Star-Crossed Page 4

  “I’ll stay, because you’ll need lots of berating in the morning.” He tossed her clothes in the pile by the door. “You need someone to tell you what a dumbass you are. I’ll go get you some water.”

  He headed out of the room, but Starr’s soft, roughened voice stopped him.

  “Today was Dad’s funeral.”

  He stopped and looked back at her. “You said it was this weekend.”

  “I said it might be. Mom didn’t have a definite day yet, the first time I talked to her.” She rolled over, so her back was to him. “Oh well.”

  He went to the kitchen. As he stood in front of the sink, contemplating what the hell his existence had become, he heard her retching again. He sighed, and grabbed a glass, as well as a bucket.

  ****

  Starr felt like she’d been hit by a train. Maybe two trains, one right after the other. She sat slumped on the couch, hand dangling limply over the arm with a cigarette burning away in it. A water bottle sat on the coffee table, but she couldn’t stomach any liquid yet, though she desperately needed it.

  Gentry sat beside her, arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He wore only his boxers.

  “How the hell did you get home last night?” he asked.

  She took a moment to sort through the half-memories of last night in her fogged brain. “Cab,” she finally said, and took a drag off her cigarette. The smoke burned her throat and made her stomach queasy.

  “I’m shocked you made it to the bathroom.”

  She glanced at the carpet near the front door. “Didn’t think I did, to be honest.”

  “I didn’t step in anything when I came in.”

  “God.” She rubbed her face. “What the hell was I thinking?”

  “I don’t know. You’re lucky you’re still young and can bounce back. You’re going to destroy your health like this.”

  She brought the cigarette to her lips again, but then thought better of it and leaned forward, and ground it out in the ashtray. Her head spun as she sat back.

  “I don’t want to be like this.” She spoke softly. “I thought I had to be like this.”

  He rolled his head to look at her. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t want to be that small-town girl anymore.” She looked down and plucked at the fabric of her threadbare robe. “I thought the only way to not be her was to be this wild party girl, that when I came to Hollywood, I had to go as crazy as possible, do all the stuff I never did back home.” She wiped a hand across her mouth. “You know: booze, drugs, clubbing, sex.” She glanced at him. “Though, you’re the first guy I’ve had sex with since I got here. The second guy I’ve ever had sex with in my entire life, if you wanna know.”

  He looked back up at the ceiling.

  “My dad was always so hard on me. We fought all the time.” She plucked at her robe again. “And Mom didn’t care, she was always in the bottle. She was never there to defend me. I hate them both. I didn’t want to be that girl anymore, that girl who curled up in a ball and cried in her room every night. I wanted to be confident and cool and hard ass.”

  Gentry was silent.

  “But this sucks,” she whispered. “I don’t like this at all. It’s not better.”

  “You know, you don’t have to be one or the other.” He slid his hand over and touched her knee. “There’s lots of middle ground.”

  “Yeah, I’m not good at navigating it, apparently.”

  She was never drinking again, she vowed to herself. Of course, that was easy to say when she was dying from a hangover.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I was just, I was so sick, and I needed someone with me. I didn’t know who else to call.”

  “You scared me. Fucking bad. Mate or not, that would have scared the hell out of anyone, finding you on the bathroom floor like that.”

  “I couldn’t crawl anywhere else.”

  He rubbed her knee. “My father is the Alpha of our pack. When he dies—which won’t be for a long time probably—but when he dies, I become the Alpha.”

  She arched an eyebrow. She was marrying into royalty, so to speak?

  “I don’t want to be Alpha. We’re supernatural creatures, but it’s become a bunch of ridiculous standing on ceremony rather than anything practical. We’re ‘modern’ werewolves.” He snorted. “Earlier this year, I left our pack up north to come down here and live alone for a while. I had to get away from it all. My father didn’t like it, but I needed the space.”

  She shifted and looked more fully at him.

  He shrugged. “But it’s been lonely, and I haven’t figured out what I’m doing, or what I want. It’s not as great as I thought it would be.”

  She licked her dry lips. “So you’re trying to escape, too.”

  “And just like you”—he moved his hand up, took hers, and squeezed it—“I keep messing it up. So don’t worry, I get it.”

  She smiled faintly. “It’s a good thing we both left to come here, or we would have never met.”

  “We would have. We would have been drawn together at some point, no matter what.”

  She drank some water. It helped at first, then it didn’t. She was crouched in front of the toilet, trembling, head in her hands and tears streaking down her face, when Gentry touched her back.

  She lifted her head and looked at him. Her nose was running, her cheeks were wet, and she knew she looked awful.

  “I’m feeling a little fucking vulnerable right now.” She rubbed her face with the heels of her hands.

  He pulled some toilet paper off the roll, folded it over, and handed it to her. “Yeah, I can see that.” His voice was gentle and kind. More than she deserved.

  She wiped her face and blew her nose. “I gotta go up to San Fran for filming tomorrow, or at least, up that way somewhere. You wanna come with me?”

  He smirked. “I thought you said that was this weekend too?”

  “I lied.”

  He seemed to consider it, but then shook his head. “It’s too close to the full moon. I need to head for the hills tomorrow night. It’s the last night of the waxing moon.”

  She nodded and wadded up the tissue. “Okay.” She chucked it in the toilet.

  He leaned forward and slipped an arm around her. She sagged against him.

  He stroked her hair. “Think you can handle some breakfast?”

  Now that she’d vacated her stomach, she felt like she could handle something in it. She smirked up at him. “Yeah, I could go for some whole-wheat pancakes.”

  ****

  Somewhere between Pismo Beach and San Luis-Obispo, as late evening turned the sky black and the ocean wind streamed cold through the cracked window, Gentry fell in love with her.

  He’d already had a long drive and there were still a couple hours to go until San Francisco. Or, more precisely, the small town of Binton Bay twenty-five miles south of San Francisco. His music playlist had gotten monotonous, and the radio stations didn’t stay tuned in for long, so he was left with his thoughts, the road winding out before him, and stale cigarettes.

  Smoking again. Though not as much! he reasoned. He’d tried really hard, too. Chewed so much gum he thought he’d gnaw his own tongue off. Went through at least a box of coffee stirrers, about a hundred toothpicks, and three pens. But there was nothing like a cigarette in his mouth. Well, except for maybe the taste of her on his tongue.

  Yes, he was in love with her, and she was probably the reason he was smoking, too.

  She was certainly the reason he followed this highway now, entranced by the spell of oncoming headlights, the bluish glow of the dash haloing his vision. The reason he was driving north instead of going south to the cabin. Smoke curled around his face, stinging his eyes before being sucked out the window. Everything felt cold and damp: the seats, his clothes, and his skin. His hair was limp and sticky with old sweat. He was painted with a thick paste of unclean, chilled loneliness. Being without her left him a shell.

  He got an occasional glimpse of the ocean, when the h
ighway wound close enough, or as it climbed cliffs to breathtaking heights, skimming the rim of the world. A big blank expanse of darkness with the dark-blue sky hanging over it. Cloudy tonight, no moon peeping through. It felt like it might rain.

  The hours melted together until time had no meaning. The digital clock on his dash assured him he hadn’t really been driving as long as it felt. At a gas station outside King City, he filled up his half-empty tank to have something to do.

  He leaned against the car and checked his phone, though he knew there were no missed calls. He checked his voice mail, in case he’d accidentally shut off the ringer, which he hadn’t. His inbox was empty, except for the saved messages. He listened to them again.

  Three of them from Starr since this morning, each one getting more and more surly, demanding to know what the use of a cell phone was if one didn’t answer it. “But that’s all right, I know you got your werewolf thing going on,” she capitulated on the longest one, which lasted one minute and thirteen seconds. “I thought you’d at least wanna come say bye to me though, damn.”

  He didn’t know why he hadn’t called back. Maybe he wanted to surprise her. Maybe he might still turn around. He was testing fate, doing this, and he could imagine the fallout if he screwed up and hurt someone. He could imagine what his father would say. We are kinder, gentler werewolves, son. These are not the goddamn Middle Ages. If you want to live in this world you have to follow the rules.

  But her pull on him was too strong, and he was weaker and weaker every day.

  “What the fuck is your problem anyway?” she demanded on the last voicemail. He didn’t know. He was an idiot, maybe. He thought … well, he thought and he thought, and that was the problem.

  The rest of the trip went by in a haze. The rain started, a light drizzle that added to the cold and damp.

  A hotel sat on the edge of Binton Bay, right off the highway, and that was where Starr was. He knew because she had told him in one of her messages. Even told him her room number. Wishful thinking on her part? Hopeful, but “not caring all that much” thinking, more likely.

  He sat in the parking lot and stared at the building, finishing off a cigarette. He hoped she might come out, on her way to dinner or something. But it was nearly nine, too late for dinner. He clawed at the skin on his arms. He was tingling all over, even inside. The moon was calling.

  He climbed out of the car, tugging his leather jacket around him in the chilly air.

  The lady behind the desk eyed him cautiously as he walked past her toward the elevators. Did he look as crazy as he felt?

  The journey to the fourth floor seemed to take forever. Luckily, no one else was in the elevator. He scratched at the back of his neck and rubbed his hands on his thighs, but abruptly stopped when the doors opened. The fourth floor hallway was empty, too. He found 432 quickly.

  He stood outside the door for a moment, considering this was his last chance to turn around and go back. A wall of windows rose behind him, looking out over the parking lot, and he could see his car. He put his ear to the door and listened, and heard the faint sound of a TV.

  He knocked. His mouth was watering. He swore he could smell her, even through the door.

  Faint movement sounded inside, and his blood ran hot under his flushed skin.

  The door opened. Starr stood there in a t-shirt and panties. Her hair looked like it had been previously styled, but was now going limp. She stared at him, not seeming at all surprised to see him.

  “Six hours and twenty-one minutes,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Six hours and twenty-one minutes. That’s how long it took me to get here. So tomorrow, I have to make sure I leave in enough time to get back, and account for traffic. I don’t want to be on the road when the moon comes up.”

  “You could have called me back.” She folded her arms.

  He looked her over. “You open the door for room service like that?”

  “I knew it was you.”

  “How?”

  “We’re mates, remember?”

  His mouth felt like there was too much saliva in it. His teeth ached. “Maybe I should go.”

  “You drove all this way.” She looked him over. “You look like you came to get some, so you might as well come in.”

  “I didn’t come to get some.” He was tense. “Not just to get some.”

  She stepped back and opened the door wider. The room was empty, the bed turned down but vacant. What had he been expecting? He was only the second guy she’d ever slept with. He wanted to ask about the first, but he wouldn’t. Not at this stage in their relationship, anyway.

  He stepped in. Her scent hung on the air and increased his agitation.

  She closed the door behind him. “You could have come with me this morning.”

  “I had to think about it.”

  She breezed past him. He sniffed the air in her wake. She walked over to the vanity, where a bottle of fizzy water sat on ice.

  “I’m not drinking. At least not for a while.” She held the bottle up. “Want some?”

  He raked a hand through his hair. “I came here to talk to you. To tell you something. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. You know, on the drive.”

  “Were you?” She grabbed two plastic cups. “Six hours and twenty-one minutes, that’s a lot of thinking.” She opened the bottle.

  “Yeah.” He looked around the room. “How’s filming going?”

  She let out a sarcastic laugh. “Is that what you came to talk to me about?” She sauntered over and held a cup out to him. “You look like you need this.” She sat down on the bed, her own cup in hand, all long limbs and fluid, casual grace. So gorgeous, so mesmerizing. “Why’d you come?”

  “I—” Now that she was right there in front of him, he couldn’t get the words off his tongue. Did he even mean them?

  She gazed at him over the rim of her cup as she took a sip. “Why don’t you take off your jacket and stay a while?”

  ****

  He looked different tonight, and Starr knew she was playing with fire, but she couldn’t take her gaze off him. His skin seemed to glow, the way his eyes did, and he looked—regal, almost, and fiercely sexy. His voice even sounded deeper.

  But, whatever he’d come to say, he hadn’t used that voice to say it yet.

  Gentry lay on his back crossways at the end of the bed, head resting on his bicep. His jacket was draped over a chair. Starr sat at the head of the bed. Playing cards were scattered on the bedspread between them, a pointless distraction.

  “Filming is a lot more fun than I thought it would be.” She flicked a card. “They’re even giving me a few more lines. The director says I have natural talent.” She smiled. She’d been doing a lot of that today. Felt kind of nice, and kind of weird.

  “I told you, you’ll be a star.”

  “Starr the star.” She reached for her cigarettes on the nightstand. “Maybe I should change my name to something sexier. Starr Montgomery isn’t really that catchy.”

  “Your name is the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  She paused in lighting a cigarette, peering at him. “You’re only saying that because your werewolf weirdness is making you horny.”

  “Well, yes.” He drummed his fingers on his chest.

  She smoked, and he stared at her. She waited for him to say something, anything. The tension made her want to shriek. Just out with it already, God.

  “I need a shower.” She sifted her fingers through her hair. “They put all this stuff in it today, made me look pretty.” She held up a hand. “I know, I know. I’m already pretty.”

  “You’re learning.”

  She dared to meet his gaze. It was so intense it made her flinch. “I didn’t really think you would come tonight.”

  “I didn’t either. But I couldn’t resist.”

  She glanced away, then back at him. “You really can’t hurt your mate, even when you’re a werewolf?”

  He shook his head. “Even if we we
re locked in a room together, at the height of the full moon, and I was starving, I couldn’t touch you.”

  She rolled the cigarette between her fingers. “Does it hurt? To transform?”

  He huffed. “A little, but it happens fast. Before I even realize it.”

  “What do you look like? Are you still like … a man? I mean, I’ve heard stories, but they’re all different. I heard there were pictures on the Internet, but I’m too afraid to look.”

  “Then it would probably be pretty scary for you to see in person.”

  She dragged her fingers through her hair again, frowning.

  “Get a shower.” He smirked. “It’s better than watching you sit there being disgusted by yourself.” He picked up a card and tossed it at her.

  She batted it in mid-air.

  “Go get a fucking shower.” He flung another one. “Then we’ll talk.”

  She grinned and snuffed out her cigarette. “All right, then. Mate.”

  As she walked to the bathroom, dragging her shirt up over her head, his voice drifted after her. “You really are pretty.”

  Didn’t she know it.

  The water was hot and felt glorious on her skin. They’d shot outside today, and it was cold, out by the ocean. It replaced the chill in her bones with steamy warmth. She kept her head under the spray, eyes closed, so the water sluiced away the hair spray and gel.

  The bathroom door opened, which she expected.

  “Damn,” Gentry said. “Are you boiling yourself alive in there?”

  She didn’t reply. She tilted her head back, let the hard spray hit her chin and run down her neck, and cascade over her breasts. Her nipples tingled. She’d been turned on since he walked in the door, and she couldn’t hide it. His image shimmered behind her closed eyelids. She could almost feel his hands on her skin.

  The edge of the shower curtain inched back.

  “Starr?”

  She licked the water from her lips. “Get in here.”

  A pause. Then he spoke gruffly. “All right.”

  He slipped in the shower behind her, still in his t-shirt and jeans.

  “Are you out of your damn mind?” Her voice echoed against the tiles. She turned to face him.

  “You didn’t tell me to take my clothes off.”