Page 6 of Wishing Upon a Monster
Kenny was propped on the beige wall outside the door. He had changed into his usual too-tight henley, ass-sculpting jeans, and stiff cowboy boot ensemble. He didn’t even appear to register that I had left the ladies' locker room until the latch hit the strike plate with a loud click. He startled, as if pulled from his thoughts. “You alright, Aurora?”
“As much as I can be, Kenny,” I replied, shifting my black leather purse strap on my shoulder, “What’s up?”
Kenny rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Nash told me to tell you that you have the rest of the week off to recover from today.”
“I won't say I don't need it.” I fiddled with the buckle, feeling more awkward than I should. It’s not like I did anything wrong, but having him here, right now, looking at me like he wantedmorefrom me, never mind what he had already taken–– “As a newlywed, it’s important to spend time with your husband, I suppose.”
I chuckled in the tense silence, taking a step off to the side to continue my walk to the front lobby.
His hand shot out, grabbing my upper arm. I stumbled, my brain unable to reconcile that he had put his hand on me for the first time in years.
I jerked my arm from his grip, feeling my blood pressure rising at his audacity. I didn't have to stay and entertain his bullshit. I knew that look. His flinty eyes, the curled lip, the almost bloodless cast to his skin, as if allowing his face to flush in anger would bring shame to hisancestors.
“Yourhusband.”He spat. “You’re entertaining this, thisrelationshipwith that thing?”
I took a deep breath and felt my nostrils flare in annoyance, “What I do and whom I do it with is none of your concern. I haven’t been your business for five years. If I want to play house with him, I will, and you certainly don’t get a vote.”
A vein in his forehead began to pulse, the only indication my playing-house remark hit home. "Not my business? I’ve got to tell them––”
My pulse hammered through the last bit of numbness. I stilled, unnaturally so, as I surveyed the second son of the Hemlock family. “Tell them what, Kenton?”
He winced at the use of his full name, “You know, Rorie.”
“Tell. Them. What?” I said quietly, shifting forward on the balls of my feet and fighting the urge to scream and cause a scene at the mere implication of what he was suggesting.
“The East Coast Council registers all potentially serious relationships between the Talentless and any magical being––” He quoted furiously, his cheeks finally staining with emotion.
“Like you registered us?” I asked, taking a step forward, and then another, watching his bluster shift, shame briefly stealing across the lips I used to kiss, entitlement drawing down the brow I used to push silky blond hair away from in the early hours of morning.
His face mottled, his now obvious ire making him bold as he closed the distance between us, “We were casual––”
“Were we, Kenton?” I laughed, the brittle sound splintering around us. “It’s been years, but I seem to remember you making promises you never intended to keep as you used me and my body to delay facing a future you always intended on accepting. How is yourwifedoing, by the way?”
“I dated Jessica after we… I never…” His sneer faltered, as if it took too much mental energy to try to define what we weren’t and maintain his rage at the same time.
“I know, Kenton.” I sighed, feeling the weight of another fight, another deflection. It shouldn’t be able to bog me down anymore. I didn’tlovehim. I didn’twanthim. He had just been the most unserious serious boyfriend of my life. I was the one who walked away. And yet, here we were beating a dead chupacabra.
Why wasn't healing linear?
“You couldn’t give me the courtesy of twelve hours to wrap my mind around the situation?” I asked, frustration coloring my voice. “When we broke it off, Kenton, we agreed to respect one another and behave as colleagues. Frankly, this behavior is beneath you and goes back on our agreement.”
He stepped back, rubbing both hands across his face, “You’re right. It’s the situation. Rorie, it’s playing on my protective instincts. The way it held you, looked at you, what it obviously wants from you––”
I held up a hand, outrage simmering in my veins, “Stop right there. I don’t care ifhelooks at me likehisnext meal, you have norightto interfere like that. I will notify the council myself. So help me Goddess, if you try to give me some stupid ass timeline, I will make you regret ever breathing the same air as me. Understood?”
“Understood,” he growled, stepping back.
“Excellent, now fuck off, Kenton, I want to go home and sleep. You need to do the same,” I continued down the hall, battling furious tears that threatened to break free, and finally, exited into the lobby.
“Christ,” Vickie muttered, floating behind the front desk. Her spectral form faced the large glass windows flanking the front door.
Vicky was our command center’s secretary, avictim of a bloody bones drowning in the 1930s. She wore the dress she died in, a burgundy evening gown with large, bell-like sleeves and an almost scandalous neckline that stopped inches above a wide sash. The satin dress hugged her lithe body, flaring out around her calves. Her brown hair was arranged artfully in a soft bun, with whisps of hair framing her baby face. She didn’t remember how she died, and thus her ghostly form wasn’t compelled to act it out annually, but Palmer recognized her. I wondered, but I didn’t ask.
I took a deep breath, thankful that my curiosity had always won against any negative situation I came across.
“I’m afraid to ask,” I said, leaning on the counter and looking out into the parking lot. I watched a few night shifters park their vehicles, but I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.
“Your new husband is very well endowed,” she said, looking at me with a delicate flush on her cheeks.
