17. Jeffrey

Mutt wasn't waiting for me at home.

He hadn't texted.

Simply put, it was fucking radio silence, man.

Instead of thinking about Mutt—and the lack of Mutt in my life—I decided to shift my focus. It isn't all that weird that he's missing, right? I mean… Maybe he needs time to recuperate? I'd tried to figure that out at Avery's but he'd been no help. And though there were local hunting lodges—two of them, to be exact—I didn't feel comfortable going over there to ask.

Especially as it had been less than twenty-four hours since I'd last seen him.

I didn't want to step back into those shoes.

I didn't want to be Jeffrey Evans anymore.

Focus on your truck.

One thing at a time.

Numb, I pulled my phone out.

The local mechanic offered tows. And they'd been closed over the weekend—that was the only call that Mutt had allowed—as I was supposed to be "resting." So I tried again, the acorn-shaped guitar pick in my pocket biting into my thumb hard enough to leave the skin white.

"Magical Mechanics, this is Joe speaking," a tinny, grouchy voice echoed as the line connected.

"Hey, Joe!" I grinned, immediately falling back into the persona that had become second nature most of my life. "Hope you had a great weekend."

"It sucked, but thanks. What do you need?" Rustling sounded, a clang and then a muffled, "Wallace, get your ass in here, the damn coffee machine stopped working!"

An even more muffled, "Fuck you, old man," sounded in the background.

"I don't pay you to listen to your fucking lip," Joe snapped, though there was obvious affection in his tone, even as he uttered, " Kids ."

Then, Joe's voice grew clear again as he spoke into the phone and addressed me. "I don't got all day. Hurry the fuck up."

I laughed awkwardly, because I wasn't sure what the fuck else to do, cheeks flushed. Apparently Lydia's training did not work on Joe the mechanic. "Uh. Right. Yes, sir." I took a breath.

"Get to the point. Jesus."

"I have a truck I was hoping you could tow and take a look at for me?" I blurted.

"A truck?" He sounded skeptical. I explained the situation, trying not to think too hard about the crash—and the pain—and the—No, no . Jeffrey. Stop it. I listed the make and model of the vehicle and listened to him rattle around for a minute before he grunted.

"I already got one of those here," he said, annoyed. "Is this a prank call?"

"What? No." I frowned, confused. "You already have a red truck…that has a tree trunk through the windshield there?"

"Well, we took the trunk out," he huffed, annoyed. "But yeah."

"Oh."

This was either a freaky coincidence or there was some fuckery afoot. Immediately, my thoughts fled to Lydia. This is a total Lydia move. Taking my truck from me like this—just to make me feel confused, and worried, and like I'd fucked up.

"Who called it in?" I asked, heart pounding. "Was it a woman?"

Was she out of prison?

Had she broken out?

Had she come for me?

Had she sent one of her friends after me?

Had she ? —

"Richard Prince," he said easily. And then he hung up the phone, and I sat there staring blankly at the wall for all of two seconds before I was ringing Richard with a fire lit under my ass. Lydia's ghost hung over me, casting shadows in my head.

How fucking dare he?

Like.

Who does that?

He took my fucking truck—and didn't tell me?

What…the fuck .

What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck.

"Answer, you dickhead," I hissed at my phone, pacing my front hall, guitar pick painfully digging in. I was still sweaty from work, still antsy and anxious—the Mutt-sized hole in my apartment glaringly obvious as I panicked.

Ring, ring ?—

"This is Richard," Richard's low, quiet voice came on the line.

"The fuck is your problem?" I hissed out. My vision was red, my head spinning as I burned holes in the carpet with my feet.

"What?" Richard made a confused sound. " Jeffrey ?"

I'd never called him before, so I figured it was fair he was confused.

I was too fucking mad to care right now though.

Distantly I recognized that I was taking my anxiety out on him, but I couldn't seem to stop. The shaking had begun, and my throat was tight, and I just…I felt so fucking powerless and he?—

Why had he done this?

Why hadn't he told me?

Was he fucking with me?

"You had my car towed?" I spat. "And you didn't tell me? The fuck, dude. The actual fuck."

"Jeffrey—"

"You fucking asshole." My head wasn't screwed on straight. Everything hurt, and my thoughts were jumbled. "You saw the fucking tree trunk through the windshield—and you didn't even see if I was okay? And then you moved the fucking truck—and like." Oh fuck. There was a pit in my stomach, and my body ached, bruises that were still vivid and dark burning where the seat belt had slammed into me. "Did it ever occur to you that I could be hurt? Or that the truck is the only fucking thing in the world that's mine—and it maybe means a lot to me?"

"Jeffrey—"

"Why are you messing with me?" My voice broke.

"I'm not," Richard made a panicked sound, and I felt bad immediately. He was a slow talker. It always took him a bit to figure out what to say, and I wasn't giving him time to explain himself. But I was just…I was just so mad .

And Mutt wasn't here—and I'd hoped he would be.

And everything sucked—and I just?—

Does Richard not care about me?

That thought kept playing over and over and over again.

I hadn't realized till that moment just how upset the idea that Richard didn't care about me made me feel.

"Explain," I demanded.

"I'll explain—" he promised, alarmed. "Where are you? I can come to you." There was a clicking sound, like he'd just unlocked his car.

"Just use the phone, old man."

"Where are you?"

"Jesus fucking fuck, fuckchard. I'm at my house." You're being mean. Stop it. He probably didn't mean to upset you. Calm down. Calm down.

I wished Mutt was here to tell me " calm " like he had the other day. Because telling myself to calm down did not fucking work. It only made me angrier, and more bitter.

He doesn't care about you.

Why would he?

You left.

You left and now he's getting back at you.

It wasn't my voice, it wasn't mine but it hurt all the same. The barbs of Lydia's claws digging in a way they hadn't in weeks.

"I'm on my way."

Richard hung up the phone. I called him back, but it went straight to voicemail and I got one of those annoying automated texts that said "this person is currently operating a vehicle." So I swiped it away and continued to angrily pace my front hallway, my head burning—my heart aching.

Why would he do this?

Why would he ? —

I didn't get it.

I didn't get it.

Where is Mutt?

I want Mutt.

I want Mutt. I want Mutt. I need ?—

I need Mutt.

By the time Richard knocked on the front door I'd shoved the guitar pick so hard into my finger that I'd made it bleed. Richard's nostrils flared, alarmed, when I pushed the door open and yanked him inside unceremoniously. It almost clicked shut, but not quite—but I was too pissed to care as the open crack sent a beam of light into the gloom.

The hallway was still dark.

Despite the sun having gone down on my way home, I hadn't thought to flip the light switch. Something I hadn't even noticed until I had someone else in my space and realized how weird I looked. Just standing here in the shadows, fuming and panicking.

I looked unstable.

Just like Blair had pretty much told him I was.

"You have two minutes," I said, trying to seem more calm than I had on the phone and failing.

Richard wasted no time.

"I got a call that there had been a wreck after you left Blair's shop. I called around and found out you were staying with the new pack we've been negotiating with at work. They are good men, and I've been working extensively with all of them—Theo especially, and he assured me that you were being taken care of and would appreciate some space."

Okay…that made sense.

I squinted at him.

"I thought you might be overwhelmed and want some help. So I called in a favor at Joe's and they towed your truck to the shop."

"And why didn't you text me?" I hissed out, trying to stay angry, though it was hard when he was being so…so… reasonable.

"I did." Richard looked confused. "Did you not get it?"

"Of course I didn't fucking get it." I yanked my phone out of my pocket, pulled it open, and showed him my inbox to demonstrate.

"Oh," Richard said, frowning. "But it's…I mean. It's right here?" He pushed my phone back toward me, tapping at the screen.

"What do you mean it's—" I blinked, then frowned, face scrunching up. Because there was a text from Richard. Sitting right there. Already opened. Right above the automated one I'd just received.

"But I—" I pulled it closer, confused. "But I don't…I didn't?—"

And then I remembered. Because of fucking course. Mutt and I had been trying to watch something on my phone and I'd kept getting texts—so I'd swiped them all away and I just…fuck. Fuck. Okay .

Okay, this was my fault.

This was totally my fault.

Because of course it was.

It always was.

Everything was always my fucking fault.

And here I was screaming at Richard when his only sin was doing the right thing—and I was just—I was just?—

I couldn't breathe.

I'm a bad person.

I'm a bad person.

This is like the party all over again.

"Are you okay?" Richard asked, because he was a fucking saint. He looked so ridiculously concerned, standing next to me, his pale hair glinting. We looked like idiots just standing here without the light on.

At least, I did.

It weirdly…suited him now that he was all fangy and could see in the dark.

It didn't escape my notice that this was the first time Richard and I had been alone since I'd come back to Elmwood. But my head was spinning too hard to properly react.

Before, having him here would've made me nervous and anxious—terrified he'd see the five bolt locks on my door and know just how paranoid I really was. That I wasn't right in the head—because I wasn't . But…weirdly enough, I couldn't muster up the energy to be upset. Or to hide. Or to push him out.

Couldn't even lie.

I just…sagged.

Numb for all of two seconds before ice filled my veins.

I need Mutt.

I need Mutt.

"No," I admitted. "I'm not fucking okay."

"Okay." Richard stared at me, eyes wide—like he hadn't expected me to say that. I must've looked absolutely crazy, judging by the look on his face, but I couldn't seem to stop shaking. Couldn't get my thoughts in order. Couldn't breathe.

I broke.

"My…my head hurts," I admitted, my hands falling to my sides. "And I–I–I cut my thumb on my fucking guitar pick on accident." It hadn't been an accident, not really, but I wasn't about to confess that too. "I'm a fucking chronic pessimist. I don't know how to breathe ninety percent of the time."

My eyes pinched shut as I sucked in a broken breath. Too tired to do anything but tell the truth. Angry, and hurt, but mostly…mostly mad at myself.

Because once again, I'd caused problems.

Once again, I'd fucked shit up.

And I didn't have my wolf to make it better.

He could be hurt somewhere for all I knew, lost…or, or injured by the local hunters. Realistically, I knew I wasn't being rational. That Mutt could heal faster than I could say my own name. That hunters weren't allowed to hurt wolves unprovoked—but that didn't stop my head from reliving the nightmares I'd survived, and replacing the creatures I'd killed with Mutt.

"Mutt isn't here—and I thought he would be. Avery got bird shit on his head, and I was gonna tell him about it, but now I can't." My chin wobbled. "He's not answering my texts. And I'm worried, and mad at myself for being worried, because I know I'm being paranoid but I can't fucking stop." I could hardly breathe. My chin wouldn't stop moving, and it was making me irrationally angry—but that was a distant, far-off emotion.

Because once I started talking…I couldn't seem to stop.

Words spilled free.

A whole torrent of awful, mushy truths. Like sludge and muck. The truths that had clogged my system for years, along with ones I'd just collected. It should've felt good. It should've.

But at that moment, it only hurt.

My cracks had finally snapped.

"What if something's wrong? I mean… I don't know enough about werewolves. I keep telling myself to stop freaking out, but that doesn't help. I keep replaying my stupid therapist's advice in my head, but that's not helping either?—"

Focus on the positive, Jeffrey.

"And I'm pretty sure I'm in love with him, which is terrifying—" It really fucking was. The most terrifying thing I've ever experienced . "And how am I even supposed to know if I'm in love when all of this is new? I've never even been with a dude. I've never had real feelings for someone in general. So I'm like, the least qualified person ever to say they love someone."

And wasn't that just the icing on the shit-cake?

"Plus! Blair doesn't know about him—and I can't tell him, because I don't know how to talk to him anymore. He's like all at peace or whatever, living his best gay life with you and your fucking cat and your life-sized Dracula cardboard cutouts. And I'm happy for him—of course I am, because no one deserves happiness more than him—but I resent him too. Because he's moved on, and I haven't, and it's not fucking fair. We were supposed to move on together but I can't—and I'm stuck. And everything is fucking spinning all the time, and no one notices I'm drowning—or they do and look at me like I'm a basket case—like you are right now."

The words kept coming.

Things I hadn't meant to say spilling free, the drain unclogging.

"But I can't even be mad because it's my fault. It's all my fault anyway— all of this is. I made this mess. I fucking made it. I left. I tore our family apart. I abandoned you. I got Blair kidnapped. Every time Lydia hurt him it was because of me. Because I was a coward. Because I am so inherently fucked in the head that I thought a monster could love me.

"I owe everyone a big ass apology, you especially. I'm a shit brother. I yelled at you—because I'm stupid—and instead of thinking you were doing something nice for me, I immediately jumped to the worst possible conclusion. My truck was missing—and I got scared that Lydia was fucking with me. And then she wasn't—and it turns out it was just you. Being perfect. As per fucking usual."

Richard stared at me.

He stared and stared and stared.

"And I'm so fucking mad at you. Because you're nice to me. And I don't get it." I sucked in a ragged breath. "I don't. Get. It. I don't. I don't-I don't-I don't. How can you be nice to me after what I've done? How can any of you welcome me back at all? How can Blair forgive me? When everything shitty that's ever happened to him is my fault."

I fell to my knees, the carpet biting into them as I whined, low and hurt. Blood dripped down my finger from the jagged cut I'd made. My bruises should've ached, but they didn't. Because my heart hurt more. This gaping, awful hole. Empty and hollow and aching. "It's my fault, it's my fault, it's my fault."

I couldn't breathe?—

It's my fault—It's my fault—It's my?—

Drowning, drowning, drowning.

Richard's hand was on the back of my neck. And it was cool, and solid, and sure. He smelled like pine cones and cocoa, and his leather jacket rustled as he sunk to his knees beside me. And then he pulled me into a hug—and I just…I just caved in.

I shook and shook and shook, and my lungs wheezed—but no tears came.

They couldn't, they wouldn't.

"I'm sorry," I gasped out. "I'm so, so sorry."

"It's okay," Richard replied, holding me tight—like he had the day Mom had told me the truth and I'd learned the monsters I'd been frightened of were real.

"I'm sorry," I gasped again. "I'm so—I'm so?—"

"Shhhh, no. It's fine. It's fine." Richard squeezed me tighter. "No one blames you."

"They should—" It hurt. Everything hurt. "You should?—"

"You were nine."

"I was stupid?—"

"You were a kid."

"I fucked up."

"You did," Richard agreed, slicing me in two. "But if you think you're the only person who's fucked up, you're dead wrong. And if you think you won't again, you're wrong about that too." Richard clutched me tighter. "Everyone fucks up."

"You don't."

"Yeah, I do," Richard laughed, breath leaving him in a tight gust. "I do all the fucking time. Why do you think I'm so anal retentive?"

I frowned, twisting to look at him. His eyes were red. They weren't brown like I remembered, but everything about him was the same—just bigger, broader, and paler. He may have been a vampire, but he was still the kid I'd wasted summers with. Still the kid who'd made me breakfast because I was scared of the flame. Still my brother.

"We're brothers ," Richard said, pretty much reading my mind, even though he probably didn't mean to. He pulled his hand from my neck, and I missed it immediately, watching him blearily, my chest heaving with each ragged breath as he spat in his palm and held it out to me. The same fucking spit shake we'd done when we were little.

A pact.

"Blood is blood," Richard said, waiting patiently, his red eyes serious. "And I'll always love you."

"Even when I suck?"

"Especially then." I stared at him blankly for a second as memories of our childhood—however short-lived it had been—assaulted my senses.

My heart ached for what we'd lost.

But I could see in his eyes that there was no anger there.

Only relief.

Only warmth.

I looked for a lie, but there was none.

Maybe Richard understood what it felt like to drown better than I'd thought.

So I spat in my palm too, my heart skittering as I stared at him—really fucking stared. The same way I'd looked at Collin. Like I was seeing him for the first time.

I spat in my palm.

When we pressed our hands together, some of the weight on my shoulders fell away. I could breathe a little. And the tension that had sat like a wall between us since I'd moved back into town, finally disappeared.

And then the still partially open front door parted wider, and a familiar head popped through the crack. Blair's messy mop of black hair flopped in his face, and his eyes were wet as he stared at me.

A beat passed.

"Can I come in now?" Blair asked, voice low. "Or do you guys need more time to be gross?" I released Richard's hand as quickly as I'd grabbed it. Then wiped it off on my pants, heart thumping erratically.

If being numb had been awful, this was worse.

Fire burned through my body, my eyes wide, my heart skittering to life again as I stared up at Blair, horrified.

It felt like the world was ending all over again. He overheard. There's no way he didn't. He fucking overheard. What did I say?

Oh fuck. What did I say?

The peace I'd just found disappeared as quickly as it had come.

My words disappeared. My throat was dry—and I just—I didn't…I didn't know what to do.

"Did you…?" My voice cracked.

"Hear?" Blair pushed the rest of the way into the room, nodding, his eyes searching mine. "Yeah. I did."

"Oh." My head was spinning all over again. "All of it?"

"Yeah."

I didn't think I'd ever felt more off-kilter. I hadn't meant for him to hear. Hadn't meant to spill my truths like that. But now that they were out I couldn't bring myself to deny them. Mutt asked me why I lie, and I used to think it was because my lies protected the people I cared about most.

But as Blair fell to his knees beside us and wrapped his arms around me tight, I realized I'd been wrong. Because all I felt was warm as his tiny body tucked against mine. I wasn't sure what I expected. Judgment maybe? Anger? Rejection?

But I got none of that.

Instead, I got squeezed by a fucking half-pint, and was given the greatest gift of all, not arguments, not platitudes, not promises—but acceptance. The silence was full of love. It was fluttery soft and closed in around us as I slowly…slowly softened. Richard patted my back awkwardly as Blair squeezed me even tighter.

"You know," Blair said, crackly soft, voice as rough as my own. "If I knew you were that jealous of my Dracula cutout I would've bought one for you too."

I snorted, sagging into him as I nodded. "You were a stingy fuck."

"I was," Blair agreed, his arms solid and sure as we huddled in a sad little pile on the floor.

You deserve to be happy.

It's time to move on.

You know I don't blame you, right?

Blair had said those words weeks ago, but it wasn't till this moment that I actually believed him. Till I realized he'd been telling the truth, and not trying to placate me.

In a way, I was glad things had ended up this way. Sure, I should've told Blair how I felt a long time ago. Should've spoken my truths and made the choice to break down the wall between us. But that could've taken years—and I…

Well…

I needed my brother.

"I'm sorry," I said to him, because he deserved it most of all. "I didn't mean to cut you out." It was exactly what Blair had done to me, months ago. I could still remember getting mad at him on the phone when he'd finally fucking called me and let me know he was okay. And here I was, doing the same exact fucking thing.

I guess we weren't all that different.

"Oh fuck off," Blair laughed, slapping my back and making me wince. I was still bruised, after all. "Alright. Disgusting sappy moment over. God, gives me the fucking heebie-jeebies," Blair shivered like he was disgusted, pulling back and away, though he offered me a hand to help me up. "The fuck's with your hair, dude?"

I snorted out a laugh.

"A werewolf gave me a haircut," I shrugged, accepting his help, making sure to use the hand that wasn't spit-covered.

"That's…" Blair shook his head, and then he cracked a grin, eyes crinkling with amusement. "That tracks."

He eyed my stitches with concern, but didn't say anything, once again offering me mercy. I had no doubt Richard had already filled him in. And while I knew it was probably killing him not to mother hen me, he could see how badly I needed to feel normal, so stayed silent anyway.

Richard rose on his own, liquid quick, the affection in his eyes apparent as he stared at the both of us. I'd thought he'd resent our relationship, as Blair had replaced him for most of my life. But he didn't. There was nothing but acceptance in his gaze as he offered me a little grin.

I may not have found my werewolf when I got home.

But I did find my brothers.

And that was… well …

That was pretty fucking sweet too.

Shitty haircut aside.