About Face. Amy Lee Burgess

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СКАЧАТЬ when he’d suggested he take Lauren out to dinner on his own so I could stay home and relax. Or go out.

      Yeah, right. With who? My best friends, Vaughn and Jossie, lived in Vermont and my cousin Faith and her bond mate, Scott, were two hours away from the city.

      I’d expected to see more of them the past couple of months, but people got busy. Faith was pregnant and had a pack to rebuild after my father nearly destroyed it.

      Jossie was convinced I wanted to bond with her and Vaughn and make a triad—and invented excuses to keep us all apart.

      So I spent those nights alone. I had time for a luxurious soak in the bathtub with a delicious murder mystery. I could watch a movie while curled up on the sofa as the lights of the city glowed through my living room window. I had opportunities for walks around the block in the summer darkness so I could ease the tension out of my shoulders and take deep breaths as I marshaled the inner strength to deal with Lauren another day.

      Now after this Regional was over, she’d go to Montana with him and start her new life, and I’d have every night alone in Boston. Every morning and midday, too.

      “You selfish bitch,” I whispered to myself in amazement and for a clouded moment wasn’t sure if I referred to me or Lauren.

      The lights and music from a waterside bar attracted my attention. It was a small place, gray shingles, a wooden deck in the back so patrons could watch the ocean as they pounded down beer and shots and figured out who they would go home with that night. It was full of Others, not Pack, but screw it. No way I wanted another night alone. Those would start soon enough.

      * * * *

      My eyes felt gritty and full of sand when I fluttered them open the next morning. I had no idea where the hell I was or why the sunlight had a weird dappled effect across the sheet that covered my nude body.

      My head thumped, and my mouth tasted sour. I held still, afraid I might be sick, until the queasiness passed.

      Someone’s bare foot brushed my ankle. I jerked away in shock, clutching the sheet to my neck like a virgin in a bodice-ripper.

      Holy shit, it stank. The man in bed with me reeked and his scent was all over me. I was fucking disgusting.

      The smell decided my rebellious stomach and I lurched out of the bed. I had no idea where the bathroom was. I estimated I had about thirty-five seconds to figure it out.

      I looked around to orient myself and discovered I was in a small studio apartment. Outside, seagulls screamed over the relentless crash of waves. Sheer green curtains with an odd texture fluttered in front of a half-open sliding door that led to a weathered deck. The dappled effect was explained.

      Dirty dishes were piled in a porcelain sink near the front door. A rickety table and two chairs squatted in front of the sink. More dishes were on the table as well as a thick accumulation of junk mail.

      A battered sofa with the arms duct-taped to keep the stuffing from spewing out rested against one wall bookended by two tray tables. A drop ceiling and cheap fluorescent lights completed the shabby decor.

      No bugs, just the cluttered detritus of a young bachelor.

      A half-open door with chipped paint to the left of the front door was either a bathroom or a closet.

      I didn’t have time to care so I bolted.

      It was a bathroom. Not filthy, but certainly grungy. I prayed to the porcelain goddess over and over but still couldn’t get that foul stench out of my nose.

      I’d slept with an Other.

      I even thought I remembered his name. Don. Or maybe Ron. Ron. Almost definitely Ron.

      To be fair, he didn’t stink because he was unwashed. He just wasn’t Pack. He wore Obsession cologne. I could smell it the bathroom cabinet and faint traces in the damp towels on the rack.

      Some Pack could sleep with Others and get over their strange, sour scents. I’d never been one of them. I could work with them, ride the subway with them, buy food and clothes from them, but I could not be intimate with them.

      Until the fourth or fifth Long Island Iced Tea, apparently.

      Just the thought of the sweet drink loaded with six different kinds of alcohol made me gag again until I was reduced to dry heaves that twisted my stomach and choked my throat and nose.

      Murphy had walked out on me four months ago and I’d painted my condo. Jason Allerton dropped me as his Advisor and I’d rushed out, gotten drunk, and fallen into bed with some young Other man.

      What the fuck was wrong with me?

      I needed to take a shower so I could rinse the stink off me, and wash away the hangover.

      Breath held, I twitched the grungy shower curtain aside to reveal a mildewed plastic shower stall. It was not exactly the Ritz, but whatever.

      The water pressure was for shit and the temperature fluctuated between icy cold with spurts of stinging hot. I endured it until I’d soaped my entire body and washed my hair with Ron-or-Don’s combination shampoo and body wash. Only men could be so lazy as to combine two such different products. The gel smelled like a guy, too.

      Once I was done, I realized I’d have to wrap one of his used, Obsession-scented towels around me to dry off. The entire point of the shower was undone.

      Curses spilled out of my mouth in a steady stream as I dried off with as little of the damn towel as I could manage and not stay dripping wet.

      When I walked out of the bathroom, Don or Ron was awake and hastily doing dishes as if I gave a shit what his hellhole apartment looked like.

      Last night in the bar, he’d been almost a dead ringer for Liam Murphy, except he was shorter and younger. This morning he didn’t even remotely resemble Murphy, except maybe a little around the eyes. He wasn’t fat, but he was loose in places Murphy was tight. And his hair wasn’t right. It was blond. It had looked darker under the black lights in the bar. Everything about him looked different under the lighting and the influence of those fucking evil Long Island Iced Teas.

      His voice was wrong too. It was deeper, with a Rhode Island accent, not an Irish one.

      “Hey, do you want breakfast? I can make eggs? I don’t have bacon, but I think I have toast?” Everything he said was a question. I remembered bits and pieces from the night before. At one point I’d told him to stop asking me so many questions and he’d said, “Am I asking you lots of questions?” I’d cried, “There’s another one right there!” Then I’d kissed him to shut him the fuck up.

      We’d still been in the bar then, but I guessed after it closed he’d brought me up to his apartment. Empty beer bottles littered the countertop, and I devoutly hoped they weren’t from last night. My stomach rolled again, so I looked away.

      “I need to go.” I was pretty close to panicky as I searched the room for my clothes. Aha. My dress was wadded up on the sofa. It seemed we’d had a very heavy make-out session there. My bra was under the coffee table, and I grimaced at the thought of wearing it after it had spent the night on the grubby, stained carpet.

      One sandal was by the front door and the other was by the kitchen СКАЧАТЬ