Esher: Winter Valley Wolves #7

C
opyright
© 2015 by V. Vaughn

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

C
over by Croco Designs

Editing by Jodi Henley and Red Adept Publishing

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A
ndi Thompson’s
days are numbered. Her cancer is back with a vengeance, and her only hope for survival pumps through the veins of her ex-boyfriend, Esher Wakefield. Back in college the werewolf saved her with a vial of his blood. But Andi took her good fortune too far, and her actions nearly revealed the Silver Lake wolves for what they really are.

E
sher Wakefield is
a successful pediatrician and respected member of his wolf pack. The only thing missing in his life is his true mate, Andi. Unfortunately curing her years ago jeopardized his very existence and forced them apart. When Andi comes to him as her last hope at survival, he knows he must save her. But cancer isn’t the only thing that threatens to take away the love of his life.

T
he glass slide
chatters against the microscope as I move it into place. My hands are shaking, although I’m not sure why I’m nervous. I already know what I’m going to see. The bruising, weight loss, and sheer exhaustion I’m experiencing tell me all I need to know. The textured dial is round in my fingers as I turn it to focus on the tiny drop of my blood. I peer into the viewfinder and discover exactly what I expected to see. Too many lymphoblast cells. My leukemia is back, and with a vengeance.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t stop the tears that escape and roll down my cheeks.
I’m going to die this time.
A name slips from my lips in a whisper. “Esher.” He was my savior the last time, but I burned that bridge to ashes. My college chemistry lab partner did the unthinkable when he gave me a vial of werewolf blood to inject into my bloodstream, although at the time I had no idea how much he risked for me.

I whip the slide out of the microscope, and the edges are sharp in my hand when I throw it across the lab toward the metal door. The rectangular piece of glass bounces off and shatters on the tile floor below. Just like my relationship with the only man I’ve ever loved did years ago. God, I was such an idiot. My stupid ambition is part of the reason the Silver Lake werewolves have become wary of humans.

I grab the broom to clean up my mess. Shards of glass clink as I push the broken bits into the dustpan. I manage to finish just before Dr. Gina Sand arrives. I used to be in charge of all the labs at Winter Valley University, but Dr. Sand now shares that position with me. I fight the growl of annoyance that builds in my chest over that recent change in my career.

Dr. Sand fell from grace a few months back when her claim that the local wolf pack was actually a group of werewolves couldn’t be proven. As an accomplished geneticist, she was welcomed with open arms by the university when she applied for a job. Because they already had me in place as the head of scientific research, they offered us co-positions. If I wanted to keep my job, I had no choice but to accept.

I paste a patient smile on my face. “Good morning, Dr. Sand.” Even though we’re equals, she has never told me to call her Gina. I wish I’d had the balls to insist she call me Dr. Thompson instead of Andi.

“Andi.” She freezes in place. “Why don’t I smell coffee?”

I’m a pushover most of the time, and I know it. My usual reaction would be to apologize. But the fact that I just confirmed my death sentence minutes ago makes me brave, and I answer, “Because I haven’t made any yet. But I have no doubt you know how.”

She glares at me, and any other day I’d scurry to rectify my mistake. It’s so not happening today. I turn my back to Dr. Sand and approach my computer.

To say my life is stressful right now would be an understatement. Ever since my incident with the love of my life, Esher, led me too close to exposing the Silver Lake wolves to the dangers of government research, I’ve become a silent advocate for the werewolves. Each school year, Dr. Sand would send me a new recruit to research the wolves, and I would do whatever was necessary to sabotage the data. But when the last round led to men in black scouring my lab for evidence, Dr. Sand began to suspect me.

The chime of my laptop booting up is faint compared to the banging of the coffee carafe slamming into the housing of the machine. Dr. Sand is not a patient woman. Now she’s here and dangerously close to discovering the truth. The Silver Lake wolves are werewolves, and I’m living proof they’re valuable to genetic research. But I’d rather die than help her turn them into lab animals that would be subjected to invasive testing or risk possibilities that could be much worse.

A string of profanity comes from the small room we use to store our things. The splattering noise I hear makes me think she didn’t get the filter in quite right and boiling water is spilling over. I ignore it as I search for my oncologist’s phone number. I’ve got much bigger problems to deal with today. A pencil scratches against a piece of scrap paper as I jot the number down. Dr. Sand calls out. “Andi! Get in here!”

I walk into the kitchenette to discover I was right. Coffee grounds and water are sizzling on the burner and dripping off the counter onto the floor. I grab my purse and say, “Wow. Sucks to be you,” and I walk out of the room as if she’s not sputtering in anger behind me.

The moment the lab door clicks shut, the silence of the hallway nearly suffocates me. My footsteps on the pristine floor echo off the walls as I rush to get above ground and outside. I step out into sunshine and stop to take a deep breath full of fresh air. Tiny yellow-green buds are on the tree I walk by, and I glance over at the tulips that have bloomed. Spring in Winter Valley is special. It’s a long time coming, being in a climate that is just about as far north in the continental United States as you can get.

I need to make my phone call, but I decide a fancy coffee drink and a pastry should happen first. My days are numbered, and I plan to enjoy them. My extra fluff is the least of my concerns, especially now that I’m losing weight without trying. It would be great if I didn’t know that it’s just one more sign of my imminent death. I climb the steps of the student union.

Fifteen minutes later I’m on a bench watching the chattering pigeons poke the ground for crumbs. Music is faint as a girl walks by with ear buds in. I take a sip of my sweet drink and gather my courage. My phone is slick in my sweaty hand as I tap out the number of Dr. Murphy’s office. After I get through their system of redirects, I get an answering machine and leave a message requesting an appointment.

I sink my teeth into the frosted cinnamon roll I purchased. The sweet flavor should send sugar to my bloodstream and make me happy, but all I notice is that the pastry is stale and tastes like sawdust. I toss it onto the pavement and watch the birds swarm it like ants on melted ice cream. I glance down at the purple bruise on my wrist from a grocery bag that was too heavy, and I sigh. No amount of chemo can fix me now, and my only chance at survival is werewolf blood. But the only werewolf I can ask has every reason to say no.

T
he colorful shimmer
of neon beer-signs reflect on the wet pavement, and my cowboy boots clomp as I make my way toward the bar. I haven’t been inside Pete’s in over seven years, but it feels like it was just yesterday. A group of motorcycles are parked off to the left of the entrance, and I glance over as I hope to glimpse a custom Ducati. I don’t see it, but then I’m not looking too hard, because if I find it, I’m not sure I’ll go inside.

The door swings open before I get to it, and a man steps out. He’s got broad shoulders and a tall build like many of the guys in this town that belonged to the high school group nicknamed the Truck Club.
Werewolf.
He nods at me as he holds the door, and I say thank you as I walk through. I enter into dim lighting and rowdy conversation. The aroma of seared beef and fried food wafts toward me, and I salivate thinking about the burgers Pete’s is known for. It’s Saturday night, and the happy-hour crowd is drunk, while those who are here for the band have just begun to take the edge off.

I find a seat at the bar and take it without looking around. I’ll allow myself that luxury when it’s too late to leave.
Have I given up before I’ve even tried?
The scratchy voice of an ex-smoker asks, “What’ll it be?” I gaze at a woman whose face is etched by time like the worn wooden bar she stands behind. She’s still attractive, and her tight top that reveals significant cleavage tells me she knows it.

I say, “A pilsner, whatever you’ve got on tap, and a menu please.”

The voices around me don’t sound familiar, so I allow myself to glance in the mirror to check out the patrons seated at the bar. I don’t recognize anyone, and while my first reaction is relief, it’s followed by disappointment.
You didn’t expect it to be easy, did you?

A plastic-coated menu slaps down before me, and my beer thumps beside it. I say, “Can I have a cheeseburger, medium-rare, please?”

The bartender glares at me as she snatches the menu back, and the guy beside me chuckles under his breath. I ask him, “Think she’ll spit on it?”

“Naw, but you better leave her a good tip, or you’ll be blacklisted for life.”

I already am.

“Andi Thompson. You crawled out from under your rock!”

I turn to the voice of my childhood friend, Julie. Her hair is a little too blond, and her makeup is overdone, but she is one of the kindest people I know. I say, “It happens. You look fantastic. How are you?”

“Pretty good.” She nods toward the pool tables beyond the bar. “Still married to Greg, but no kids yet.”

I glance over at her husband, who’s standing with his hand on a pool cue as he waits his turn to play. He’s looking better than I remember, and I say, “You guys are still the cutest couple ever.”

The bartender appears, and Julie orders two beers. She asks me, “You still work over at the university?”

“Yes. I work in the research lab.”

“Married? Kids?”

“No,” I say, “just a cat.”

“Still so serious, aren’t you?” asks Julie.

“I guess. But I’m out for a little fun tonight.”

“Well, I’m your girl.” She turns to the guy next to me. “Would you mind sliding down a seat so I can sit next to my friend?”

“Sure,” he says. “No problem.”

Two brown bottles thump on the bar, and Julie says to the bartender, “Start me a tab, please. I’ll be right back.”

While Julie takes a beer to Greg, I sip my draft. The slight metallic aftertaste reminds me of coming here with Esher, and now that Julie has given me a valid reason for my presence, I peruse the restaurant to look for him. I discover a group of men that I think might be his friends, and when I study them I recognize one or two.
Maybe he’ll show up later.

Julie returns and says, “I’m all yours. So what kind of fun are you looking for? A guy?”

I frown.
How does she know?
“What makes you say that?”

She chuckles. “Because what else does a single girl do in a bar on Saturday night?”

“Oh.” I grin back at her. Julie was the sort of girl that loved to play matchmaker. I think because she and Greg have been together forever, she lives vicariously through her girlfriends. I say, “There is one guy I was hoping to see. Remember Esher Wakefield?”

“Of course.” She places a hand on her chest. “He was so dreamy. Still is.”

“Yeah? Does he still come here regularly?”

“Yup.” She points a red manicured fingernail over to the group of guys I’d seen earlier. “He may be a fancy schmancy doctor now, but he still hangs out with the same crew.” I glance over as she says, “Funny how guys are like that. They seem to make friends for life.”

I think about how I don’t have many friends. But talking to Julie is easy, as if we just picked up where we left off, so I say, “Girls don’t need to see each other every week to be close though, do they?”

“No.” She lifts her beer, and I meet the bottle with my glass as it clinks, and she says, “To friendship.”

I say, “To friends forever. Now tell me how work is going for you.”

When my dinner arrives, Julie talks on about her job as a dispatcher for the police department, and her recent book club. She invites me to join them, and I say yes because I should spend more time reconnecting with friends instead of watching my subscription TV reruns with my cat.

I’m on my second beer when the band starts to play, and it doesn’t take much convincing for Julie to get me to pay up and join her on the dance floor. While I continue to steal an occasional glance over at Esher’s friends to look for him, I’m enjoying myself. A few guys try to join in on our fun, but Julie waves them off, saying she’s married and I’m waiting for someone special.

A slow song begins to play, and we take a break to go stand with Greg’s crew. Somehow another draft ends up in my hand, and I welcome the cold liquid as it slides down my throat. I should be exhausted and in bed like I am most nights lately, but the alcohol seems to be giving me my old energy back. I’m chatting with Greg when Julie grips my arm and whispers, “Esher’s here.”

I turn quickly to see, and a flush of heat rises in my body when I meet his gaze. He frowns and begins to walk toward me. Julie says, “Oh, yeah. He’s a man on a mission.”

I nudge her with my knee but don’t break my stare. When Esher gets to me he asks, “Andi, what are you doing here?”

Looking for you.
But clearly that wasn’t such a good idea, because he doesn’t look happy to see me.
“Just out having fun with Julie.”

His eyes darken as he says, “Funny, I’ve never seen you here with her before.”

“Yeah. Well, I’m not very social.” My stomach flips, because he really isn’t pleased I’m here, and I should have expected this.

Julie saves me. “You know how women are. We don’t need to see each other every week to stay friends. Now be a dear and dance with Andi so I can give my husband some attention. He gets jealous, you know.” Greg’s laughter rings out, and we all glance over to see he’s joking with his friends.

Fortunately Esher doesn’t call her on the lie and says, “We can’t have that.”

He holds out his hand, and I take it. An overwhelming warmth seeps into my fingers and sends a signal of desire straight up my arm to my heart.
After all this time, I’m still in love with Esher Wakefield. God help me.