Torn (Devils Wolves Book 1) (6 page)

"You can sleep in the guest room," he says, still turned away. "You know where everything is."

"Okay," My voice is squeaky and strange and doesn't sound like mine at all. "Thank you for picking me up. I'm sorry-"

"Don't apologize, Kenz. You did the right thing calling me."

Did I?

"Could I borrow a t-shirt? I don't have anything to sleep in."

The look on his face when he turns burns right through me. "I'm not even going to ask why you didn't bring anything to sleep in when you were staying at a hotel with someone."

"I forgot..." I say, following him to his bedroom. And it's the truth, I really did forget.

He's just shaking his head at me as he pulls a big black tee shirt out of his dresser, and hands it to me without looking at me.

"Thank you."

* * *

O
nce behind the
closed door of the guest room, I let out a deep, shaky breath. I have no idea what just happened, but it was definitely something new. I felt it. And I'm pretty sure he did, too.

I think all relationships start with an invisible line, and even though we can't see it, we all know it's there because we can feel it. We respect that line because it keeps the bounds of the relationship intact. The line guides us within our relationships and dictates who is our friend, who is our family, who is our lover, who is someone we can or can't trust. The line between Tor and I is somewhat unique, because it criss-crosses between family and friend, and just now it blurred into something I can't quite describe. I'm not sure where our line is anymore, or if I even want a line at all.

I quickly change out of my prom dress, into Tor's t-shirt, and climb into the bed I've slept in many times before. The purple comforter with a big gothic sugar skull on it that Tor bought for me a few years ago is still on the bed and it's softness and familiarity calms me. He said he wanted me to have something girly, but cool, here. His house has always been like a second home for me and I stayed here a lot when my parents were on tour. Since Tor lives closer to my Dad than my grandparents do, it wasn't unusual for me to stay with him so he could bring me to school every day. For the past two years, I've come here twice a week to clean and do his laundry because he usually doesn't have time to do it himself and he pays me fifty dollars a week that I stash away for when I can have my own car. Tonight, though, I don't really feel like I'm staying over at my father's best friend’s house. Something feels different.

How can one little moment, one tiny touch, one quickening breath change so much?

I
t didn't
.

I
'm being
ridiculous and hyper-sensitive because Jason was nasty to me. I wanted to feel pretty - maybe even wanted and cared about - tonight and when that didn't happen I must have just projected that onto poor Toren. No wonder he couldn't wait to make me go to bed.

And telling him I want to put him in a box!
Gawd.
So awkward and borderline psychotic.

C
ringing at myself
, I grab my phone from the nightstand to see ten text messages. Eight are from Chloe and two are from Jason. All ten asking if I'm okay and where the hell am I? I'm surprised Jason even bothered after the way he treated me.

I text them both that I'm home and put the phone back so I can bury myself under the comforter, where I toss and turn. It's four a.m. and I should be exhausted, but I can't get my mind to turn off and let me sleep. It keeps shifting back to Tor and how his hand felt on my cheek, and how warm his chest felt against my hands through his thin shirt. When our bodies leaned against each other for those few moments, it was like a silent
click
into place. It's exactly the type of feeling I read about in all my romance novels. This proves that crazy butterfly moment really does exist after all, and it's not a myth.

The only problem is, it's all wrong. Very wrong.

Toren can't make me feel that way. He's old. Okay, not
old
, but way older than me. He's practically family. He freakin' babysat me. He's been to all my birthday parties and all my school events. He's taken care of me when I was sick. He taught me how to ride a bicycle. He held me when I cried for my mom. He knows all my secrets and dreams. He's...

... everything.

* * *

I
have
no idea when I finally fell asleep but I'm woken up by the scent of coffee. The clock on the wall reads seven a.m.
Great.
Not getting enough sleep is going to make me cranky all day.

After using the restroom and making sure I look somewhat presentable, I follow the aroma to the kitchen to find Tor standing at the kitchen window, wearing old faded jeans and no shirt. I'm surprised to see his entire back covered in tattoos now because he didn't have all those last summer when he was in our pool. That funny feeling returns to my chest and stomach as my eyes rake over not just the new artwork, but the muscles and definition beneath the ink.
When did Tor get so hot? Have I been living under a rock?

"Hi..." I finally say, stepping further into the kitchen.

He turns with a look of surprise, and I notice how his eyes quickly take in that I'm still wearing his shirt, which comes down to my thighs. I've dressed like this a hundred times in front of him and never felt self-conscious, but today I do. My legs feel incredibly naked and I'm so glad I shaved them yesterday before the prom.

"Hey, I didn't think you'd be up this early."

"The smell of the coffee woke me up." If coffee was a person, it would be my best friend. I'm definitely addicted in a bad way.

"You want some? You look pretty tired." He steps over to the counter and grabs the coffee pot, pouring some into a mug before I have a chance to answer. "I don't have any of that caramel milk stuff you like, though."

"That's okay; I'll drink it with regular milk."

"And about twenty sugars?" He flashes me a teasing grin as he adds milk and sugar just the way I like it and then hands it to me.

"Thanks. Are you working today?"

He steps closer to me and grabs my hand, his eyes twinkling with that sparkling diamond glint he sometimes gets, and pulls his hair tie off my wrist.

My heart does an odd clench. "You're taking it back?" I ask.

"I'm borrowing it."

"Oh. Okay..." He's never taken back anything I've lifted off him before. Maybe he's finally fed up with my silly little game. I remind myself that I'm not five anymore, and collecting items from him is probably immensely annoying and possibly perceived as stealing and not cute.

"Hey don't look all wounded, Kenz. It's the last one I have. I'll pick some up today and you can have this one back. I promise."

I sip my coffee, feeling idiotic for letting myself get upset over something so ridiculous as a rubber band.
But it's his. It's special.

Shaking my head, I pretend to be nonchalant. "You don't have to do that. It's just a stupid little game."

"I know I don't have to. I
want
to. And it's not stupid, it's
our
game, and I'd miss it if you stopped," he leans back against the kitchen counter, crosses his arms, and studies my face for a moment with a faint smirk. "I was thinking, though, maybe I should take something of yours for once. Kind of like a trade."

Warmth floods through my body in a swift wave. It starts in my chest and scatters down between my thighs, intensifying with every passing second. I grip my coffee cup and hope I don't fall over into the wall.

"Oh," I reply, surprised. "I guess that's fair, huh?"

He nods slowly, his eyes dark and intent. Mesmerizing. "I want that black beanie you wear all the time," he says without any hesitation, and I wonder when he decided
that's
the thing he wants.

"It has a little purple heart on it," I protest. And it's my favorite, but I don't care anymore. I'll love it even more once it's on his head.

"So? I can rock a purple heart, Angel."

No doubt he can rock anything. But him rocking my favorite beanie is something I can't wait to see.

I smile at him. "Consider it yours then. Next time you see me, you can have it."

"Don't forget or next time you try to take something of mine, I'm not gonna let ya."

He wants something of mine.
I'm pretty sure I've got a fever. Maybe even the flu. My body is on fire, and my insides are shaking again. My head feels buzzy and floaty. My lips feel stuck in a demented smile. I wish I had pants on.

"Deal." I manage to say.

He pushes himself off the counter. "I gotta get going. I have to go to work and pick up Tanner then we're busting some douchebags with fighting dogs."

The excited nervousness I felt a second ago quickly turns into worry. The whole dog fighting thing scares the hell out of me. Usually, the guys that run them are drug dealers or worse, and most of the dogs are dangerous. I've seen the dogs they rescue and bring to Tor's mother's shelter to evaluate for training and veterinary care. They're either all torn up and bloody or totally aggressive from fear and starvation. Or both.

"Be careful, Tor. Those guys are crazy." It’s hard to believe that people who run dog fighting rings exist right here in our cozy little New England towns, but they do.

"I'm always careful." He goes to the laundry room down the hall and comes back pulling a heather gray t-shirt on. "Do you need a ride home? Or you can stay here for the day, do the stuff you do, and I'll take you home later?"

"Can I stay here? I'll clean up for you. I could make dinner if you have food."

"Yeah, I got some stuff in the 'fridge. I'll be home around five. Make anything you find, I'm easy," he grabs his keys off the table. "Get in touch with your dad and let him know you're okay. I'm sure he's wondering how your night went."

"I will. I'm not going to tell him what happened with Jason. If he knows I had a sucky time he'll get upset and he doesn't need that now."

"Your call. I'm not going to tell him anything, but if he asks we'll just tell him you were here cleaning like you always do, and you came here from Chloe's after the prom."

I nod gratefully. "Thanks, Tor."

"Don't thank me. I don't like lying to Asher, though, so I don't want any more shit like this going on. I'll always help you if you need it but I don't like keeping things about you from him."

I nod again, knowing if I apologize it will just make him angry. I feel terrible that I put him in a bad position of having to lie to my father because that's something he would normally never do. Tor is a good guy with strong values, especially when it comes to his family and friends, and I hate that my bad decision has now affected him.

He pauses at the door and turns to me before he leaves. "Go take a nap, Kenz. You know how you get when you're over tired. You don't even have to clean today if you don't want to, and I'll still pay you. I'll be happy with a dinner that didn't come out of the microwave and hasn't been frozen for the past four years."

I shake my head. "No. I'm not letting you pay me this week. You drove three hours for me in the middle of the night. So forget it."

He waves his hand in my direction. "Fine. I'm going. Get some sleep."

S
he's slamming
one of the kitchen cabinets open and closed while I'm trying to read a magazine. Babysitting on a Friday night isn't exactly my idea of fun, but Ash and Ember wanted to get away for a night to see a movie. So Uncle Tor said yes and stayed home. As usual.

Slam. Slam.

"Kenzi," I warn. "You better stop slamming that door."

She looks over at me, giggles, and slams it again. Harder.

"I mean it, I'm gonna put you to bed early if you don't stop."

She looks at me, then the cabinet, then at me again.

Slam.

Pushing the chair back, I stand and she tries to toddle off, falls, and starts to cry. I kneel down and pick her up.

"Where does it hurt, Angel?" I ask, knowing she didn't get hurt.

She holds out her palm, sniffling. "Here..."

"Should I kiss it and make it better? Do you think that'll work?"

She nods, her hair falling over her eyes. I grab her hand and plant a big noisy kiss on her palm.

"All better now?"

Nodding, she wraps her little arms around my neck and rests her head against mine.

"Uh huh."

All she wanted was for me to chase her and hug her. It's what she does.

And I melt every time.

* * *

A
s I drive
to the shop, I'm still exhausted and pissed off from the night before. Sleep never came last night, fury racing through my veins for hours along with something else I can't find the words to explain.

That asshole put his hands on her and had the nerve to call her a cock tease. He ruined a night that was supposed to be special and memorable, and now I want to wring his skinny neck. He's an idiot for even thinking he could ever have a girl like her, and I'm proud of her for saying no to him. If I ever cross paths with Jason again, I'm going to beat some respect into him. He'll be wearing the imprint of my silver skull rings on his pretty boy face for a long time.

I tell myself my rage stems from some punk pawing my niece like a twenty-buck whore. I'd feel the exact same way if someone treated my little sister like that and my reaction would be the same.

But, not quite the same, right, Tor?

The feelings that surfaced later, when her hands slowly crept down my shoulders to my chest and her eyes fixated on my mouth, her own lips parting and practically begging...I don't know what the fuck that was.

I tell myself the way our bodies melted perfectly into each other for what could only have been mere seconds, and how her voice took on a sweet, sensual wistfulness when she told me she wanted to hide me away in her box of cherished possessions, all meant nothing and were figments of exhaustion.

I lie.

I'd live in that box for the rest of my life just to make her happy.

At the next stop light, I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the steering wheel, then pull back slightly and bang my head against it. Hard. And again. And again. And again. Until blood trickles down my face.

I
did
not
just think
that. I did
not
feel
any
of that. I did
not
pull her closer. I did
not
silently beg her to never take her hands off me. I did
not
want to touch her face and promise her the world. I did
not
love seeing her in nothing but my shirt in the middle of my kitchen.

I will never, ever let my mind wander to her again.

I will never, ever wish for what I can never have.

T
he car
behind me blares its horn for me to move, rousing me from my thoughts and brain-banging.

"Alright, alright..." I mutter into the rearview mirror, gunning the gas and wiping my hand across my bloody forehead. Everyone is so fucking impatient nowadays.

* * *

M
y mood today
could not be more perfect for the task at hand. Tanner and our buddy Sled don't say a word as we drive to the address given to us by an anonymous tipper. I barely have to look at the address to know where the house is. Nine times out of ten, they're in the same neighborhood, and this one's no exception. It's a seedy part of a nearby town, home to drug dealers, addicts, and assorted derelicts. There was a time when I spent way too much time in this part of town, fighting underground and engaging in other activities I'm not proud of. Watching my brothers follow me down that same destructive path forced me to get out, and I convinced them to get out of it too before one of us ended up in prison or dead.

So now, we build custom bikes, and we rescue lost and abused pets. And on some days, like today, we might just get the chance to fight and give some asshole a well-deserved ass kicking. That's always a bonus, especially when I'm in a bad mood.

I
park
the truck across the street from the house in question and we take a quick inventory of our surroundings as we make our way to the front door. A large garage in the back has the tell-tale boarded up windows. Several rusty dog cages are stacked next to the garage, partially hidden in the bushes. We've been doing this for years with a decent success rate, but there's always the chance we could get shot or stabbed by someone strung out on drugs or just unwilling to comply with our demands. All of us are trained fighters and know how to disarm someone, but that doesn't make the risk any less real. We're not cops, and these guys don't have to go along with our plan, even though we're giving them the easy way out, they don't always see it that way.

Knocking on the door is my preference over the doorbell, and after three knocks the door opens and a guy with no shirt and sweatpants on squints at us.

"Sup?" He says.

Most of these guys aren't too nervous when they see us at the door because we don't look like law enforcement. When three guys show up at the door covered in tats, wearing leather vests and dark sunglasses, two with long hair and one with a half- shaved, tattooed head, they usually think we're here to buy drugs or get in on their action.

"Can we come inside?" I ask.

He swings the door open. "Okay, bro. You lookin' for something special?"

I've already noticed the white lines on the coffee table, the pill bottles, and the drug paraphernalia littering the house. A fawn pit bull is sitting beside the ratty mustard yellow couch, watching our every move. She has no visible scars, so she's most likely a pet or a guard dog.

"We heard you have fighting dogs." Tanner says, moving to my right.

The guy nods, and his suspicious expression shows he's not quite sure how he wants to react to us. "I might. You lookin' to buy or to bet? Shit goes down on Friday and Saturday."

My teeth clench. "Does that all happen here?"

His eyes shift from me to my boys and it's evident he's not sure he can trust us. "Mostly, yeah."

"How much you asking for a fighter?" Tanner asks, lighting up a cigar.

"Depends on the dog. We got puppies you can train yourself or we got experienced dogs that will fight to the death and win every ring. They're fucking gnarly terrors, man, and they go for a few grand if you're serious."

"Oh we're very serious," I say calmly. "We're with Devils’ Wolves dog rescue."

"What the fuck is that?"

"We rescue abused dogs," I answer. "Dog fighting is illegal."

"You the fuckin' cops?" He steps back, almost tripping over one of the several beer bottles on the stained carpet.

"No, but we work with them and could have them here in about ten minutes if you don't cooperate," Tanner says. "And it looks to me like you might not want the cops here. Unless you're snorting baby powder over there."

His nostrils flare at us. "Fuck you guys. Get out of my house."

I shake my head. "Not without the dogs."

His eyes shift over to the dog. "
Achtung!
" He commands, and the dog jumps to its feet, its eyes riveted on me.

"
Sitz!
" I meet the dog’s brown eyes, unwavering, and she obeys my command and sits. "
Bleib
!" I tell the dog to stay and turn my hard gaze to its owner after I'm convinced the dog will stay put. "You think I don't know fuckin' German?"

"You're gonna regret that, motherfucker," his arm swings up and I quickly block him. Delivering a hard punch to his face, he goes down fast to the floor. I've learned that making another man's dog listen to your commands is right up there with sleeping with his woman - they don't like it.

Sled flashes me an evil grin. "Nice."

"Thanks." Hitting him felt good.
Too good.
It's eased some of my anger from last night, at least for the moment.

I kick the guy on the floor with my boot and he rolls over, holding his bleeding face. "Get up, buddy. We're not done. Unless you like laying in your own garbage?"

"What the fuck do you assholes want?" He stands slowly, wiping the blood from his broken, crooked nose with the back of his hand.

"We just want the dogs, that's it. We don't want your drugs, or your money. We won't even tell the cops what we saw here. The deal is we take the dogs and you agree to never fight dogs again. Simple as that. You can sit here for the rest of your fuckin' life and get stoned man, we don't care. We just want the dogs."

He attempts to talk but I raise my hand, making him flinch. "There's no debates. Either you let us take the dogs, calm and quiet, or we're calling the police, and that's gonna go way worse for you. Your choice on how much you want to lose."

Tanner leans down and pets the dog, which is still in the stay position, and it wags its tail at his gentle touch.

"Take the fucking dogs." The guy mumbles, his voice thick and nasally.

"Good choice. How many you got?"

"Eight adults and four puppies downstairs and there's four bait dogs out in the fucking garage."

Puppies and bait dogs
. What a scumbag.

I haul my arm back and crash my fist into his face again, knocking him back down onto the floor. "That's for the puppies and bait dogs, asshole. You might want to stay down there, after all."

My brother nudges my arm. "You in a bad mood today, Tor?"

"You could say that."

It takes us an hour to load the dogs up into the transport cages and into the back of my truck. Three of the dogs are in bad shape with fresh open wounds and ripped, oozing ears. The puppies are young, maybe eight weeks old, kept in the basement on the cold blood-stained floor but still wagging their tails. The bait dogs are assorted breeds, timid and shaking, and were most likely strays or picked up on Craigslist ads from 'free to good home' offers. Luckily, the puppies are young enough where they'll forget the horrors they must have witnessed the first few weeks of their lives, but the bait dogs will need rehabilitation.

On our way out, we take the pretty fawn pittie that was in the living room because I don't trust that asshole with any dog, pet or otherwise. Once an abuser,
always
an abuser.

My mother and a local vet who volunteers for situations like this are waiting for us when we arrive at the shelter to triage the dogs that need medical attention first. While they're doing that, we bring the other dogs to the quarantine area and set them up in their kennels with fresh food, water, and beds. Most of them seem pretty friendly, which is a good sign they'll be able to be put in foster homes and retrained. My guess is the guy who had these dogs was new to this sick hobby and hadn't had them for very long. I pet each dog softly on the head before we leave. It's a new beginning for them, and I always feel like a small part of my soul goes with each one.

My father used to tell us to try to make a difference in someone's life every day. Even if it's only to make them smile. Today, I made a difference. It was just for a bunch of dogs, but it still counts.