Page 78 of Fourth Base with the Alpha
“I was a little kid when they gave him to me.”
“You’re a cruel man, Hjalmar Larsson. We’re taking him home with us.” She scans her gaze around the room again as I stroll to the bookcase and search for the book. I’m sure I kept it, smuggled it away so none of my brothers or sisters would steal it away.
“There're no pictures of girls pinned up. That’s pretty unusual.”
“I was more into my music than girls.”
“So you never snuck a girl back into your room?”
I peer at her over my shoulder. She’s perched on my bed, her skin still flushed from all those orgasms I gave her last night, her scent slightly marred by slick and come.
I have the urge to stride right over there and rut her in my old bed.
I shake that image away and turn my attention back to the books. I findThe Little Princein the corner, hidden behind a bigger one, the spine turned around. It’s creased from all the times she read it to us.
“Found it.”
Isabella jumps up. “Come on then,” she says, with Mr Teddy tucked under her arm.
* * *
I sit nextto my father as he lies in bed and I read him the story. Isabella finds a spot on the window seat, curling up with Mr Teddy, taking deep inhales of his fur as if she can smell my scent on him.
I’m mostly focussed on the words when I read, but occasionally, I glance up at my father. I can’t tell if he’s listening. His eyes are glazed, his breathing more labored today, his chest rising and falling beneath the brown blanket.
The book is longer than I remember but I keep reading, pausing only to sip at a glass of water. Reading as clouds form across the sky and rain splashes against the windows, the sea in the distance turning gray.
I peer at my father. His cheeks are sunken, his skin the color of the clouds and his eyes milky. He looks so old. Not that terse frightening man anymore. I think of what Klara said. I think about the words in the story I’m reading. I think about everything Isabella said about losing her sister.
It must have been hard for him. He must have looked into our faces every day and seen the woman he’d loved, the mate he’d lost. I’ll never forgive him for my childhood, for never believing in me, for never caring for me – I’m too like him for that. But I can understand.
Two thirds of the way through, the old man says, “You have a fine voice, son. Always did. Never understood why you never sang your own songs.”
I stare at him for a good minute, wondering how he knows that when he’s never listened to any of my music. But then he waves his hand at me and I continue to read.
Towards the end, I hear Isabella sniffling and look up to find her brown eyes wet, tears gliding down her cheeks as rain drops slide down the window behind her.
I smile at her. I knew she’d love this book.
She has a deep soul. A kind one.
I close the pages and kiss my dad’s cool cheek. “Hejdå pappa,” I whisper.
Out on the landing, Isabella hugs me around my middle, head buried against my chest and I can’t help squeezing her back.
Fuck, she’s like sunshine. Tastes like it, warms my heart like it, brightens the world like it.
This fake-dating bullshit was a stupid idea. Because look at me now. I’m a fool. An idiot.
I’ve fallen for something that isn’t even real.
18
Isabella
We arrive backin LA late. I’m struck immediately by just how many people there are, swarming around, busy and important. It’s noisy and loud. Usually I love that stuff, but this evening, as we’re ushered through the airport, I feel melancholy. I miss the peace and the privacy. The chance to be alone with Hunter. Very alone with Hunter. I had to share him with his dad and his sister, but I also had him to myself. A lot.
There are paparazzi hanging around one of the exits and while I pretend to pull my hoodie over my head and Hunter tugs his baseball cap over his face, we slow down our pace and allow them to take some snaps. It’s all part of the ruse after all.
