Ruthless Creatures (Queens & Monsters Book 1)

“I’m sorry. I just can’t do this anymore. It’s obvious I’m the only one trying.”

The voice on the other end of the line is somber. I know Chris is telling me the truth. He really is sorry it isn’t working out between us. But it’s not a surprise. I knew this was coming. If only I could work up enough energy to care.

If that were the case, however, we wouldn’t be in this situation.

“Okay. I get it. I guess I’ll see you around, then.”

In the short pause that follows, he goes from sorry to annoyed. “That’s it? That’s all you’re gonna say? We’ve been dating for two months and all I get is ‘see you around?’”

He wants me to be upset, but I’m actually relieved. Though of course I can’t say that out loud.

Standing at my kitchen sink, I look out the open window to the small, fenced yard beyond. Outside, it’s bright and sunny with a crisp sniff of fall in the air, a typical September day in Lake Tahoe.

Perfect time of year to get married.

I shove that unwelcome thought aside and refocus on the conversation. “I don’t know what else you want me to say. You’re the one who’s breaking up with me, remember?”

“Yeah, and I would’ve thought you’d have more of a reaction than that.” His tone turns dry. “Guess I should’ve known better.”

Chris isn’t a bad guy. He’s not short-tempered like the last guy I tried dating, or a weepy clinger like the one before. He’s actually pretty great.

I think I’ll try to set him up with my girlfriend, Marybeth. They’d make a cute couple.

“I just have a lot going on with work, that’s all. I don’t really have time to invest in a relationship. I know you understand.”

There’s another pause, this one longer. “You teach fingerpainting to sixth graders.”

I bristle at his tone. “I teach art.”

“Yeah. To a bunch of twelve-year-olds. I’m not trying to be insulting, but your job isn’t exactly high stress.”

I don’t have it in me to argue with him, so I stay silent. He takes it as a cue to continue the frontal assault.

“My friends warned me about you, you know. They said I shouldn’t date someone with your history.”

My “history.” That’s a nice way of putting it.

As the girl with the missing fiancé who vanished the day before their big church wedding five years ago, I don’t have baggage so much as cargo. It takes a certain kind of self-confidence to take me on.

“I hope we can stay friends, Chris. I know I’m not perfect, but—”

“You need to move on with your life, Nat. I’m sorry, but it has to be said. You’re living in the past. Everyone knows it.”

I know they do. I see the looks.

King’s Beach—a funky little beach town on the north shore of the lake—has a population of about four thousand people. Even after all these years, sometimes it feels as if every one of them is still saying a prayer for me at night.

When I don’t respond, Chris exhales. “That came out wrong. I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did. It’s fine. Listen, if it’s all right with you, let’s just say goodbye now. I meant it when I said I’d like to stay friends. You’re a good guy. No hard feelings, okay?”

After a moment, he says flatly, “Sure. No hard feelings. No feelings either way, I know that’s your specialty. You take care, Nat.” He disconnects, leaving me listening to dead air.

I sigh, closing my eyes.

He’s wrong about me not having feelings. I have all kinds of feelings. Anxiety. Fatigue. Low-level depression. An unshakeable melancholy paired with gentle despair.

See? I’m not the emotional iceberg I get accused of being.

I hang the receiver back onto the cradle on the wall. It instantly rings again.

I hesitate, unsure if I want to answer or start binge drinking like I do every year on this day at this time, but decide I’ve got another ten minutes or so to kill before I start the annual ritual.

“Hello?”

“Did you know that cases of schizophrenia rose sharply around the turn of the twentieth century, when domestic cat ownership became common?”

It’s my best friend, Sloane. She has no interest in starting a conversation in a normal way, which is one of the many reasons I love her.

“What’s your beef with cats, anyway? It’s pathological.”

“They’re furry little serial killers who can give you brain-eating amoebas from their poo, but that’s not my point.”

“What’s your point?”

“I’m thinking of getting a dog.”

Trying to picture fiercely independent Sloane with a dog, I glance over at Mojo, snoozing in a slice of sunlight on the floor in the living room. He’s a black-and-tan Shepherd mix, a hundred pounds of love in a shaggy coat, with a tail like a plume that’s constantly wagging.

David and I rescued him when he was only a few months old. He’s seven now, but acts like he’s seventy. I’ve never seen a dog sleep so much. I think he’s part sloth.

“You know you have to pick up their poop every day, right? And walk them? And give them baths? It’s like having a child.”

“Exactly. It’ll be good practice for when I have kids.”

“Since when are you thinking of having kids? You can’t even keep a plant alive.”

“Since I saw this burning hunk of man at Sprouts this morning. My biological clock started gonging like Big Ben. Tall, dark, handsome…and you know how I’m a sucker for scruff.” She sighs. “His was epic.”

I smile at the mental image of her ogling a guy at the grocery store. That situation is usually the other way around. The yoga classes she teaches are always filled with hopeful single men.

“Epic scruff. I’d like to see that.”

“It’s like five-o’-clock shadow on steroids. He had this kind of piratey air. Is that a word? Anyway, he had that dangerous outlaw vibe going on. Total hottie. Rawr.”

“Hottie, huh? Doesn’t sound like anyone local. Must be a tourist.”

Sloane groans. “I should’ve asked him if he needed someone to show him the sights!”

I laugh. “The sights? Is that what you’re calling your boobs now?”

“Don’t hate. There’s a reason they’re called assets. The girls have gotten me plenty of free drinks, you know.” She pauses for a moment. “Speaking of which, let’s go to Downrigger’s tonight.”

“Can’t, sorry. I have plans.”

“Tch. I know what your plans are. It’s time to change things up. Make a new tradition.”

“Go out to get drunk instead of staying in?”

“Exactly.”

“I’ll pass. Puking in public isn’t a good look for me.”

She scoffs. “I know for a fact you’ve never puked in your life. You have zero gag reflex.”

“That’s a very strange thing to know about me.”

“There are no secrets here, babe. We’ve been best friends since before we had pubes.”

I say drily, “How touching. I can see the Hallmark card now.”

She ignores me. “Also, I’m buying. That should appeal to your inner Scrooge.”

“Are you trying to tell me I’m cheap?”

“Exhibit A: you regifted me a twenty-dollar Outback Steakhouse gift certificate for Christmas last year.”

“That was a joke!”

“Hmm.” She’s unconvinced.

“You’re supposed to regift it to someone else, I’ve told you that. It’s a thing. It’s funny.”

“Yes, if your frontal lobe was damaged in a terrible car accident, it’s funny. For the rest of us with functioning brains, it’s not.”

My sigh is big and dramatic. “Fine. This year, I’ll buy you a cashmere sweater. Satisfied?”

“I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes.”

“No. I’m not going out tonight.”

She says firmly, “I’m not letting you sit at home for another anniversary of your rehearsal dinner that never was, getting wasted on the champagne you were supposed to have at your wedding reception.”

She leaves the rest unsaid, but it hangs heavily in the air between us anyway.

Today marks five years since David went missing.

Once a person has been missing for five years in the state of California, they’re considered legally dead. Even if they’re still out there somewhere, for all intents and purposes, they’re six feet underground.

It’s a milestone I’ve been dreading.

I turn away from the window and its pretty, sunny scene.

For a moment, I think of Chris. I remember the bitterness in his voice when he said I’m living in the past…and how everyone knows it.

Everyone including me.

I say softly, “Okay. Pick me up in fifteen.”

Sloane whoops in excitement.

I hang up before I can change my mind and go change into a skirt.

If I’m going to get drunk in public, at least I’m going to look good doing it.

Downrigger’s is a casual place right on the lake, with a wraparound deck and spectacular views of the Sierras on one side and Lake Tahoe on the other.

The sunset will be beautiful tonight. Already, the sun is a fiery orange glow dipping low over the horizon. Sloane and I take a seat inside next to a window, a spot that lets us see both the water and the bar, which is crowded with people. Most of whom I know.

After all, I’ve lived here my whole life.

As soon as we’re seated, Sloane leans across the table toward me and hisses, “Look! It’s him!”

I glance around, confused. “Him who?”

“The pirate! He’s sitting at the end of the bar!”

“Epic-scruff guy?” I turn and crane my neck to see around the crowd. “Which one—”

That’s all I get out before I spot him, taking up a sizeable portion of the bar and dwarfing the stool beneath him. The impressions come fast.

Broad shoulders. Tousled dark hair. A hard jaw that hasn’t been acquainted with a razor in weeks. A black leather jacket paired with black jeans and a pair of combat boots, all of which look somehow both expensive and battered, carelessly worn. Chunky silver rings decorate the thumb and middle fingers of his right hand.

One is some kind of signet. The other is a skull.

A pair of dark glasses hide his eyes.

It strikes me as odd, wearing sunglasses indoors. Like he’s got something to hide.

“I’m not getting pirate as much as rock star. Or head of a motorcycle gang. He looks like he stepped right off the Sons of Anarchy set. Ten bucks says he’s a drug dealer.”

“Who cares?” whispers Sloane, staring at him. “He could be Jack the Ripper and I’d still let him come all over my tits.”

I say with affection, “Floozy.”

She waves that off. “So I like dangerous alpha males with big-dick energy. Don’t judge.” Sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ (F)indNƟvᴇl.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“Go make your move, then. I’ll get a drink and watch from the wings to make sure he doesn’t pull out a knife.”

I motion for the waiter. He gives me a chin jerk and a smile, indicating he’ll be over as soon as he can.

Sloane says, “No, that’s too desperate. I don’t chase men, no matter how hot they are. It’s undignified.”

“Unless you’re a cocker spaniel, the way you’re panting and drooling is undignified. Go rope that stallion, cowgirl. I’m going to the restroom.”

I stand and head toward the women’s bathroom, leaving Sloane gnawing her lip in indecision. Or maybe that’s lust.

I take my sweet time using the toilet and washing my hands, checking my lipstick in the mirror over the sinks. It’s a scarlet red called Sweet Poison. I’m not sure why I wore it, as I almost never wear makeup anymore, but I suppose it’s not every day your missing fiancé becomes legally dead, so what the hell.

Oh, David. What happened to you?

A sudden wave of despair crashes over me.

Leaning on the edge of the sink to steady myself, I close my eyes and blow out a slow, shaky breath.

I haven’t felt grief this strong in a while. Usually, it’s a restless simmer I’ve learned to ignore. A dull ache behind my breastbone. A wail of anguish inside my skull that I can turn down until it’s almost silent.

Almost, but not quite.

People say time heals all wounds, but those people are assholes.

Wounds like mine don’t heal. I’ve just learned to control the bleeding.

Smoothing a hand over my hair, I take several deep breaths until I feel more in control. I give myself a quick pep talk, plaster a smile on my face, then yank open the door and head out.

And immediately crash into a huge, immovable object.

I jerk back, stumble, lose my balance. Before I can fall, a big hand reaches out and grips my upper arm to steady me.

“Careful.”

The voice is a pleasing, husky rumble. I look up and find myself staring at my own reflection in a pair of sunglasses.

It’s the pirate. The drug dealer. Big-dick-energy dude with the epic scruff.

A crackle of something like electricity runs down my spine.

His shoulders are massive. He’s massive. Sitting down, he looked big, but upright, he’s ridiculously tall. A Viking.

I could never be described as petite, but this guy makes me feel positively dainty.

He smells like the tasting notes on an expensive Cabernet: leather, cigar smoke, a hint of forest floor.

I’m sure my heart is beating so hard because I nearly just fell on my ass.

“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.” Why am I apologizing? He’s the one who was standing right outside the damn bathroom door.

He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t let go of my arm, either, or crack a smile. We stand in silence, neither of us moving, until it becomes obvious that he has no intention of getting out of my way.

I lift my brows and give him a look. “Excuse me, please.”

He tilts his head. Even without being able to see his eyes, I can tell how closely he’s examining me.

Just as it’s about to get weird, he drops his hand from my arm. Without another word, he pushes through the men’s room door and disappears inside.

Unnerved, I stand frowning at the closed door for a moment before heading back to Sloane. I find her with a glass of white wine in hand and another waiting for me.

“Your pirate just hit the restroom,” I say, sliding into my chair. “If you’re fast, you can catch him on the way out for a quickie in a dark corner of the hallway before he takes you back to the Black Pearl for more ravagement.”

She takes a big swig of her wine. “You mean ravishment. And he’s not interested.”

“How do you know?”

She purses her lips. “He flat-out told me.”

I’m shocked. This is unprecedented. “No!”

“Yes. I sidled up to him with my best Jessica Rabbit sashay, stuck the girls in his face, and asked him if he’d like to buy me a drink. His response? ‘Not interested.’ And he didn’t even look at me!”

Shaking my head, I take a sip of my wine. “Well, it’s settled. He’s gay.”

“My gaydar says he’s straight as an arrow, babe, but thanks for that vote of support.”

“Married, then.”

“Pfft. Not a chance. He’s totally undomesticated.”

I think of the way he smelled when I crashed into him outside the restroom, the musk of pure sexual pheromones coming off him in waves, and decide she’s probably right.

A lion roaming the Serengeti doesn’t have a wife. He’s too busy hunting for something to sink his fangs into.

The waiter arrives to take our order. When he leaves, Sloane and I spend a few minutes chitchatting about nothing of importance, until she asks me how things are going with Chris.

“Oh. Him. Um…”

She gives me a disapproving stare. “You didn’t.”

“Before you start pointing fingers, he broke up with me.”

“I’m not sure if you realize this, but a man expects to eventually have sex with the woman he’s dating.”

“Don’t be sarcastic. I can’t help it if my vadge closed up shop.”

“If you don’t get a dick up in that hot pocket soon, it’s gonna grow over. You’ll never be able to have sex again.”

That’s fine with me. My libido vanished along with my fiancé. But I need to distract her before this conversation turns into a therapy session.

“It never would’ve worked out anyway. He thinks cats are as smart as humans.”

She looks appalled. “Good riddance.”

Knowing that would change her tune, I smile. “I’m thinking of setting him up with Marybeth.”

“Your colleague? The one who dresses like she’s Amish?”

“She’s not Amish. She’s a schoolteacher.”

“Does she teach butter churning and buggy maintenance?”

“No, science. But she is into quilting. She also has five cats.”

Shuddering, Sloane raises her glass in a toast. “It’s a match made in heaven.”

I clink my glass against hers. “May they have a long and hairball-filled future together.”

We drink. I guzzle my entire glass of wine, knowing Sloane is watching me as I do.

When I set the empty glass back on the table and motion to the waiter for another round, she sighs. She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand.

“I love you, you know.”

Knowing where this is headed, I look out the windows toward the lake. “I think all that kale you eat has warped your brain.”

“I worry.”

“You don’t have to. I’m perfectly fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re surviving. There’s a difference.”

And this is exactly why I should’ve stayed at home.

My voice quiet, I say, “It took two years before I could drive a car without thinking, ‘What if I didn’t break for this curve? What if I ran straight into that brick wall?’ Another year after that before I stopped googling ‘painless ways to commit suicide.’ Then another before I stopped randomly bursting into tears. It’s only been the last few months that I can walk into a room without automatically scanning it for his face.

“I live with the ghost of a man I thought I’d grow old with, the suffocating weight of questions that will never be answered, and the crushing guilt of knowing the last thing I ever said to him was, ‘If you’re late, I’ll kill you.’”

I turn from the window and look at her. “So all things considered, merely surviving is a win.”

Eyes shining, Sloane murmurs, “Oh, honey.”

I swallow around the sudden lump in my throat. She squeezes my hand again, then says, “You know what we need?”

“Electroshock therapy?”

Releasing my hand, she sits back in her chair, shaking her head. “You and your dark humor. I was gonna say guacamole.”

“Are you paying? Because the guac here is ten bucks for two tablespoons, and I’ve heard I’m cheap.”

She smiles fondly at me. “It’s among your many shortcomings, but perfect people are boring.”

“Okay, but I’m warning you right now, I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“Babe, I know you well enough to keep my hands at a safe distance when you’re eating. Remember that time we shared a bowl of popcorn while we watched The Notebook? I almost lost a finger.”

“I can’t wait until we’re old and you have dementia. This photographic memory of yours is the worst.”

“Why am I gonna be the one with dementia? You’re the one who refuses to eat a vegetable!”

“I’m about to have some smashed avocadoes. Doesn’t that count?”

“An avocado is a fruit, genius.”

“It’s green, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s a veggie.”

Sloane shakes her head. “You’re hopeless.”

“I so agree.”

We share a smile. At that moment, I happen to glance over to the opposite side of the restaurant.

Sitting by himself at a table, his back to the window, a pint of beer in his hand, the stranger I bumped into outside the restroom stares at me.

Because he removed his dark sunglasses, this time I can see his eyes.

They’re the deep, rich brown of Guinness stout, set wide beneath a stern brow, and surrounded by a thicket of black lashes. Focused on me with startling intensity, those eyes don’t move or blink.

But oh, how darkly they burn.