Chapter 11 Mac
MAC
Parking in the mansion’s garage, I hit the remote to close the overhead door behind me.
It slipped silently down to thud gently against the ground.
I took a deep breath, coughing on the way the air in the car smelled.
An odd stench always clung to my skin after the scent stripping procedure.
Acrid citrus and overwhelming mint. I was going to have to get the Mercedes deep cleaned again.
I took Tray for a ride after my last appointment and he’d commented on the scent, asking if I’d gotten some new air freshener and, if I had, I should throw it in the trash.
“Shit is foul” he’d smirked, poking me in the ribs.
Guy rarely took anything seriously, but honestly that made the few times he switched gears more meaningful.
I pushed my driver’s door open, swinging it wide and hard and cringing when it tried to bounce back at me.
I knew better than to succumb to violent actions.
They always bit me in the ass. That was my lot in life, and one of the reasons I never chose to engage in confrontation.
As I stood up from the seat, I nearly fell when my knees ghosted me.
They sometimes did that after visiting the clinic.
My entire body was so damn weak. Grabbing quickly for the car roof, I held on for dear life as I waited for my legs to return from the grave.
Once they shimmered back into place, I tested the waters by bending them each in turn and then slamming my feet against the acid-washed concrete beneath me.
The balls of my feet tingled, but I felt confident enough to walk.
Closing the door with more gentleness than I’d opened it with, I began the slow trudge to the house entrance. Per usual, I felt like the dead walking. The fatigue, numbness, loss of body control, and that damn smell made me feel like I was in the wrong body.
I shouldered into the mansion. When I was inside, my vision went blurry.
Finding my way over to the curved bench in the front foyer, I slumped down.
I hated this fucking bench. It was the most uncomfortable thing we owned.
It came with the house, and Tray wanted us to keep it for some unknown reason.
It was a conversation piece; I’d give him that.
The tacky thing was backless with comically tall sides that curved over.
The mustard yellow, velvet cushioning was tufted and looked like it should be comfortable but was, in fact, hard as a rock.
I should have vetoed it, but the last time a decor veto happened, we’d all ended up in a stalemate of everybody vetoing everything for payback.
Leaning back against the wall, I closed my eyes.
I didn’t hear any movement in the house at first. No one had greeted me.
Maybe everyone was outside the house? Listening more intently, the telltale sounds of splashing and laughter filtered inside.
The pool. It was a good day for that. The patio doors must be closed, or they’d be louder.
I’d look in a moment, but for now I just needed to sit and decompress and pretend nothing existed but my own exhaustion.
I stayed that way for what felt like forever but was likely only ten minutes or so.
At the sound of the patio door sliding open, I parted my lashes and looked to the left.
Dixon was leaving wet footprints and puddles behind him as he padded into the kitchen.
A few moments later, he popped back into view holding both a water and an Alpha tonic.
I watched him as he detoured towards the sectional.
He leaned over it and shook his head a little.
My gaze lowered, landing on Tray who was obliviously snoring.
He had a textbook flattened over his face; arms crossed over his chest. Dixon let a bit more water drip onto our Alpha brother, obviously trying to wake him, before frowning and heading back out to the pool.
Seconds after giving Tray a mini shower against his will, Dixon was diving into the deep end.
Tray’s laptop was perched on his outstretched legs, his knees acting like a stopgap to keep the electronic from sliding the rest of the way down.
This morning he’d mentioned one of his professors played the drums too.
He was gung-ho about this whole college thing.
I hadn’t figured out if it was a jokester Tray, short-term hyper-focus or a serious Tray decision.
I glanced up, catching Dixon cannonballing into the pool.
He whooped so loudly that the door couldn’t muffle the sound and Tray stirred, his arm flopping off the couch.
The book shifted a little, going sideways to reveal one closed eye.
I tried to read the spine, but my vision was still shit.
Tray shifted, hand moving up to shove the book back over his face before letting loose a monstrous snore.
This guy. I bet his new focus is the Art of Napping.
Maybe they’ll give him a scholarship. I chuckled to myself as I stood up, having to hold the wall for a heartbeat while my head swam and my body rebelled.
Shaking off the off-putting sensation, I moved across the room, almost missing the step down and face planting.
Damn, I hated how I felt after a treatment.
Getting closer to Tray, I debated waking him up.
The textbook had almost immediately slipped again, this time stopping beneath his nose like a giant book mustache.
Physics. So, he was actually studying something.
Not the Art of Napping after all. I quirked an eyebrow at the subject.
I’d have bet good money against anything that hardcore.
A wave of nausea hit me, and I closed my eyes, swaying in place.
I’d be okay, if my knees didn’t go phantom again.
Dammit if they didn’t threaten to ghost me just as I thought that though.
“You look like crap warmed up,” Tray's voice filtered into my fight to stay upright. I couldn’t force myself to look at him. I had to channel my energy into not dying. Maybe literally. I didn’t know these days.
“You talking in your sleep?” Somehow, I managed to sound nonchalant, even as the contents of my stomach threatened to pull a reappearing act. Thankfully, I hadn’t eaten much. Just the formulated electrolytes and nutrition bar after treatment.
“You’re one to talk,” he poked, “At least I’m not sleepwalking.”
I heard shuffling. Something thumped down. Then something else thudded to either the floor or the coffee table… coffee table, I decided. The floor was carpeted. I felt the air shift around me, and was pretty sure Tray had left the sofa and closed the short distance to where I currently struggled.
“You okay, man?” Concern flooded his words now. This was what I’d been trying to avoid. It was why I’d lied to them all that I was taking piano lessons.
“Fine,” I mumbled, swallowing hard.
“Want me to help you to your room?” Tray wrapped an arm around me before I could speak again. I let him support me.
“Thanks,” I said. Though it didn’t answer his question, Tray began leading me out of the living room.
Discomfort faded. The bile sunk back into my belly. I opened my eyes just as we entered the hallway and hung a right, walking past the pack suite entrance.
“So…” Tray let the word hang in the air, as if hoping I’d offer an explanation.
When I didn’t, he continued. “Piano lessons must be really rough these days. Teacher beat the shit out of you if you miss a note?” His tone was joking, but beneath the forced humor still threaded worry.
I could tell his smile wasn’t genuine. His dimples were shallow.
“You’ve no idea, man,” I chuckled out weakly, “they’ve got an entire wall of medieval weaponry there. They chose the mace today. I’m going to have some epic scars for our next tour. Groupies will go ham."
“Seriously, Mac. You look like death warmed over.” The joking tone was gone, replaced with something that made my chest tighten. I hated when he got like this—all serious, boyish youth fraying. It meant something was honestly wrong, and right now apparently that something was me.
“Save the freak out for yourself,” I teased him, “You’re the one who decided to tackle college. Absolute madness if you ask me.”
“You’re changing the subject, Mac.” He pulled us to a stop outside my bedroom door. It was weathered, gone gray with age the way wood did on the coast after years of saltwater damage. I’d rescued it from an old, abandoned house in Washington State.
We’d all added little touches to the mansion, things that felt like us.
Thanks to me, all the doors in our home sported vintage knobs with various designs that I felt were little surprises if you only looked closely enough.
Tray insisted we keep that God awful bench, as well as selected the tobacco stain when we’d refinished the hardwoods.
Dixon had outfitted the entire gym, no surprise, but he’d also insisted on picking out the curtains—going for a French provincial pattern that didn’t scream big ass Alpha at all.
Ryder didn’t let us get a word in edgewise when the recording studio downstairs was designed.
Honestly, the mansion was a hodgepodge of personalities.
Probably strange to outsiders, but it was home to us.
“Did I change the subject?” I finally quipped, twisting the knob and pushing my door inward. “What were we even talking about?”
“You were going to tell me why you look like shit,” he said bluntly.
“I would, if in fact I looked like shit,” I countered, trying to put a silliness in my tone.
That uncharacteristic, serious expression stayed plastered on his face. I clapped a hand on my youngest pack brother’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
“I’m fine, man. We’re all struggling in our own ways. Today’s just a… hard one.” I didn’t seem to convince him with my words, but there was nothing else to say.