Page 43 of Heat & Deceit
Nodding, he sits and begins to type, dismissing me. I chew on my cheek and take slow, measured steps toward the door, fighting to keep control. My wrist burns where he held me, like his touch somehow branded me.
Lycus doesn’t speak to me again, and by the time my shift is over, my hands are trembling, and a nasty voice fills my head. Anxiety swims within me, making my heart feel like it’s about to give out, and that weak part of me wants things I shouldn’t. I grab my things from the back and cut out without saying goodbye.
I can’t go home. There’s only so much baking I can do for how I’m feeling. Sometimes when the cravings are really bad, I need more of a distraction than making a few pies.
* * *
After fast-walking with no real sense of direction for twenty minutes, I’m panting and sweaty. I suck in air and pause near a bus stop. The crossroads aren’t familiar. I pull out my phone and input the directions to the pottery studio at the local community enrichment center. Walking never helps much, but it was worth a shot.
The slight tremor in my hands pisses me off. I think about calling a counselor, like Kiki suggested, but I want to conquer this on my own. I want to be strong. I want to control the cravings, not have them controlling me. I’d rather they go away completely, but maybe Kiki is right. Maybe they’ll never disappear. Maybe this is my life.
Rage, white-hot and fierce, pummels through me. Curtis did this. My former pack did this. I didn’t want to strip. I didn’t enter that club by choice. I didn’t ask to be given drugs to train me to be obedient, but eventually, I wanted them. I craved them. And then, I needed them. Anyone would after so many injections. And the messed up part is, I enjoyed the moment the heroin ripped me from the world. In a way, that drug is the only reason I survived that period in my life.
And I hate that I’m thankful for something that so thoroughly messed me up. I hate that there’s a strange appreciation for what heroin gave me. It allowed me to fly when I was trapped in a cage. It allowed me to forget. To disappear. To no longer exist.
Eleven
NOVA
The enrichment center is fairly deserted, and for that, I’m thankful. At least, until I push through the door to the pottery room. It shouldn’t irritate me that someone else is here, since it’s open to anyone with a membership to the center. It shouldn’t bother me that the man’s hands move with such controlled grace. It shouldn’t bother me that he’s far better than I am, and it especially shouldn’t bother me that he doesn’t even notice me and that I can openly stare at him while he works.
The wireless earbuds and whirring of the pottery wheel means he probably didn’t even hear the door open. He’s hunched over, so I can’t make out all of his face, but his fingers move nimbly, correcting and smoothing the clay, shaping it into a vase.
Unwittingly, this guy has given my brain enough distraction that my hands finally stop trembling. It’s annoying that him simply existing resets my brain. His existence isn’t reliable. It’s not something I can count on. It’s not something I can control.
Regardless of how it happened, the biting urge riding my body begins to fade. I step away from the door and go to my favorite station. It’s near a corner and farthest removed from the other stations.
There’s no room monitor today, but they’re not always present. The rehab center had a few classes on pottery, and after I went through initial orientation at the enrichment center, I’m somewhat confident in my ability to make something. Whether or not the things are practical or beautiful is another thing entirely, but that’s not why I do it.
I grab a few tools, an apron, and a small cup of water, setting them at my station. Turning to grab clay, I stop when I spot the guy from the other station standing off to the side.
“Well, well. Imagine meeting you here,” he drawls. “How’s life treating you?” He’s attractive. Tall. A charming smile and chiseled jaw. Dark skin and light-blue eyes.
Those eyes.
I pause and study his features, recognition filtering through my craving fog. This is the alpha I bought suppressants from. Even though I lied and said I was getting them for my sister, it’s embarrassing to see him in public. It makes me feel dirty and wrong.
“What are you doing here,Mr. Gray?” I ask, breathing in cracked pepper and lemon. I swear, I need nose plugs. Half the trouble with alphas is their scents smelling so damn alluring.
“Pottery.”
“Clearly, but why are youhere?” This is my happy place.
“Throwing some clay, just like you.” He tips his head toward his station. “I wedged out too much clay if you need some.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder.
“No thanks.” There’s nothing wrong with accepting prepped clay, but there’s something humiliating about taking anything from him.
“You sure? It’s only going to go to waste if you don’t take it.” He runs a hand over the back of his neck as he studies the stubborn set of my jaw.
There’s really no reason to refuse, other than absolute stubborn defiance. He wasn’t so bad when I bought the pills from him, and I don’t get the sense that he’s here to cause problems for me. His being here is a coincidence. A weird one, but happenstance all the same. He isn’t being a jerk; he’s only offering to help. Since wedging usually makes me sore, I find myself nodding and accepting what he’s offering.
It’ll save my shoulders and back a lot of stiffness, anyway. “Sure, thanks.”
“Of course.” He turns and walks toward his station, and I follow him, taking the time to appreciate his broad shoulders and firm triceps. Scooping up the leftover clay from his station, he turns and proffers it to me. His skin is spotted with gray, drying clay. His apron is a mess, and there are even spots on his fitted jeans.
“Have you been at it long?” I ask to be polite, taking the clay. The lump of material is cool and smooth. Perfectly prepared, by the looks of it.
“A few hours.” He glances around the studio. “It’s been a long time since I’ve made it to this studio.”
