Kept

Kept
is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

A Ballantine Mass Market Original

Copyright © 2012 by Shawntelle Madison

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

eISBN: 978-0-345-53601-3

www.ballantinebooks.com

Cover illustration: © Gene Mollica

v3.1

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

O
f
all the things I had to face that day, the prospect of sticking my hand down someone else’s pants as part of my Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, or CBT, just didn’t seem right. Mind you, no one was wearing those filthy pants, but even a gal in therapy should have limits. Today anyway.

According to my therapist, I’d somehow give in to my obsessive-compulsive behaviors less often if I occasionally went out of my comfort zone. Still, in my opinion, my current assignment wouldn’t help me that much.

Five minutes earlier, standing inside the lobby of the local Jiffy Lube, my best friend, Aggie, had given the hot new mechanic a harrowing speech that left me wondering just how far she’d go to help me out. “My good friend Natalya here is one of those clean freaks. It’d be awesome if you’d help her out by letting her put her hand down your pants.

“Pants pocket, that is.” Her eyebrows danced while she grinned devilishly.

So, there I was, ready to do the deed with the mechanic’s grimy uniform.

“Oh, just stick your paw in there so we can go home,” Aggie begged. “Your mom said she’s making her special pot roast.”

How would soiling my germ-free hands with a journey
into the grimy pocket of the admittedly attractive mechanic help me with my obsessive-compulsive disorder? I suspected that, in the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t really about my well-being. Agatha McClure just wanted the mechanic to take his coveralls off.

“Let the healing begin,” she purred as he bent over. The lean, yet hard lines of his body were quite evident under his jeans and white T-shirt.

Healing, my ass
. She was staring him down like she was a werewolf on a full-moon prowl and he was the next rabbit she planned to snag.

My head swiveled to catch her running her fingers through her red hair. It was a habit she always fell into when she saw a good-looking man. She had such a blissful expression on her face, I felt bad taking the moment away from her.
Eh, let her leer over him for a few minutes more
. I had an emergency pack of baby wipes for days like today.

So I shoved my hand into the pocket and tried to think happy thoughts. Find that Zen place that didn’t involve freaking out over how slimy and lint-laden the pocket was. By the time my hand came out, it resembled a chocolate ice-cream bar with nuts sprinkled on it. Those “nuts” were balls of fluff.

“Well, look at that,” Aggie said with pride. “You stuck your paw in and you’re still alive.”

I handed the mechanic his coveralls with a straight face, and then scowled at Aggie. This exercise sucked. Ever since I’d joined my therapy group, Aggie was constantly searching for golden opportunities like this one to “help” me. As a werewolf with an obsessive-compulsive disorder, I began therapy because I tended to stress out over the little things. I still do, mind you, but I’ve been learning lately to try to focus on the important stuff, like bonding with my family. Over the past few years, I’ve been estranged from them due to my disorder. I’ve made
some progress, especially with my dad, but like any issue that dredges up painful memories, the healing had taken some patience.

However, that was a subject I didn’t want to fixate on right now. It was already hard enough to deal with this little exercise. While I cleaned off my “ice-cream bar” with baby wipes (many of them), I gazed through the window of Jiffy Lube out to the main street of South Toms River. Not many people may know it, but New Jersey in the winter is beautiful. Especially with a light dusting of snow. On the way here, I’d driven past South Toms River Park. There’s something about barren trees extending toward the sky. When they’re covered with just the right amount of fallen snow, they can be quite calming to the soul.

Even from inside the lobby, I could taste the winter on my tongue. With it came the promise of holiday decorations and Christmas cookies. The most perfect time of the year.

Once the oil change was done, we left. Aggie strolled to the passenger side of my Nissan Altima—a smug smile on her face—along with a coupon for a free oil change in her hand. I would bet good money the guy had snuck his number on there.

I shook my head with a grin. You couldn’t keep an outspoken wolf like Aggie down. We’d known each other for a long time. A few months ago, she’d left New York City to travel west, but a pit stop at my place had ended up as a permanent arrangement. I was grateful to have her company, even with her quirks. Really, they weren’t that bad. And although my problems constantly haunted me, Aggie’s own issue—an overeating disorder—didn’t bother her as much. Case in point: Once comfortable in the passenger seat, she whipped out a snack-sized bag of Cheetos and munched away.

*  *  *

I turned down the street to my parents’ house, and Aggie gave me a strange look. “You do realize we need to pick up my cakes at your place, don’t you?”

I’d completely forgotten about her baking spree this weekend. How many cakes had she made? Usually, I simply shrugged off her cooking—especially when she cleaned up after herself. But as I drove around the block to head back toward my place, a heavy weight formed in my stomach at the thought of going home.

I’d mentally prepared myself for the trip to my parents’ place; returning to my own home would be another unwanted reminder of my problems.

After a few minutes driving through the outskirts of South Toms River, I reached my house. On my good days, seeing the two-level cottage, with its bright red shutters and whitewashed wood, made me feel safe. Its surrounding woods created a haven from the outside. But on my not-so-good ones it was unnerving.

I pulled into the garage but didn’t get out of the car. It seemed like a good idea to just let Aggie fetch her food. Of course, my partner-in-crime had other plans.

Her head peered around the door. “A little help, please?”

Instead of getting out, I said, “For what?”

“Nat, get your ass outta the car and help me carry the cakes. What’s your problem anyway?”

I tapped the steering wheel three times. Then twice more. I should just get it over with. But after all the time I’d spent preparing myself for a visit to my parents’ home … I could undo it with one look—one reminder. Thoughts of my house—or should I say, its contents—wasn’t something I wanted weighing on my mind while I was at my parents’.

Normal people let things go. Time to pretend to be
normal
and help my friend. I got out of the car.

The hallway between my garage and kitchen was clear. Like it always was. In the kitchen, Aggie stood with her hands on her hips. With a groan, she shoved a cake container in my hands as I approached her, and I caught a decadent whiff of carrot cake with butter cream icing.

I tried to focus on the cake, on turning around and marching back to the car. But beyond the kitchen lay the living room. And, with it, my shame. Renewed and growing again. Stack after stack of white boxes with holiday ornaments mocked me. Christmas ornaments, Hanukkah candles, and even elaborate Kwanzaa displays. All of them taunting me with a reminder that I’d be facing a certain someone at my parents’ home. And that someone, a relative, saw me as a
hoarder
and didn’t appreciate all the changes I’d made.

On any other day, seeing those boxes and knowing what beautiful things they held would’ve brought me inner peace. They’d definitely sheltered me during the long days since I’d been ostracized from my pack.

I reminded myself that some things had changed in my life, like Aggie living here. I glanced at the boxes again and bit my lower lip.

While other things haven’t changed at all
.

I scrambled out of the house with Aggie not far behind. She struggled to balance three cake containers and managed to get them into the car with only one wobble. As her best friend, I should’ve done a better job helping her, but I just couldn’t shake my doubts. I wanted to be well. Be normal. And sometimes coming home didn’t help that.

Ten minutes later, we pulled up to my parents’ place. Cars filled the street and driveway. Evidence that everyone had arrived already.

I checked myself for the third time in the rearview mirror. Not a single brown hair was out of place. My
blouse and skirt were clean (no surprise there), but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something about me was screwed up and wasn’t fixable.

Aggie opened her car door then noticed I hadn’t done the same. “You have plans to come inside?”

“Yeah.”

“Nat, what’s wrong now? It’s not as if you haven’t been here before.”

“
She’s
here,” I mumbled.

Aggie rolled her eyes. “Oh, give me a break. Put on your big-girl panties and just brush it off.”

Aggie didn’t mention the name of the woman I referred to, but I knew we’d see her soon enough. After just one hundred feet, I would reach the house, knock on the door, and then see that particular person opening it. Every step was unnerving. The thought of my dad’s cousin greeting me at the door was worse.

As the matriarch of my family in Maine, “Auntie” Yelena Torchinovich led her brood with an iron paw. She’d come here a few weeks ago for my brother Alex’s wedding and had decided to stay for an extended visit. She claimed all sorts of reasons—from catching up with my dad to having missed spending quality time with her relatives. Certainly, in the past ten years, she hadn’t shown such
eagerness
to be with the family.

Auntie Yelena stood about an inch taller than me, with thin lips and eyes that conveyed her thoughts—and right now, staring at me, they were black and unwelcoming. Her short and sharp black hair added to her dark impression. I stared back at her. From the way her eyes formed slits, I was returning her gaze far longer than she preferred. No lower-ranking wolf stared down a higher-ranking one without repercussions.

“Quite a persistent little thing,” she said. “I think you’ve forgotten your place—”

“Hi, Yelena.” Aggie walked around me and entered the house. The move forced Yelena to step back, thus allowing me to step past her. I shifted my eyes to the floor and carried the cake into the house. For once I was grateful that Aggie was a dominant female.