be pretty cathartic for me, too.

  It wasn’t until the following Friday that I did something I swore I’d never do.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Savage and I were scheduled for an early fight. Some bullshit about a baseball game later. Fine with me. I preferred to get it out of the way and eat an early dinner at the house. My appetite had returned until it turned right back into the beast it always had been. Yeah, that didn’t take long.

  While she was busy warming up in one of the empty rooms, I leaned against my locker, flipping through texts under the dim light, reading most recent to last.

  Darien: Ribs for dinner.

  Mom: Your last text made me laugh.

  Brice: Tequila and salt on me. Need a warm tongue. Mirth. 9.

  Lucy: Rush is ready any time you are.

  Rush Stevens had agreed to sit down and tell me his story, front to back, upside down and back-asswards because I’m not a moron. We didn’t extinguish every Dissenter. I’d bet a damn storm of the century on it. One body, in particular, had been missing from the upturned quarry: The one that delivered personal threats and very clearly despises loose ends. The pandemonium of my nightmares.

  Lucy sent the text right before dawn. My phone displayed ‘5:18’ in the upper right-hand corner. The main event started in less than half an hour. It was too late to ask someone else to fight Savage.

  Staring at ugly paint and smelling old sweat for the five millionth time, I realized in my very core that I didn’t give a shit. This place, these fights were no longer a priority. For as much as I had tried, Jared Tomas’ words never left my mind. I didn’t want to be their hero. I refused. I would always see blood on my hands.

  Shifters didn’t need a hero. They needed someone to watch over them. A guardian. A bunch of guardians.

  Grabbing a pen and paper, I scribbled a short note to Savage—no—to Danica, and returned a few texts. I knew Rush would check Lucy’s phone while she slept.

  To Darien: Keep it warm.

  To Mom: I love u.

  To Brice: Sorry babe.

  To Rush: On my way.

  The Mustang had to be picked up at the shop down the street first. It wasn’t completely fixed, but the essentials would be taken care of by six. Blaire, who I refused to speak directly to, had set up an appointment at a very exclusive body shop with a reputation as pristine as God’s kiss to correct the rest.

  I wasn’t ignoring my ex, just avoiding him like a fucking ninja, going so far as barrel-rolling out of the second story bathroom window when he stopped by unexpectedly two days ago. The pearls had thrown me for a loop. It was too kind. I was too suspicious. It wouldn’t work. Whatever he was vying for would. Never. Work.

  Throwing on a crimson T-shirt with a plunging V-neck that stopped between bare breasts and black jeans tighter than sin’s grip, I emptied my locker. Smiling all the while.

  With the tan duffle over my shoulder, I slunk past waves of fans in the halls waiting for the show. Little did they know there wouldn’t be one. Their amusement was slipping out the door in a pair of sunglasses and fuck-you heels.

  As I walked away for the last time, the wind ravaged the crepe myrtle’s lining the sides of the street, sucking and blowing fuchsia petals underfoot. I walked into the magnificent torrent and threw my head back, feeling it consume my body.

  Nothing had ever felt so right.

  Epilogue

  Danica,

  Clear out your locker. I found t
hat "something that matters."

  Read an excerpt from

  A Madison Lark Adventure Two: Skinned

  Chapter One

  I had always relished that sacred time alone, when everyone was so busy I could slink about in my own world while the house was empty. But now that empty space was nothing but a spiteful bitch making me look over my shoulder and check the locks on the doors twice as often.

  That pissed me off.

  Lobbing the keys at the bowl on the side table in the foyer and narrowly missing, I nervously kicked off my sneakers, leaving them in the middle of the rug, and headed upstairs for a shower. A quick one. The way the water drowned everything out was more like a straightjacket than a seductive embrace these days.

  I passed my suitcase on the bed, right where I had left it earlier. Everything that I’d need was packed, except for my toothbrush. A sense of exhilaration tingled through me, though it was chased soon after by a weight I understood all too well.

  Shifters had always abided by strict rules. While men were free to travel between lepes—the multiple leopard clans that formed our society—women were forbidden to cross boundaries without express approval by their leaders. Which usually meant never. However, since forming whatever the fuck you wanted to call it, our little "good neighbor" group, compiled of every type of shapeshifter in the area, could travel across any boundary unharmed. It was the only reason I agreed to join the Collective. Because I needed freedom. Absolute, borderless freedom for my revenge on the sick group that had ruined so many lives, ending one. And if that revenge came in the guise of goodwill, well then, love and blood never sounded so virtuous.

  "Damn," I muttered under my breath. "When did everything become so fucking complicated?"

  After a hot shower, I threw on a pair of loose black sweats and crept downstairs to check the empty house for signs of life. A chill foraged my soul when I noticed the empty spot on the rug where my sneakers should have been. Where I damn well knew I left them.

  Coercing my feet into movement with silent threats, I immediately regretted telling my roommates so many times that it didn’t bother me to be home alone. It didn’t bother me that a bitter madman was still out there, waiting for my inevitable downfall, probably stalking my mental degeneration with popcorn and a creepy fucking smile.

  Standing in the doorway to the foyer, I eyed my keys, now sitting patiently in the bowl on the table.

  What the hell?

  Feeling my body tense in anticipation of my fight or flight response, I knew I was about to run. And something about that made my heart sick. There was a time when I never would have considered running. It wasn’t even an option. Fight. It had always been fight.

  So where was my fight?

  Taking an incredibly deep breath, I heard a sudden lurching noise and spun to find my brother standing in the doorway between the living room and kitchen, propping the door open with his palm. His tidy white shirt and wrinkle-free slacks were a welcome sight.

  Darien's facial expressions always mirrored that of our father. Of course, I hadn't seen Dad in so long I was amazed I could remember shit all about him to even compare. It had come as a blow to discover that he had deserted his lepe long ago in favor of a nest. A repugnant, cold snake pit. They had been hiding it from me for years, all of them. Cowards. Not knowing how to handle the lies and deceit, I simply ignored the whole damn mess. Including Dad's calls.

  My big brother's expression conjured that of trepidation as I eyed him.

  "What are you doing?" Darien asked, especially concerned once he realized my heart was ready to burst from my chest like an elephant running from a mouse. A juiced up, rabies-infested, 'I eat killer clowns for breakfast' bastard of a mouse.

  "I…" I shook my head, willing my eyes to blink. "I thought I lost my keys." I pointed to the glass dish. "But they’re right there."

  Inspecting everything about my performance, he wasn’t yet convinced.

  "I set them where they should be." Carefully, he asked, "Is there something you want to talk about?"

  "Yeah," I said, "I'd like to know when you turned into Lydia." Our roommate, Lydia, had no concept of boundaries and lived for sharing feelings. Faking a laugh, I crossed the living room, stopping at the bottom of the stairs, and grabbed the rail. Pausing, I forced the right side of my mouth to curve into a smirk. "I’m fine, Darien. I'm always fine. You should know that by now."

  "Well, I’m just grabbing a late dinner before I head out again. Are you sure-"

  "I’m fine," I lied a second time, voice flat.

  "Okay. I’m sure it won’t be long before the real Lydia gets home."

  Lydia was studying for her third degree in God only knew, writing research paper after research paper, and never came home without a stack of books tucked under her dainty chin.

  "Whatever. I’m going to bed."

  Softly, Darien said, "The nightmares won't last forever."

  "I'm not worr-"

  "They won't."

  Ignoring his tender expression, I barked, "Use the fucking lock when you leave."

  "I’ll lock up." It was a solid promise. My heightened paranoia hadn’t gone unnoticed. Hell, it sunbathed like a cat in a picture window.

  Trying to sound upbeat rather than desperate, as if I were watching the last raft float away into the darkness of an alien sea, I blurted, "I love you."

  "Don’t be nervous, little sister. The trip will go well. I’ll meet you there in two days."

  His assumption was misplaced, but I let him believe he was right, that he had discovered the root of my angst, because he wasn’t all wrong. Although I was elated at the prospect of traveling, I had yet to be convinced that our purpose was necessary. The serpentes—snake shifters—required an impartial eye to oversee an ancient ritual to crown their next king. Were we supposed to polish his crown or signal for the audience to clap? It sounded like a bullshit attempt to waste our time.

  Nodding to my brother, I managed a smile and headed to bed. After all, Darien had straightened up behind me: the keys, the shoes. There was no one else in the house. No lurking psychopath, other than myself. And my brother was right, the trip would go as planned no matter how I felt about it. I only wished he had been right about the nightmares disappearing.

  They cracked my head open like a tossed salad and paralyzed my memories in a fossilized state of hyperawareness. The damned things also sent me running straight into the solid arms I had fought so hard against.

  Chapter Two

  Knocking on my ex’s door at two in the morning to cuddle when I couldn't sleep wasn’t a copout, it was a goddamn necessity. And not for the typical horny reasons. My massive case of bed-head was a testament to the urgency.

  Ever since the Dissenters had kidnapped and mutilated shifter children—our children—the memories were reluctant to fade, and the dreams trailed closer than the children who stacked reality too high and heavy on my heart that horrendous night. But I only drove across town when the nightmares made night terrors look like kittens in drag.

  The mammoth mahogany door opened briskly. I hugged my black leather jacket close and hopped from foot to foot in the early morning chill. Until I looked up. Blaire was barefoot, wearing nothing but boxers. Holy shit! His bronzed chest begged to be teased by my fingertips and his powerful shoulders could outperform anyone I knew. Forcing my gaze upward, past the sensual lines of his neck, I stared into perfect ocean eyes that haunted my very best memories.

  Us. Hawaii.

  Our leopards frolicked by a lagoon, catching fish and sunbathing from the time the sun rose until it set behind a panoramic view inspiring countless postcards. Blaire’s fur receded, his golden flesh compelled by heat and nefarious instincts as he drew closer. Shifting as well, I matched his advances, meeting flesh with flesh. We never spoke, never argued, as my legs hugged his hips.

  There was a perfection in that love yet to be matched by any other moment or person. And I was never without it, especially in my darkest hour, which is w
hat gave me the strength to come here, even as I fought to remember one reigning fact: The blue flame is the hottest part of the fire. I was well aware this arrangement, accompanied by the eagerness in those blue lagoon eyes, would char every last part of me if we broke our abstinence policy.

  "Aren’t we past calling first?" Blaire’s voice washed over my spine, tickling all the way down. "I sent the orgy home hours ago," he mused, swiftly ruining the effect.

  I shrugged. "You know me, Blaire. I hate to bust up a party."

  Inhaling a deep breath, he shook his head. "Still Blaire, I see."

  He wanted me to call him Cale. Only, that was impossible due to our non-exclusive, anti-relationship, relationship agreement. Blaire was an oversexed body pillow. That’s all. Calling him Cale implied so much more, and that was very specifically off limits.

  Trying to ignore the solemn undertone, I teased, "What should I call you, Pussycat?"

  "If that’s my only choice."

  "I can be more inventive, but past experience reminds me that people don’t care much for my creativity."

  Blaire was a little too sober when he accused, "You’ve turned my name into a stain."

  "No," I protested, "You did. I’m just a reminder. A very tired reminder." Looking at my watch, I shook my head. "Maybe you'd prefer I left? This was a mistake."

  His dark curls swooshed as his unbelievably toned body sighed into mine. "You know what I prefer." The heat of his breath graced a delicate region of my neck.

  "But dreams only come true for good little cats," I tisked.

  After swatting temptation in the ass, I tossed my keys next to his on the delicate armchair, which cradled far too much crap. It wasn’t as easy to ignore Blaire’s advances as I made it seem, but it was enough to make him keep trying. I hated that part of me that liked the effort and attention. Although, the thought of him never trying again would shut down something inside me.