Between Two Wolves and a Hard Place (7 page)

When I pull up in front of our ranch house, inherited from my parents and now the center of our pack life, I see George and Susan sitting out on the porch, George with his battered guitar on his lap, Susan leaning back, cowboy boots crossed on the porch railing.

"Morning, sunshine," says Susan as I walk up.

Susan and George complete our pack. There's just the four of us, a small number, but neither Dean nor I have had much heart or enthusiasm for recruiting other wolves. It's almost as if we've been paralyzed these past few years. Trapped in a bubble of inertia. Unable to really kick-start our lives. Waiting. Waiting. But for what?

"Morning, gorgeous." And Susan really is. Long, strawberry blonde hair, freckles over the bridge of her nose, and eyes as green as moss. "Dean up?"

George gives me a rueful smile. "I heard some noises from his end of the house. So maybe?"

I pat George on the shoulder and move on in. The house is dark. I bang on Dean's door. "You up?"

"No."

I open the door and see Leena lying beside Dean, his face held between her hands. She's trying to pull him into a kiss, a long expanse of pale leg showing where the covers have fallen back. I've mated with Leena twice. The first time was incredible. The second time left me feeling empty. I haven't touched her since, and she hasn't complained.

"Sorry to interrupt," I say, making myself smile. "We've got to go."

Dean shakes his head free and glowers at me. "Why? Where to?"

"It can wait," says Leena, not looking at me. Her eyes are trained on Dean.

"No. It can't wait. And won't wait. Dean. Get the hell up. Now." I put iron in my voice. It catches his attention, and he stares at me, eyes narrowed. Then, with a dramatic sigh, he throws the covers aside.

"Fine." He pulls on a pair of jeans and a plaid shirt, and then laces up his boots. "Let's go."

Leena levels a flat stare at me, and I raise an eyebrow. Slowly lines are being drawn in the sand, and she's making it more clear each day which side each of us is on. She holds my gaze without a problem, and when Dean marches past me and out of the room, she leans back in his bed and slides a hand under the covers. "Guess I'll just have to pleasure myself, since the only man around here just left."

I give her a cutting smile. "Knock yourself out." I turn, closing the door behind me, blood boiling. March out into the sunshine, where Dean is standing and stretching beside our packmates. "Come on," I say, and head back to my truck. He ambles over and gets in.

I reverse, and point the truck in the direction of the mountains. I drive fast, taking the mountain roads with the skill that comes from growing up around here. I know each curve and switchback like the back of my hand.

"Where're we headed?" asks Dean.

"You stink, man. Alcohol and sweat."

Dean snorts and says nothing more.

I pull the truck over and park by a trailhead. Get out, and then shuck my shirt over my head. Kick off my shoes, ditch my pants, and then shift aggressively fast into my wolf form. It feels good to be on all fours, the world becoming sharper, my senses more keen, smells exploding into vivid tangibility around me.

Dean stares at me through the window. "It's like that, is it?"

I growl at him, daring him. Defying him. That gives me pause. We never growl at each other.

"Fine," he says, and gets out. He doesn't bother pulling his clothing off, just shifts right there and then, shaking his clothes off when he's on all fours. I don't give him a chance to try to engage in dominating behavior, but rather take off, sprinting up the trail.

It's steep. Sunlight spears down through the canopy. I smell loam, rotting leaves, the last dank traces of winter, and the bright, clear energy of spring. Up I run, up the steep trail, pushing myself, forcing my muscles harder and harder.

I can hear Dean behind me. He's growling low, not liking being pushed this hard, resenting me, but refusing to be left behind. Up we race, faster and faster, till my breath is coming in ragged gasps, my lungs heaving, my muscles burning. Finally I burst out of the tree line and come to the top of the mountain, emerging into the sunlight at the top of a cliff.

Dean emerges from the shadows a moment later, and stalks in front of me, his body tense, his tail stiff, ears low on his skull. All warning language. Before he can go any further, I shift back up to my human form. Dean stares at me a moment longer with his gold eyes, and then does the same.

We stand facing each other at the top of the cliff, the sunlight bright on our skin, our hands knotted into fists.

"What the hell, Drake?" His voice is low and surly.

"That's my question, Dean. What the hell? Where are you? Who are you?"

He narrows his eyes. "I'm me. What are you talking about?"

"Oh, yeah? Since when do you sleep till the middle of the day? Since when do you drink every night?"

"What? You my mother now?"

I step right up into his face. "She's changing you, man, trying to drive us apart."

He doesn't back away. Simply stares me right in the eyes. "Nobody's changing me."

"I know you. I know you better than the back of my hand. She is. You're growing dark, Dean. Angry. She's pulling at you, twisting you. Manipulating you."

He grows and shoves at me, but I expect the blow and side-step it. That only provokes him further. "Maybe she just sees the real me."

"No," I say. "She sees what you could become. Angry, bitter, mean. She likes that, for some fucked-up reason. She knows how to push your buttons. What to say. How to provoke you. Tell me. Last night when you mated. Was it good? Pure? Did you feel joy?"

He narrows his eyes, but doesn't answer.

I shake my head. "I know how you felt. Used. Angry. Bitter at yourself. Has she asked you to hurt her yet?" No answer. "Have you? Hurt her?"

"Fuck you," says Dean, and turns away.

"Dean." Something in my voice stops him from leaving. "I love you, man. You're like my own brother. Listen to me. We don't have to walk this road. We don't have to let Leena divide us. We don't have to give in to our darker urges. There's a different option."

He stands there, head bowed, his back to me. "There is no other option. Six years we looked for a mate, and found nobody. Leena's our last chance. If we don't take a mate, our pack will fall apart. We'll be lone wolves."

"No," I say. "There is another option. Kiera."

He spins then, faster than is humanly possible. "What? You're kidding me." There's such anger and spite in his voice that I take a step back.

"She's here. She's back. She's staying at least a couple of weeks."

"So? She left, man. She abandoned us. She dropped us cold. Now that she's back, you want to go crawling to her and ask for a second chance?" His eyes are on fire.

"No," I say.

"Did she come back for us?" He searches my face. "She didn't, did she? She doesn't want us, Drake. Stop acting the fool."

This is it. The crucial moment. Make or break. I've always been better with words than Dean, but right now, I despair of finding the right ones. "Dean. Stop. Listen. She didn't come back for us. Yes, she left. But she had good reason. We scared her. Shit, we terrified ourselves. But everything's changed. We're not kids anymore. We're men."

I step up to him. He's listening. Suspicious, still angry, but he's listening.

"We're men. We don't need our mate to make the first move. We don't need to be chosen. We can do the choosing. We can tell her we want her. That we've always wanted her. That nothing has been right since she left."

Dean opens his mouth to protest, and then shakes his head and looks away.

"Dean. I want her. Her scent is like smoke rising up through my soul. I want her more than anything. And I know you want her too. Deny it. Look me in the eyes and deny it."

Dean purses his lips. I can almost see him shake from the intensity of his anger. "She's scared of me, damn it," he finally whispers. "And for good reason. I'm a monster."

I grab him by the arms. "You are not a monster. You were young. You lost control. That's it."

"No," he whispers again, voice raw. "I drove her away. I ruined everything."

"Brother," I say. "You're wrong. And even if you were right, it doesn't matter. This is our chance to make good. To reach out and take what we want. What we need. She's back, Dean. She's here. Right now. All we need to do is go to her."

"And if you're wrong? If she doesn't want us?"

I laugh and let go of him, spreading my arms wide. "Then she leaves, and we're where we before. We'll have lost nothing, but we'll know. We'll know that we tried. We tried to take the perfect mate."

"I don't know," he says.

"Yes you do. Again, I'll ask you. Look me in the eyes, and tell me you prefer Leena over Kiera. Go on. Do it."

Dean looks up. Stares me full in the eyes, and for a long, aching moment I think he's going to do it. Tell the lie that will damn him, damn me, and ruin everything. Because of his pride. His guilt. His fear.

But he doesn't. He opens his mouth, but then he closes it, and relief swamps me like a tidal wave. "See? Come on. One chance. We'll go to the studio tonight. We'll talk to her. We'll tell her we want her, we'll offer everything we've got. And if she says no? Then fuck her."

"And - if she says yes?" Dean sounds almost nervous.

My smile becomes positively wicked. "If she says yes? Then, my friend, we will take her as we meant to, all those years ago."

Chapter 9

I do my best to put all thoughts of Dean and Drake from my mind. To not think about their smoldering presence, their hands and lips. I busy myself with setting up shop, with checking out the kiln and firing it up, with unpacking the crates, and checking out the different kinds of glass I have to work with.

I feel giddy. Like a kid on Christmas morning. The space is perfect; if anything, it's too large. But I love the stark brickwork, and the flowing of the Conway just outside my window. I love the ceiling being so high overhead, and the naked light bulbs that hang from wires. I love the rough cement floor. The almost brutal way that this huge space is dedicated to glass working. There's nothing extraneous. Nothing superfluous.

Still, this is all just gear. No matter how fancy, it's nothing without vision. Without a direction for me to take my art. As that realization starts to set in, I feel a moment's panic. What am I going to create? I can't just work in the same line I was creating back at Iron and Roses. I can't turn in more of the same, no matter how well-designed and executed. I need to stand out. From my own work. I need to turn my back on my old style, and in a matter of two weeks, recreate myself like a phoenix rising gloriously from the ashes.

I step outside, thrilling as I lock the door behind myself, and go for a walk. I need fresh air, and I almost always have my best ideas when I'm outside. I look back at the Conway Studios as I leave, marveling at my fortune. No matter what comes, I owe Drake a debt of gratitude I doubt I can ever repay. To think: he put this all together after I left. What depth of emotion would lead someone to do that? And then keep it empty, waiting for me, on the off chance that I would ever decide to come home.

Which I didn't. Guilt floods through me. I spent years fighting to not even think about Dean and Drake. To deny the passion that I had for them. To block a part of my soul. And why? Due to fear. Due to trauma.

I walk past the trestle bridge and step up to the bridge of flowers. The path is narrow, and the bushes and plants that are blossoming on both sides are glorious. A number of people are crossing slowly, pausing to bend down and read name tags, and here and there ridiculously fat bumblebees are humming as they waft slowly through the air.

I pause.

Did that bee have a smiling face? I blink, but it's gone. Surely not. I rub at my head and keep going, taking in the gorgeous flowers. The women here have real talent, and for a moment I feel my panic retreat. I enjoy the sun on my face, the beauty of nature, and the good energy of the folks enjoying the bridge like I am.

When I get to the far side I take a deep breath and look around, and see that a new spot has opened next to Mindy's General Store. It's simply called Anita's, and from the display window I can immediately tell it's my kind of store: a gourmet bakery. I cross the street, tummy rumbling, and pull open the door, enjoying the pleasant tinkle of the bell.

Inside, everything smells delicious, and the lighting is warm and inviting. The counters, floor, and tables gleam, and the display case shows an array of tempting morsels that bewilder me. Which to eat first? I drift up to the counter, and a plump woman a little older than me beams a smile at me, adjusting her glasses and wiping her flour-covered hands on her apron. She's working on what looks like the frosting of a wedding cake, which looks absolutely scrumptious.

"What can I get you today?" She's so pleasant, her smile so genuine, that I can't help but smile back.

"I don't know. I feel overwhelmed. Is it wrong for me to want to eat everything?"

She laughs, a warm sound. "Given that I baked most of them, I'm delighted to hear that. The only thing that's out of bounds is this wedding cake. How about a boysenberry bear claw? They're fresh out of the oven."

"Ooh," I say, leaning down to inspect them. "Perfect. And a coffee too, please."

"Coming right up." She places the bear claw on a small plate and sets it on the counter, then turns to pour my coffee. I hug myself, moving back to the front window where I stare out at the old mill across the Conway. It looks grand, august even, and I can't believe I have the perfect studio in there.

Which brings me back to my dilemma: what am I going to create? What is my line of glasswork going to revolve around? Vases? Abstract shapes? Small and detailed, or large and ornate? I don't have time to deliberate. I need to know, and now.

"Here you go," says the woman, setting the coffee next to the pastry, and I step back to pay.

"Are you guys new? I grew up around here, but I haven't been back in awhile."