Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
D axton
Last night, I promised Owen and Wyatt I would stay away from the bar. And I wouldn’t be here again, if they’d just let me keep working away at the hospital. Working is good. Working is a distraction.
If I’m working, then I’m thinking, not feeling and feeling is bad – very very bad.
Unfortunately, the senior doctor on call tonight practically pushed me out the door and told me to go home and sleep.
Only I can’t sleep. All I’ll do is stare up at the ceiling, feeling.
The house – our house – still smells faintly of Harper. Her peachy scent lingers on the walls and in the fabrics. I think we could bleach the house from ceiling to floor and I’d still be able to smell the sweetest of peaches.
I see her everywhere too – memories flashing through my mind. Things we said, things we did. It’s too painful!
I don’t want to go home. Which means there’s only one other place to go at this time of night: the bar.
I choose a different one from the one I visited last night, and the one the night before. Partly, because I need a change of scene, mainly because I’m pretty sure I’m now banned from all those bars. That’s what happens when you throw one of the patrons across the counter, or slam their head against the wall. Yes, not my greatest of moments. But if I’m fighting, then I’m not feeling either.
And maybe I just want someone to beat the crap out of me. Anything is better than this pain I feel right in the center of my heart, spreading all over my body like poison in my veins.
The bar is about half full, friends gathered around tables, a few people playing games of pool, one or two older men propping up the bar. I head that way and slump down on a stool, running my gaze along the lit-up line of liquor bottles.
The bartender finishes serving a couple of young women, both of them whispering and peeking my way, and then moves along to me.
“What’ll it be?” he asks me, leaning against the bar.
What will it be? Last night it was scotch. The night before that tequila. And the night before that beer. Tonight I decide I’ll go for something strong and pure.
“Vodka,” I say. I point to the bottle that’s 40% proof. “Double.”
“You want anything with that?” the bartender asks, obviously bored, his eyes straying back to the two woman who haven’t left the bar yet and are sipping their colorful cocktails.
“No.”
“Ice?”
I shake my head.
He hooks a glass down from the shelf, pours two shots inside and slides it my way. I hand him over some notes, and knock back the drink straight. It’s foul. There’s no real flavor to it, just alcoholic enough to burn every taste bud off my tongue.
I ask for a second.
“You don’t want to go a little slower there, buddy?” he asks as he takes the glass from me anyway and fills it up a second time.
“No, buddy, I don’t.”
“Tough day?”
“Tough fucking week.”
I swing around on my stool, making it clear I don’t want to talk about it. I didn’t come here for a therapy session. I know what they say, but sometimes talking does not help. It only makes it worse.
I’m staring into my glass, trying to decipher where everything went so horribly wrong, why I can’t seem to keep the one woman I want in my life, when someone coughs right next to me.
It’s one of the women. She has red hair that shines under the bar lights and a lipstick that matches the shade exactly.
“Are you a doctor?” she asks, with a smile I’m guessing is flirtatious.
“No,” I say.
“Oh,” she says, clearly taken aback. “It’s just …” She points to the lanyard still hanging around my neck. “You work at the hospital, right? I assumed you must be a doctor. You look like a doctor.” She takes a draw on her straw.
I snatch the lanyard from round my neck and stuff it into my pocket.
“I’m a janitor,” I tell her.
“Do most janitors work in suits?” She giggles.
“Did you want something?” I ask her with impatience.
She scowls at me. “There’s no need to be so rude.”
“And there’s no need to disturb a guy trying to enjoy a drink.”
“Is anything wrong here?” the bartender asks.
Here we go again. I finish my drink.
“This dude has a serious attitude problem,” the girl says, leaning into the bar, and flashing a lot of cleavage the bartender’s way.
“Is he making you uncomfortable?” he asks her.
“It’s all right, I’m leaving anyway,” I say, standing and slamming my glass on the bar top. A little too hard. The glass cracks in my hand and shatters everywhere.
The girl screams dramatically and the bartender starts yelling a stream of obscenities at me. This is the moment, the one where I go pick a fight and slam my fist into some stranger’s face. It would make me feel better – for about ten seconds.
But the vodka has made me even more depressed than I was. I’m no longer in the mood for fighting.
I stroll out of the bar, ignoring all the shouts of abuse behind me and walk in a random direction. I’m half way down the street when I realize my hand is stinging. When I pull it from my pocket, I find it bleeding.
“Shit,” I mutter, stopping under a streetlamp to pick shards of glass from my palm. It doesn’t need stitches, but it does need bandaging. I’ll have to get Owen to do it for me. He’s going to assume I was in another fight.
I groan. I don’t want to hurt my packmates any more than they are already hurting but I don’t seem to be able to stop myself right now.
I’m an asshole. No wonder Harper didn’t want me.
“Hey, man, got a light?” I lift my gaze and find a skinny dude standing right next to me. His clothes are dirty, his sneakers have holes in them and his eyes are skittish. He’s also holding a knife. “Or a wallet.”
I guess a fight has come looking for me anyway.
“Nah,” I say, slamming my fist right into his gut. He’s so weedy, I expect him to snap in two, but whatever the hell he’s on is obviously numbing any pain. Somehow he remains on his feet and slashes the knife at me. I duck out the way and hit him again. This time in the ribs. He spits at me and slashes at me like a rabid animal. He misses my body but manages to slice through the arm of my jacket.
I don’t have the fucking motivation for this. I slam my fist against the side of his head and knock him out. He crumples like a rag doll to the floor, the knife dropping from his hand.
I pick it up and toss it down the nearest drain. Then roll him onto the sidewalk, checking he’s still breathing and leave him in the recovery position.
I was never in any real danger. Doesn’t mean my heart isn’t racing like a runaway train and my veins full of adrenaline.
Maybe it’s the adrenaline. Maybe it’s the booze. But in that moment, I know I have to talk to her again.
I pull out my phone. Six missed calls and several messages blink up at me, all from my packmates. I feel like even more of an asshole.
Keeping half an eye on the unconscious dude – partly because I don’t want to be responsible for him dying and partly because I don’t want him coming around and attacking me – I sit down on the edge of the curb and stare down at the contact details for Harper. In the right-hand corner there’s a little photo of her and I tap on it and blow it up until I’m staring straight into her eyes. She’s so pretty. Always has been.
I call her. She will be asleep. I’m being an asshole because this call will wake her up.
Or maybe it won’t, maybe the phone will be on silent.
I listen to the rings in my ear, watching the blood seep down my palm and tapping my foot on the dry road.
The call clicks. I hold my breath.
Answerphone.
I have a decision to make. Talk to her or hang up. I choose the former. Because really, what the hell do I have to lose?
“Hey Harper. It’s me, Dax.”
I stare out across the road, my eyes glazing over. What do I say?
“It’s late. I’m drunk. You probably figured that much out. I know … I know I shouldn’t be calling you … but I just … really wanted to hear your voice.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. And then I start talking, telling her things I should have explained a long time ago.
“Harper, I remember the very first time I saw you. I was being an asshole back then – some things never change, huh? I didn’t want my dad to remarry. It had been just me and him our entire lives. I didn’t want that to change. I didn’t want to share him – especially not with some other kid. Now, I realize how damn selfish that was. I’d left home – set off to start my own life – leaving him behind, alone. He deserved to find someone, deserved some happiness, deserved someone wonderful like your mom.”
I pause, blowing out air and wiping blood on my pants.
“I was too angry to acknowledge that back then,” I continue, “and so I skipped the engagement party, made excuses for why I couldn’t come meet my new step-mom, and boycotted the wedding. That day in the holidays – do you remember? – ten years ago, that was the very first time I met your mom and the first time I set eyes on you, Harper.”
Something catches in my throat and I cough and swallow it away.
“I knew my dad’s new woman had a sprog. I’d even paid that much attention that I knew the kid was a girl. I hadn’t appreciated you were my age – or just a couple of years younger. I didn’t know you would be so beautiful. I certainly had no fucking idea you would be an omega.”
In the distance, a siren wails through the city and the cold starts to seep through my jacket.
“Harper, that first moment I saw you was like being punched in the sternum, slapped around the face and doused in ice cold water. I was awake, alert, fucking interested. Very fucking interested. And I was determined as hell not to like you.” I laugh. “Like that would ever have happened. Turns out you were smart, funny, cute most of time, a brat at others. You have the ability to pique my interest, challenge me intellectually, and turn me on all at once. I’d never met anyone like you, Harper. I never have since. You still do all those things to me.”
The wound on my hand is slowly congealing. My fingers are stiffening in the cold.
“I know you’re leaving tomorrow. I know you say we can’t be together. I know you think you’re doing the right thing by us, Harper. But you’re not. I get you want more than we can give you. I know we’ll never be enough for you. But, fuck, Harper, it hurts so much and I don’t know how the hell I am going to get over you. I don’t think I ever w–”
The phone vibrates against my ear. I yank it away and glance at the call.
Harper!
Harper’s calling me!
I fumble at the buttons.
“Your message will be deleted,” a robotic voice explains.
“Fuck,” I mutter, trying to find Harper’s call, trying to find and answer it, accidentally pressing buttons as I do.
The ringing stops abruptly.
What happened? Did she hang up? Did I hang up on her?
“No!” I wail, fumbling through my phone to call her back. As I do, the phone starts vibrating again.
I sigh with relief. She’s calling again. I go to hit accept and the phone dies in my hands.
Run out of battery.
Dead.
I stare at my cell.
I just poured my heart out to her and now it is nothing but empty.
Empty. Empty. Empty.