Page 7 of Claimed By Her Monsters
“Because we only play together.”
I glance at the board, then at him, then at the box that lays on the floor. “It says you can play with up to eight people.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “I said no.”
My laugh is sharp, sarcasm threaded through it. “Not sure who made you God.”
His scowl deepens, breath huffing out. “More like theoppositeof God.”
Before I can bite back, Paul Bunyan storms in with a grin as wide as his chest. “Wonderful!” he booms, clapping so loud Caspian nearly jumps out of his skin. “Maddie’s playing with us. How fun!”
He shakes his head like a dog fresh from the pool, water droplets flying everywhere.
The rest of us raise our hands to ward it off.
“Starting to rain outside,” he announces, beaming like it’s the best thing he’s ever heard. “A fearsome storm. Perfect for Halloween night.”
As if on cue, thunder cracks and rattles the windows. The lamps flicker, shadows leap across the walls, stretching long and monstrous.
The lumberjack throws his head back and laughs, delighted, the sound rolling like the thunder itself. Even Caspian looks lighter, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. Almost happy.
The lumberjack strides closer, clapping a heavy hand on Alister’s shoulder so hard it makes him stagger. “Come on, Al. Let’s have some fun.”
Just like that, I’m in.
Chapter Seven
Grandpa
Rain patters down the chimney and hits the flames with an angry hiss. The fire flares, then sulks low again.
The lumberjack makes us margaritas, tossing bottles of tequila into the air and then catching them with practiced ease. I stand next to the small wet bar in the corner of the room, dipping the rim of each glass into lime and then salt like it’s an assembly line.
“My name’s Ewan McIntosh,” the giant tells me with a warm grin, “but everyone calls me Mick.” He tips me a saucy wink. “Easy to remember, rhymes with dick.”
Behind us, Alister groans, dragging a hand down his face with a muttered, “Jesus help me.”
“Hestopped taking our calls, remember?” Mick shoots back without missing a beat.
Alister just rolls his eyes, the picture of suffering.
Their exchange is so quick, so practiced, it feels lived-in, like a rhythm they’ve been perfecting for years.
Amused, I giggle, the sound bubbling out before I can stop it.
My happiness lasts all of two seconds before Alister cuts it short from where he’s slouched on the couch. “Mick, she’s too young to drink.”
I whirl on him, margarita glass brandished like a sword. “I’m nineteen.Today.”
“Nineteen isn’t twenty-one last I checked,” Alister fires back.
I flick a speck of salt from my fingers in his direction. “Stop being such a spoilsport. I’ve drunk before, heck, done a lot worse than that.”
I’m trying for bravado, but a little part of me shrinks, ashamed. Right after my parents died, when I went to the first foster home, I lost myself for a while. Drugs, alcohol, sex. I drowned myself in them all, looking for any chance to escape the pain that was eating me up from the inside. I haven’t been that way as much recently, finally realized the only way through grief isn’t to go around it but straight through the center.
“Yeah,Alister,” Mick shoots me a conspiratorial grin, “Stop being such a stick in the mud.”
We snicker, hiding our mirth behind our hands like kids. Even Caspian chuckles, shaking his head, the ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth.
