Bad Medicine (Wolf Love Book 4) Page 12

  “So.” I sigh breathily. “What will I have to do to get you to take a shower with me?”

  He swallows, removing his hand to make fists at his sides, his grin gone. “No showers.”

  “Why not? I’ll do whatever you want me to do to earn it.”

  He groans and closes his eyes. I love that noise. It’s so male. So turned on.

  He really doesn’t have to do all this to get me into bed. I don’t understand why he wants this. Then it hits me: maybe he wants time to get to know me to make me feel more comfortable. Maybe he thinks I need it.

  And maybe…god, I hate to admit this…I do.

  Yes, I’m filled with desire for him, but once I got it in my head to force him on me and see if he would lose his mind and tear off our clothes and then push himself inside me, I went numb. Terror started to claw through my chest, making breathing hard, making my passion for him dwindle. But I was hell bent to lose my virginity, to be a normal girl. And the numbness helped with that drive.

  Only, I don’t want my first time to be numb and in a state of shock. I want to be happy and free and feel everything. I want my first time to feel like I do when I kiss him and things naturally progress, where everything feels good.

  Maybe he hasn’t been with a virgin before, but I think he might know how to make it so I can relax and have fun. And have a normal first experience with sex, not a scared one.

  I just need to safeguard myself from falling because, lord knows, he won’t.

  He’s shaking his head, taking a step away. “Clever girl, but no showers.”

  I scoot on my knees to the edge of the bed. “But we don’t have to touch each other. Just take a shower together.” The look that passes through his gaze lets me know he’s softening to the idea. So I’ll build my case. Besides, I would love to just take a shower with him, watch him clean himself with water making his gorgeous body shine. “I could make you breakfast first. I make blueberry pancakes—okay, they’re frozen. But I know how to microwave them in a way that will make you—”

  “I want to meet your sister.”

  I blink, not sure what he said.

  “You make the blueberry pancakes for me and then set up a time for me to meet your sister with you. We can have lunch together. Today.”

  “You want to meet my sister? Today? Lunch?”

  He nods. “Yep. For that, I’ll take a shower with you. No touching.”

  I sharply inhale. “I don’t think you understand. My sister—she’s—”

  “She’s what?”

  “Distant. Sometimes, well, often cold.”

  “I don’t care. I want to meet her.”

  “What will I tell her…about you…and why…”

  “You can tell her we’re dating, and I wanted to meet your family.”

  “I’m not going to lie to my sister.”

  “What’s the lie?”

  I swallow. “You think we’re dating?” No, that can’t be right.

  He shrugs. “I don’t care what you call it, but we’re doing something together. May as well call it dating. I mean, what were you going to call it at work? You know them and the way they gossip. I’m sure because we were caught kissing and holding hands we’re already the center of their talk.”

  He’s right. We probably are already the trending topic of the day. I don’t mind all that much. I might, though, when Ryder has had his fill of me.

  I close my eyes, inventing a mantra that I hope will ward off any tugs of emotions: It’s not really dating. It’s not really dating. It’s not really dating. Because I think dating is getting to know each other better, going out places, getting emotionally attached. And, yes, Ryder wants two out of three of those things, but I’m sure he won’t get emotionally attached. To me.

  So I’m going to keep saying this internal chant to remind myself this is not what it seems. Do I want to date Ryder? I mean, would my sister approve? I can imagine her sneer at meeting him, so, yeah, I doubt that. Would my parents? And I can imagine my parents wondering about his tattoos and scars, probably asking if he has PTSD from the military, asking too many personal questions. So, doubt that too. However, I think my brother would like Ryder. I can imagine them as friends. Good friends. Hon would like Ryder and they’d goad each other into making horrible jokes that would make the both of them laugh hysterically.

  I swallow and try once more to explain things to Ryder. “But my sister—okay, she can be a bit judgmental. She’s a lawyer, my brother too, but she’s really a lawyer. She’s kind of brutal sometimes. She doesn’t mince words. I’m making her sound like an ice demon when she is actually very generous. She works for next to nothing on cases that are really hard, advocating gay and transgendered parents’ rights. And she does other things that are incredibly kind. But she’s also—”

  He holds up his hands. “I get it. She’s a hard ass.” He steps closer to me, a finger under my chin, tilting me to look up at him. “But what you don’t get, baby, is so am I. It sounds like your sister and I will be good friends by the end of lunch.”

  Why does he want to become friends with my sister? I do not understand this man at all.

  “Do we have a deal?” He arches a dark brow. “You make me pancakes, set up a lunch date with your sister, which you cannot back out of, then we’ll take a shower together.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “You drive a mean bargain, Ryder.”

  “You’re not so bad yourself.”

  I sigh. “Fine. Deal.”

  Chapter Fourteen - Ryder

  I’ll have to take Asha on her word about how good her pancakes are—the pancakes that she had to run to the convenience store for. They might have been heaven in my mouth, but I couldn’t taste them. I couldn’t think of anything except how she’d gotten me to agree to shower with her.

  After we ate and put the dishes in the dishwasher, she calls her sister, smiling at me nervously. She sets up a lunch date, which Lona agrees to instantly. I think that surprises Asha. She looks a little stunned when she hangs up her cell, looking at her phone as if she’s wondering if it might have dialed someone other than her sister.

  She swallows and gazes at me. “She said, if you wouldn’t mind, that she’d like me to meet her girlfriend, Bit.”

  “Bit?”

  “It’s short for Elizabeth.”

  I nod. “Like Bitsy? But just Bit. That’s cute. Is she on the short side too?”

  She shrugs. “From what I gather.”

  “Are you surprised your sister wants you to meet her girlfriend?”

  “Honestly? A little, yeah.”

  “Are you excited to meet her girlfriend?”

  She smiles at me widely. “Yeah. I’ve been dying to. I just didn’t know how to ask.”

  “Good.” When she smiles at me like that, I feel like I’ve conquered something—something huge too, like armies, or countries. I feel stronger than I know I am. And I feel proud. “I’m glad we’re having this lunch then.”

  She nods and looks down at her cell. “Me too.”

  We’re silent because I don’t want to be the one to remind her that we’re supposed to take a shower now. Even if I’m dying to remind her. Instead, I grab a couple cups of coffee and move us to the couch. She shuffles after me. We drink in silence, and you know what’s weird? It’s not uncomfortable. It’s nice.

  Yeah, she’s going to be mine. Soon enough. I’ll do everything in my power to make sure of that.

  After several quiet moments, she says as she turns and lays her legs on my lap, “I’ve always idolized my sister. Is your sister younger or older?”

  “Younger. By almost two years.” Without thinking, I place my coffee on a side table and massage the balls of her tiny feet, which makes her close her eyes and smile, relaxing even more on my couch, when I say, “How much older is your sister?”

  “Five and-a-half years. My brother and I thought she was the coolest person in the world. When we were little, we’d try to invent ways to force her to play with us.”
>
  I smile, thinking of little Asha with her twin, conspiring.

  “My sister sounded excited I called.”

  “Good. I’m glad.”

  She suddenly sits up, removing her legs and feet from me, but she’s leaning closer, smiling. “Ryder?”

  “Yeah? Why do I get the feeling that you’re conspiring like when you were little with your brother?”

  She smiles even brighter. “Because you have great intuition.”

  “Do I?”

  “You do.” She leans closer, placing her cup on the coffee table. “Can I kiss you? Just kiss you because I’m really grateful about today, about lunch?”

  Well, how can I turn that down? Even a heartless man couldn’t, especially because her eyes are sparkling and her cheeks are pink and she’s still got that grin of hers that melts my heart.

  I nod, and she giggles as she rushes forward and plants a kiss right on my lips. It’s quick and sweet and over before I can react. But when she leans away, she gazes at me. Her smile wavering. Slowly she comes back, her lips brushing against mine, and there’s no way I can fight this.

  I love kissing her. Our lips meet again and again. We smile in between. She adjusts and gets even closer, and then she’s giving me a real kiss. Soft. Everything about it is so soft, from her lips to the way she presses them against me. This is her kiss to me. And, fuck, if my heart doesn’t start aching and yet feels really good at the same time. I don’t know what it is about Asha, but everything in me likes her. I like this kiss and realize I’ve never been kissed like this before. Not even as a teenager. Back then, all the kisses were hard and fast and were meant to lead to something more. But this is lingering. I don’t think she wants more, other than this kiss.

  I hold her by the slip of her waist, and she gently touches her tongue to the seam of my mouth. I open for her, and she’s in. She’s slow, measured. This is Asha. It’s like she’s experimenting and finding out what I like, which is everything, and more importantly what she likes. I mimic everything she does because I don’t want to ruin this kiss. Even when I’m touching her, I don’t try to push for more, like the way she’s just holding my shoulders. When our tongues touch, she moans. Softly. Like the kiss.

  It’s the sweetest kiss I’ve ever had, but it’s also driving me crazy. Everything about this kiss is perfect, like her. My body hardens quickly. All my nerves tighten. My senses are on alert to everything she’s doing to me. I feel like electricity is pouring down my spine, and I wonder if I’m shaking from trying to hold in all the white-hot energy.

  She slowly leans away, smiling, batting her long lashes, making my heart slam against my sternum, my stomach clench. God, I like her.

  Her gaze drops, but only to my shoulder. She snuggles closer, crossing her nimble legs so she’s still beside me but backward to the way I’m sitting on the couch. Carefully, she touches my right shoulder.

  “Is that Latin?”

  I smile and glance at my tattoo sprawled on that part of me. “Yeah.”

  “What’s it mean? I think it’s something about fear, but my Latin is…well, it’s nonexistent.”

  I silently chuckle. “It’s better than mine, I’m sure. And it’s ‘Never let fear decide your fate.’”

  She traces the lettering, smiling. “That’s a good one. Is this a dragon?”

  She’s on my chest now, her fingers leaving hot spots as she touches me.

  “Yes. I liked dragons when I was a kid.”

  “You got this when you were a kid?”

  “Fifteen. That’s why it’s kind of hard to figure out what it is now. All garbled. I grew a lot after I got it.”

  “Your parents let you get a tattoo at fifteen?”

  This is what I was hoping to postpone. Indefinitely. I’m going to talk about my upbringing, which will be vastly different from hers, and she’ll wonder if I’m still a fuck up.

  I sigh, realizing I’m going to have to tell her. “No. I never knew my dad. My mom…I don’t remember much other than she used to sing. After my sister was born, my mom gave us to her mother. My sister and I didn’t find out until we were adults that she had cancer and had gone to get treatment but then died. Our grandmother never told us. Just said our mom left.”

  The hand that had been on my right pec hurries to touch my cheek. “I’m so sorry, Ryder.” Her hand is trembling. “Is your grandmother still alive?”

  I shake my head.

  “Good. I mean, I’m sorry for your loss, but I would have called her and given her a piece of my mind, leaving you with the impression that your mother abandoned you. Jesus Christ. I’m making a horrible impression, I’m sure. And I’m sorry, but I’m so pissed your grandmother would do that to you and your sister.”

  This is just one of the many reasons why my heart comes alive around Asha. In the past, if I told anyone about my grandmother, they would say they were sorry, give me a pitying look, which I fucking hated. But not Asha, fierce fighter that she is. She’s angry for me. Wants to protect me, which feels…weird. Good, but weird.

  I remember when I was little and realizing I would have to protect my sister and myself and no one would help. It’s one of my first memories. From there, it felt as if it were the world against me. Except when I met Adam, who came from a normal background, but like Asha, had a response that didn’t make me feel even worse about myself. He wasn’t just understanding but portrayed sympathy in a way that made me feel…like I wasn’t a fuck up.

  Because Asha’s had such a great reaction to everything I’ve said, I find myself telling her all of it.

  “My grandmother was…sort of, well, she wasn’t a kind woman. Now, knowing what I do, after my sister got the PI to find out about our mother and hearing from nurses who had cared for her, I doubt my mother wanted our grandmother to raise us. But my mom got sick so fast. Then died. And my grandmother—Okay, my sister and I have different dads, and my grandmother thought my mother was too wild and…evil. She said that about our mother. Evil. And we were sinful children. She would give us these punishments for arbitrary reasons. Like not feed us for having too much fun.”

  Asha’s eyes are growing bigger and bigger as I talk. Her hand on me rests on my shoulder, the other hand touches the opposite arm, which is making her appear to surround me. This little, tiny even, female is shielding me while her eyes glisten from tears, but her stance, the way she’s touching me, is protective. It moves me, making my heart hurt and yet feel golden and good at the same time.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispers.

  “I’m telling you this because I wanted you to know what I did, who I was. I was a thief. A really good one. I was eight when I started. And the first and only time I was caught was when I was seventeen. So I stole a lot of crap between eight and seventeen.”

  She closes her eyes. “That’s why you joined the military, isn’t it? You were given an ultimatum.”

  I’m surprised she figured it out, but I guess when laying out my background, it might be apparent. “Yeah. I lived in a small town. The sheriff guessed I had been stealing for years but didn’t have enough to convict me of the other jobs. Just that one. He said he’d forget the whole thing, no jail time, no arrest even, if I joined.” I swallow, finding myself admitting even more. “I’d like to say I enlisted because I’m patriotic, but I didn’t learn how to be until I actually joined.”

  She scoots closer, her bent leg partially on my lap, and she leans her head against my shoulder. However, I can tell it’s awkward for her. So I help her wiggle around until we’re sitting side-by-side again. She’s still got her head on my shoulder, touching my chest with her long fingers.

  “You do know I think you’re even more perfect now.”

  I choke out a scoffing noise.

  “No. Seriously.” She looks up, her brown eyes full of unshed tears. “You’re so strong. And you tried to protect your sister. And—”

  “And I’m a thief.”

  She shrugs. “I would have done the same thing.” She settles a
gainst me again, her head on my shoulder, as I think about what she’s said.

  From that first memory until this moment, I’ve often felt alone in this world. Not many would understand. Or maybe they’d sympathize and feel bad for my sister and me, but that doesn’t mean they’d put themselves in my shoes. It doesn’t mean I don’t palpably feel their simultaneous concern and judgement. But Asha grouped herself with me.

  Fuck, I like her.

  I’m getting all sentimental on her, sharing my past, and she’s gently caressing me. Again, I’m turning into the girl here and wish she would tell me something about herself, something that would make it so I wouldn’t feel so vulnerable. But I’m not going to ask for that. And maybe I should just get over feeling vulnerable. Just accept it for what it is.

  “Every Fourth of July, there’s a powwow at my hometown in Lame Deer.”

  “Yeah?” I ask, not sure where she’s going with this change of subject. But I’m kind of glad for it, because feeling vulnerable is a tad like getting a skinned knee and exposing it to the air. It smarts and stings, but as soon as it’s covered with a Band-Aid, it feels so much better.

  She doesn’t look at me but she’s clearing her throat. A lot. And I realize that something about the powwow is emotional for her.

  “Do you know what a powwow is?”

  I shrug against her. “I think so.”

  “Have you ever been to one?”

  “No.”

  “It’s like a big party. There’s food and music and people talking and shows. And dancing. Only, it’s tribal dancing. Have you ever seen some of the Indian dances?”

  “Maybe on TV.”

  She shakes her head that’s still on my shoulder. “It’s different when you see the dancers. When you feel the drums, how they beat into your bones, into your heart. When you hear the singers, and you feel their pain, or their longing. It’s—it’s spiritual.” She sniffs. “I don’t talk about it. I don’t talk about home because I haven’t been to a powwow for seven years now. I haven’t wanted to.”

  “Why?” I clear my own throat then. “I mean, if you don’t mind me asking why haven’t you gone? It sounds special to you.”