retard.
“Fine.” The grouch began to walk towards the doors.
“I’ll see you
around, Pat.” Damn it. Pat was the first man he was mildly attracted to since
Cole’s death and he blew it all up. Jules let out a disappointed huff. His
heart strangely lurched with pleasant surprise when Pat paused by the door.
“Yeah. See you around, Jules.”
Chapter Two
The grave was
silent. So was the cemetery. Only the sound of the plastic spoon scraping
against the sundae cup could be heard. Pat Bolton made no sound when he cried.
Silent tears slid down his rounded cheeks and beard, and down his nearly empty
cup of bacon sundae.
He wondered what
his mate, Desmond, would say if he saw him now. Would he still recognize Pat,
who now weighed three hundred pounds and who’d lost all the muscle he gained
from his army days? Would he laugh at Pat, in his oversized clothes and
supersized body? Would he be pissed by how Pat simply let neglect take its
course, let his life go down the drain?
“You’re a sad excuse of a man and an even sadder excuse of a
werewolf,” Pat could imagine him saying . “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? That’s
enough. Pick yourself up, Pat. Man up.”
Then again,
Desmond had no right to make any judgements. He was dead and with his passing,
Pat closed his heart to the world and to love. What use was love, when it could
betray you in the end and leave you hurting?
Pat tossed the cup
aside and kneeled in front of the gravestone, even if the effort taxed him. His
knees screamed at the simple movement, unable to fully support his weight. He
wobbled like a whale out of water, and he had to grip Desmond’s gravestone to
balance himself. For a moment, he pushed aside all thoughts of self-loathing to
remember the man he loved. The man who’d left him lost and wandering.
Desmond was the
dominant wolf and the dominant man in their relationship. He’d given Pat much
needed direction in a time when he was lost. Given Pat a new home at the small,
but wonderful town of New Haven and even given convinced him to join his pack.
A pack that filled all the empty holes in his heart and ended the years he’d
spent as a lone wolf wandering from one town to the next.
“Asshole,” Pat
said weakly, punching a chubby fist into a stone. He’d hardly felt the pain.
“Fucking
asshole. It’s been three years and you know
what? It never did get better like you said. It still hurts.”
With the words out
of his chest, Pat felt lighter, although no less miserable. His joints creaked
when he stood. He’d learned to ignore it. Ignore the fast beating of his heart.
Hell, he was supposed to be a supernatural creature—fast, sleek and dangerous.
Except he didn’t feel sleek or dangerous, he only felt like a freak. Before he
got bitten, no one ever told him that werewolves could get diabetes, get
overweight or even get cancer.
“I’m dying, Pat. Can you believe that? A werewolf
dying of cancer?” Desmond said jokingly in
the hospital. The man he’d loved and cherished looked so shrunken and small on
the hospital bed that it was painful looking at him during the last few months.
It wasn’t supposed
to be like this, Pat remembered thinking. Damn all the myths books and movies
tinkered with. The media brainwashed them into thinking the supernatural were
invulnerable and special. Werewolves shouldn’t be able to get cancer. Then
again, life wasn’t always what he wanted it to be.
In the present,
Pat shuffled over to his car. He grunted as he crammed his body into the tiny
sedan. One look at his watch made him grimace. He was late for his Weight Losers
meeting. Again. Damn it all.
Desmond’s dead. The words came so suddenly
it was unexpectedly painful, like a sudden twist to his insides. Pat felt
faint. It became difficult to breathe, like his lungs were working double time
to pump air into his system. His heart fared no better. It thumped and rattled
against his chest.
Three years had
gone by, but the hurt
“Fine.” The grouch began to walk towards the doors.
“I’ll see you
around, Pat.” Damn it. Pat was the first man he was mildly attracted to since
Cole’s death and he blew it all up. Jules let out a disappointed huff. His
heart strangely lurched with pleasant surprise when Pat paused by the door.
“Yeah. See you around, Jules.”
Chapter Two
The grave was
silent. So was the cemetery. Only the sound of the plastic spoon scraping
against the sundae cup could be heard. Pat Bolton made no sound when he cried.
Silent tears slid down his rounded cheeks and beard, and down his nearly empty
cup of bacon sundae.
He wondered what
his mate, Desmond, would say if he saw him now. Would he still recognize Pat,
who now weighed three hundred pounds and who’d lost all the muscle he gained
from his army days? Would he laugh at Pat, in his oversized clothes and
supersized body? Would he be pissed by how Pat simply let neglect take its
course, let his life go down the drain?
“You’re a sad excuse of a man and an even sadder excuse of a
werewolf,” Pat could imagine him saying . “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? That’s
enough. Pick yourself up, Pat. Man up.”
Then again,
Desmond had no right to make any judgements. He was dead and with his passing,
Pat closed his heart to the world and to love. What use was love, when it could
betray you in the end and leave you hurting?
Pat tossed the cup
aside and kneeled in front of the gravestone, even if the effort taxed him. His
knees screamed at the simple movement, unable to fully support his weight. He
wobbled like a whale out of water, and he had to grip Desmond’s gravestone to
balance himself. For a moment, he pushed aside all thoughts of self-loathing to
remember the man he loved. The man who’d left him lost and wandering.
Desmond was the
dominant wolf and the dominant man in their relationship. He’d given Pat much
needed direction in a time when he was lost. Given Pat a new home at the small,
but wonderful town of New Haven and even given convinced him to join his pack.
A pack that filled all the empty holes in his heart and ended the years he’d
spent as a lone wolf wandering from one town to the next.
“Asshole,” Pat
said weakly, punching a chubby fist into a stone. He’d hardly felt the pain.
“Fucking
asshole. It’s been three years and you know
what? It never did get better like you said. It still hurts.”
With the words out
of his chest, Pat felt lighter, although no less miserable. His joints creaked
when he stood. He’d learned to ignore it. Ignore the fast beating of his heart.
Hell, he was supposed to be a supernatural creature—fast, sleek and dangerous.
Except he didn’t feel sleek or dangerous, he only felt like a freak. Before he
got bitten, no one ever told him that werewolves could get diabetes, get
overweight or even get cancer.
“I’m dying, Pat. Can you believe that? A werewolf
dying of cancer?” Desmond said jokingly in
the hospital. The man he’d loved and cherished looked so shrunken and small on
the hospital bed that it was painful looking at him during the last few months.
It wasn’t supposed
to be like this, Pat remembered thinking. Damn all the myths books and movies
tinkered with. The media brainwashed them into thinking the supernatural were
invulnerable and special. Werewolves shouldn’t be able to get cancer. Then
again, life wasn’t always what he wanted it to be.
In the present,
Pat shuffled over to his car. He grunted as he crammed his body into the tiny
sedan. One look at his watch made him grimace. He was late for his Weight Losers
meeting. Again. Damn it all.
Desmond’s dead. The words came so suddenly
it was unexpectedly painful, like a sudden twist to his insides. Pat felt
faint. It became difficult to breathe, like his lungs were working double time
to pump air into his system. His heart fared no better. It thumped and rattled
against his chest.
Three years had
gone by, but the hurt
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