Between Two Wolves and a Hard Place (4 page)

"Pick it yourself," I say.

His grip tightens on my shoulder to the point of being painful. I look up at him. His pale blue eyes bore into mine. Drake may be a nice guy, but his grip can crush rock. "Come pick a song with me, Dean." His voice is soft.

I sigh and rise to my feet. Drake leads the way across the bar to the jukebox, and slides a quarter into the slot. I cross my arms and lean against the wall next to him. "What?"

Drake punches the button, and the list of songs flips over. He doesn't look at me. "I don't know, Dean."

I study his face. "Don't know what?"

"About this. What we're doing. Leena."

I look past Drake to where Leena sits, sipping her wine, checking her phone. "You're just stirred up by seeing Kiera."

Drake looks sidelong at me. "Aren't you? And maybe, yeah, I am. Maybe seeing her gave me a dose of perspective."

I open my mouth to protest, but he overrides me. "Listen. This relationship with Leena. It's twisting you, man. I feel like I'm losing you to her." He turns to face me. "When I walked back to the table just now, the expression on both your faces freaked me out. You looked like you were about to attack her, and she looked excited by the prospect."

I curl my lip mockingly. "What? You want us to go court Kiera now that's she's rolled into town?"

"No." Drake shakes his head. "Don't get me wrong. Leena is... Leena is gorgeous. Beautiful. Smart. She's better at politics than either of us. But I'm having second thoughts. She's changing who we are. Her influence on you. I'm concerned, man."

I don't want to hear this. I remember a night years ago, when Kiera and I went swimming in a pool in the mountains where a waterfall cascaded down five yards into the emerald water. How young and beautiful she looked, how she shivered, her skin goosepimpled as I brought her close for our first kiss. How she tasted of the mineral water and ChapStick. How my heart thundered, fit to burst. Her shy smile when she pulled away. That moment of pure, unadulterated joy.

I thrust that memory away deep. The fact that it's resurfaced makes me feel even angrier. "You're just complaining because Leena wants me more than she wants you." It's true. Leena isn't nearly as fascinated by Drake as she is by me. I think it's because he's too good-natured. He's a better person than I am. It's a fact I've come to accept this past year.

"No," he says, voice hard. "It's because she's turning you into an asshole and a stranger."

My wolf snarls deep within me. "Yeah?" I step in close. I've never fought with Drake. We've had our arguments, but always we've stood shoulder to shoulder. Tonight, though, I'm adrift. I'm lost in the dark waters of my soul. "If I'm such an asshole, then maybe you should find another alpha to pack with."

Drake looks down into my eyes. Searches my soul, then shakes his head. "You don't mean that. But the fact that you're saying it proves my point." He raises his hand to forestall any cutting comment I can make. "I'm going to head out. We'll talk in the morning."

"Fine," I say, looking down and away. I feel wretched. How could I have said that? I look over to Leena. She's watching me. Waiting for me. I know how tonight will end. I don't know what she'll ask me to do to her, but I know it will arouse me beyond measure, and make me feel completely hollow afterwards.

Drake squeezes my shoulder. "I'm worried about you, brother. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah," I say quietly. "Tomorrow."

Drake sighs and heads out. I watch him go, and then head back to our table. To Leena. Who is smiling that dangerous sultry smile of hers.

"Drake get tired?"

"Something like that," I say, sitting down.

"And you? Are you getting tired?"

I stare into her dark, smoky eyes. I shake my head, and she leans forward, exposing her cleavage. Did she unbutton her shirt even further? "Oh, good." She places her cool hand over my own. "The night is young, Dean. Here. Let me get you another drink."

Chapter 5

I wake the next morning to the smell of my mother's baking. It fills our house like a warm hug, and I immediately sit up, foregoing my usual lazy stretch. I sniff. Bread. I sniff again. A nutty kind of bread. Something fortifying and nutritious. That means my mother's worried. She'll be pushing food on me all day until I somehow convince her I'm fine. I can't help but smile. My mother's cooking acts like a code that only my dad and I can fully decipher. I know that she's sad and missing my brother when she cooks chicken stroganoff. That she's frustrated when she tackles a complex Indian dish. That she's at peace when she makes her vegetable soup.

I rise, shower, and get dressed in an old Duran Duran t-shirt and jeans. I was curvy back in high school, and I'm relieved to see I still fit into my old outfits. The jeans are a little tight, but what the heck. I can close the button, and that's what matters.

Downstairs, my dad's reading the newspaper at the kitchen counter, and my mother is stirring something in one of her tall steel pots. I walk up to her from behind and cover her eyes, grinning like a little girl.

"Guess who?"

My mother stiffens in surprise, and then I can feel her smile. "The sugar plum fairy."

This is a game as old as time. I almost feel silly playing it. I used to giggle like crazy when I was little. Now it makes me smile with nostalgia. "Nope."

"The garbage man."

"Hey!" I drop my hands and snatch up the kitchen towel, which I use to swat playfully at my mother. "I just showered!"

She turns, beaming, but I can see the concern in her eyes. "You did? What did you use as shampoo?" Before I can protest further she laughs and hugs me tight. I sigh and squeeze her. For a moment we just stand there, then she pulls back. "Your dad told me you're in a spot."

"Yeah." I break eye contact and move over to the coffeepot and pour myself a mug. "You could say that."

My father never condemns anybody. My mother is a different story. I wait, stirring a little sugar into my coffee, for the deluge of questions and advice, but instead I just hear my mother sigh. I turn around in surprise. "What? No comments?"

My mother gives me a sad smile and shakes her head. "You're a grown woman, Kiera. It's not for me to tell you off any more. Even if I did try to warn you about that Marv." She immediately raises her hands, forestalling my response. "No, I'm going to keep quiet. Your father told me that you're going to speak to Mr. Hanscomb this morning. I think that's a marvelous idea. Fraud is fraud. With a little luck, Marv will go to jail and everything will be as it should be."

Jail. My breath catches in my throat. Do I want that for Marv? I imagine him being hauled away, hands cuffed behind his back, and while a small part of me squirms in satisfaction, I mostly feel aghast. No. I don't want that. I just want him gone, and Iron and Roses back.

My dad pushes the portable house phone across the counter toward me. "Speaking of which, Mr. Hanscomb is awaiting your call."

"Hi, Dad," I say, stepping over to take the phone and kiss him on the cheek. "Thanks."

"Just hit redial. Breakfast will wait," he says, cutting off my mother. "Till this has been seen to."

I nod and duck into the living room, sit in my dad's leather armchair and hold my coffee on my knees. I hit redial and press the phone to my ear.

"Good morning," says Mr. Hanscomb. "Kiera?"

I suddenly feel like a little girl again. Mr. Hanscomb has been a family friend as long as I can remember. My first memory of him is his treating me to a soda from the soda fountain in the pharmacy on River Street. Because he was always immaculately dressed and impossibly distinguished, I grew up thinking he was a wealthy aristocrat of some kind, and was shocked to learn that he was something as mundane as an attorney.

"Hi, Mr. Hanscomb. How are you?"

"Passingly well, my dear. I spoke with your father. He told me you're having difficulties?"

I sigh. "Yeah. You could say that." And I tell him. He's a great listener, going
hmm
or "I see" at just the right moments. It's a sordid story, and I blush horribly when I recount not reading the paperwork as I should have. "So now I've got nothing."

"Well." Mr. Hanscomb takes a moment to digest my story. "That is most unfortunate. But I do believe you can take Mr. Travis to court for fraud, and that your case has a strong chance of winning."

"Really?" I sit up, suddenly excited. "That's wonderful!"

"But I must caution you, this will take some time. If Mr. Travis decides to drag his heels in responding, we could be looking at anywhere from six months to a year before we appear in court."

My heart immediately sinks. "But he could be selling my art by then!"

"Yes, I understand. Whatever settlement is reached would include damages or reparations. Whether he will have the ability to repay them, if he has already spent that money, remains to be seen."

My heart sinks even lower. I can just picture it. Marv realizing he's going to lose the case once he's summoned to court, and deciding to sell everything and spend all the money on a year of luxurious excess, only to declare bankruptcy again so he can give me a shit-eating grin from across the courtroom. Suddenly the idea of his being dragged off to jail really appeals to me.

"So what do I do in the meantime?" I feel hopeless. Bereft. Lost.

Mr. Hanscomb sighs. "That, I can't advise you on. I'm sorry, Kiera. This is a very hard situation to be in. With your permission, I'll begin the paperwork, and file a summons. That will get the ball rolling. Can you send me any paperwork you might have on Iron and Roses?"

"Yes, I will, thank you." My voice is almost a whisper. I force myself to sit up. "Thank you, Mr. Hanscomb. For your help. I really appreciate it."

"Of course," he says, voice kind and gentle. "I'll be in touch."

"Goodbye," I say.

"Goodbye, Kiera. Take care of yourself." And he hangs up.

I stare at my phone, and then look up to where my dad is standing in the kitchen doorway, face grave.

"A whole year!" I say, my voice both pleading and protesting. "It might take that long to figure things out, and if he's spent all the money, I might get nothing back beyond the rights to my art and my company!"

"Which is still worth fighting for," says my dad, walking over to sit across from me on my mother's lavender couch.

"Yeah," I say, staring down at my coffee. "But my art. My money."

We sit in silence for awhile, my dad letting me process the blow. Finally he asks, "So. What are you going to do? You know you can stay here for as long as you need."

"I know." It's a comfort, but a small one. What
am
I going to do? For a whole year? I want to go back upstairs and hide in my bed. Pull the covers over my head, and just die.

My father just watches me. Patiently. Waiting. I sigh. It's weird. It's almost because my dad is so willing to let me sulk that I can never do that around him. It makes me feel childish. So I look up. "I need a plan. I can't do nothing for a year."

He nods in agreement.

"But what?" I slump all over again. I scowl at nothing. "I hate the idea of Marv selling my art to Harrowgate. God! It makes my blood boil."

"Well," says my father. "Why don't you call them? You're the artist. Maybe they'll listen to you."

I blink. Could it be that easy? My dad smiles and gets up. "Don't take too long, though. Your mother's bread is waiting."

I find the Harrowgate website, locate their contact page, and dial their main number. It rings, and I quickly navigate their phone menu till finally a receptionist answers. I identify myself and am asked to wait as I'm connected to the right person.

Finally, an older woman answers the phone. "This is Julia Castle. Can I help you?"

"Hi. My name's Kiera Jones. I'm the artist behind Iron and Roses - the company whose work you've agreed to distribute internationally?"

"Ah, yes. A pleasure to meet you, Kiera. Let me clarify, however: we haven't yet agreed to distribute your work. You first need to be selected out of the finalists by our acquisitions committee."

I sit bolt upright. "This isn't a done deal? Oh! What a relief!"

There's a confused pause, and then Julia says, "A... relief?"

"Oh, yes. I've been forced out of Iron and Roses through fraud, and my - my business partner is now in sole control. I'm taking him to court, but I was terrified that my art was going to be sold against my will."

"Oh, dear. Well." I can practically hear the wheels spinning in Julia's mind. "I'm sorry to hear that. But no, Iron and Roses, while a very strong contender, has not yet definitively been selected."

"Is there a chance I can ask for our application to be withdrawn?"

"No, I'm afraid not. Such a request would have to come from Iron and Roses itself. I'm sorry."

"Oh." My hope scrunches up like a paper ball and goes flying into the trashcan of despair. "Of course. I understand."

There's a pregnant pause. I don't know what else to say.

"Miss Jones." I hear hesitation in Julia's voice. "As the artist behind the pieces we so admire at Iron and Roses, I hate to see you in this position. I cannot interfere in any way with the selection process, but I could perhaps allow you to submit a new collection of work to be entered in the running."

"You could?" I sit bolt upright all over again. My paper ball bounces out of the trashcan of despair, and floats up onto the pedestal of supreme hope. "Really?"

"Yes. You're obviously qualified. If you can submit a sample that's clearly superior to the art we received from Iron and Roses, there's no reason your new line wouldn't be chosen over your old."

"Oh, thank you! Thank you thank you thank you!" I want to squeal and clap my hands, but force myself to remain professional. "By when do I have to send you the pieces?"

"I can delay the selection process, but not by much. The most I can give you is... let's see. Two weeks."

"Two weeks?" My god, I can't handle this roller coaster of emotion. Marv no doubt submitted the best pieces from my entire career, the pieces I worked on for months on end with the help of my assistants. Two weeks? I want to laugh bitterly. What can I do in two weeks? "Thank you. I'll send you my best pieces within that time frame." My voice is wooden and hollow.