31. Cazimer
I sit behind the wheel of the stolen panel van, my finger gently tracing the ring of punctured half moons that circle the first joint of my right thumb.
A gentle shimmering heat rises just behind my eyes; Louise, on the other side of our bond, touching back in, letting me know that she's all right back at her place on the yacht, still docked in the marina as we prepare to get underway at dawn tomorrow.
Drowsily, my fingers move to the space where my collar bones meet as I watch the strip mall, my focus lingering on the laundromat and Service Sally’s Uniform Emporium just next door.
I wait patiently for Frank and Quentin to emerge, my fingers lingering over the significantly larger bite mark just beneath my left clavicle.
Just like before, I feel Sébastien call back along the bond even though he’s across town picking up groceries—like a warm crackle of static at the beginning of a record.
Beneath the two of them, Sébastien and Louise, I can feel a humming resonance, a steady rhythm that I know belongs to Quentin.
How did we manage before this? How could we stand to be so far apart—to have every door and window closed to us? Hidden and kept away in the dark. It seems impossible now with the bonds opened wide between the four of us: our own world within a world.
I feel a slice of guilt when I think of Frank. If he hadn't been so rotten, if he hadn't been so cruel—I would have begged on bended knee for Louise not to refuse him the one thing that might save him.
Even Louise herself said it isn't too late. There's a chance to change, to be accepted into the pack fully like the others, but she was right to deny him last night whether or not our love is written in the stars.
It's almost as if I can hear Quentin's thoughts along the bond saying, We have a few days at sea—we may see him bonded with the rest of us before we get on that bloody cruise ship. ”
Frank only has himself to blame. Even so, I can't help but feel bad.
To live behind the closed bond would be impossible for me now—so I push the thought away.
We've got another stop at a drugstore for some hair dye and cosmetics. Even though I'll hate to see it go, we all agreed that it would be much safer for us traveling if Louise were to get rid of her signature red hair.
So, the first order of business once we get back to the yacht is turning her into a peroxide blond like myself, along with giving her sizable trim.
Quentin and Frank emerge from the uniform emporium, each holding two large brown paper handle bags filled with things that we'll need to pass as crew members on a massive Monarch of the Seas .
I turn my key in the ignition as the two of them slide open the van doors and toss their wares into the back.
The mood is decidedly strained. Quentin, with his fresh bonding mark from Seb, peeking from the edge of his hairline at the nape of his neck, the red ring just visible between his collar and his copper brown tresses.
Louise’s bite showing in flashes out of the bottom of his short sleeves as he reaches for the window crank—a deep bruised red-purple chain of teeth marks the inside of Q's bicep.
Frank has dark circles smudged beneath his eyes and a more vacant look than usual, and neither of them speaks until we’re pulling out of the parking lot.
“It's going to be better if I stop to get the money myself,” Quentin finally cuts in.
Frank's obviously preoccupied, doesn't even bother with a single syllable answer, only a grunt and a distracted nod of his head.
“You and Caz can drop me off; it's only a few blocks from here.
I'll pick up the cash. The two of you go get Sébastien.
Either I'll be able to get a ride from my contact from the cash drop point, or I'll take a cab back to the shopping center, then we can all head back to the marina together.” Quentin instructs cooly.
“Sure, whatever you say.” Frank shrugs, sinking down into the back seat like a sulking child.
Quentin only rolls his eyes as we pull away in silence.
There's nothing but the rush of wind through the open windows as we drive the few blocks to Quentin's drop point.
“Here is fine.” He taps the door, and I pull to a stop, letting him out onto the sidewalk.
I feel him glance against the bond—the sweet rose petal, the malted Scotch—and I reach for his hand without thinking, bringing his knuckles to my lips in a gentle kiss.
“Be safe. See you soon,” I murmur under my breath. Quentin nods, and then he's on his way.
“Tch,” Frank clicks his tongue before climbing into the front passenger seat from the back bench of the van.
“All of you are so cozy now. How lovely,” he sneers in a snide saccharin voice.
As an alpha, his jealousy must be tearing him apart right now, but he's made this bed, now he must lie in it.
I keep my eyes on the road, refusing to rise to his challenge.
Neither of us speaks again until we pull into the lot of the supermarket, eyes roving the overhang by the entrance for a sign of Sébastien.
Frank scans the radio. His hand patting the car door through the open window nervously.
Even though I already know the answer, I can't help but ask. “What's the matter, Frank?”
I'm waiting for him to tear into me, for him to go completely off the rails, to yell and scream about the bonding—about being shut out, the new hierarchy within the Saints now that we've bonded.
Even though we weren't packed up before, it was difficult to dispute that Frank was our alpha. Now… I'm not sure exactly what he is.
A soothing sensation—like cool water, the song of wind chimes in the breeze, or the heavy blanket of sleep falling over you as you drift to dreaming—eases my frayed nerves; my mates reaching out to me across our bond.
I don’t notice I’ve actually started quietly humming to myself, little waves of contentment breaking over me as our fledgling connection grows—strengthening its resonance little by little.
Frank, radiating irritation, searches desperately for something in the shopping plaza to give him some relief.
I notice his eyes catch on a liquor store at the end of the line of shops.
I don't bother to reprimand him or to tell him to wait until Seb gets back, instead I let him pull his sunglasses from his breast pocket and unfold them, placing them over his red-rimmed eyes as if there's any question of his destination.
“You reek like a schoolboy getting ready for prom,” he growls unkindly, swinging the passenger side door open and hopping down onto the pavement, slamming the door behind him. “I'll be back, just grabbing some smokes,” Frank shouts as he stomps away from the van.
Fine, let him have his tantrum. Get it out of his system before we go back to the yacht.
If he's gonna punish everyone like this, our timeline for getting him bonded might be longer than I initially thought.
I watch Frank disappear inside the liquor store, kicking back in my seat as I wait for Sébastien, relieved to have a moment to myself.
The white puffy clouds passing in the blue sky overhead distract me for a few minutes as the wind drives the cottony bunches of water vapor high overhead.
I'm not sure how long I've been watching them when the loud hollow knock of Sébastien's knuckle on the van's trunk nearly makes me jump out of my skin.
It's as if all three of my bonded mates lay their hands over my racing heart as I catch my breath. It's only Sébastien, after all.
I walk around the back of the van and unlock the trunk with the fob, helping Seb to unload the nondescript brown paper bags of groceries into the back.
“Where's Papa ?” he asks.
“Probably filling his pockets with shitty nips and picking up a carton.” I nod to the liquor store, hefting a gallon of milk into the trunk.
“Is he any less surly than this morning?” Sébastien purses his full lips provocatively.
“No, if anything, I'd say he's actually brooding even more than usual.”
“Great, this is going to be a very long boat ride,” Sébastien grumbles, unloading the last of the bags from the cart.
I'm about to offer to take it from him so that he might return the cart—but Sébastien's eyes flutter before rolling back into his head—the bag falling from his hands onto the pavement below; a cardboard package of eggs cracking loudly, a navel orange rolling away beneath one of the parked cars beside us.
I'm about to reach for him, when something curls its fingers around my heart and squeezes so hard my body threatens to simply pass out to save me from the sudden blinding pain as I’m forced to my knees.
Behind my eyelids—I see as if looking through Louise’s eyes; she’s emerged from her shower to find two unlikely visitors seated in the luxurious salon; Susan Lowry and Ed Compton sit across from one another on the white leather couch—glasses of chilled champagne pinched delicately in their fingers.