Page 15 of Alpha Varsity (Wolf Ridge High #5)

Chapter Fifteen

A sher

I lie in my bed holding Lotta’s painting of our wolves standing in a meadow in one hand. In my other, I finger the little gold moon pendant I stole from her when I was thirteen.

I just returned from her place where we had a frenzied, wordless fuck over her kitchen table followed by a second, silent round that featured her face down on the bed, where I held her down by her nape as I took her slowly for as long as I needed.

I’ve been a dick to Lotta since she tried to apologize last week about my dad. I’ve kept up my end of the bargain–slipping over there after dark and satisfying her. I’ve given it to her rough. Avoided conversation.

I can’t seem to help myself. When his memory gets invoked, I become a version of him. I turn into that violent troublemaker everyone in this damn pack expects to see when they look at me.

I got written off by teachers and pack elders by third grade. Like my dad, I struggled with my temper. The violence at home transferred to violence at school. I was already getting into trouble for fights in elementary school. I threw my book at a teacher for scolding Seb for something he hadn’t done. I held a kid upside down by his ankles until he apologized for pulling Casey Muchmore’s hair.

Everyone assumed I would become a little hoodlum, so I met their expectations. My teachers hated me, so I hated them. Or who’s to say which came first? Regardless, that’s why I was doing so poorly in school at the time Lotta made me her tutoring project. The school had put my name on a referral list for volunteer tutors, and she chose me.

She met with me three times a week. It took me a while to believe that she really wanted to help, but she persisted.

I wouldn’t say she was the first person who cared about me because my mom cared. My dad cared in his own way. Mrs. Angelson cared.

Lotta saw my potential where others saw rebellion. She was invested in my success. Of course, it didn’t hurt that she was beautiful. Sometimes it was hard to focus on her lessons because I was mesmerized by the shape of her bowtie lips as she spoke. By the jade glow of her eyes. But eventually, I repaid her attention by actually applying myself to my work, and she brought me from failing to As and Bs by the end of the semester.

Tonight when I slapped her ass and walked out the door, she said, “I’m expecting you to turn in that self-portrait, Asher. Don’t make me fail you.”

Part of me wanted to turn around and tell her to give me an A, or I’d tell the whole school we’re fucking, but I couldn’t. And the reason isn’t all based on honor.

It also seems to have something to do with this little painting of us.

The canvas does something to me. It produces a sense of fullness in my chest. A yearning. Maybe that’s the effect of art.

I can’t believe Lotta’s parents told her there’s no place for art in a pack. What are we, heathens? We can’t appreciate beauty or art? We just run around and eat, fuck, and reproduce and stay in our tightly-knit pack full of assholes? I don’t get it.

But I never did understand this life we lead here. I’ve always chafed against authority, against what they want me to do, against everything Wolf Ridge stands for.

I study all the detail she worked into such a tiny canvas. The background is familiar. She didn’t make it up. She must’ve painted by memory.

I realize I know the meadow in the painting. It’s an incredible hollow up in the mountains. Surrounded in all directions by tree-lined mountainsides, it’s a gorgeous open field that fills with wildflowers in the spring. It’s the perfect place to pitch a tent and camp. Or to paint. If I remember right, it’s far–a solid hour and a half run on four legs. And the only road that goes to it is an old bumpy Jeep trail–not fit for a car. I could get there on my motorcycle, though.

Something about this homage to me, or to our wolves, makes me actually want to do the assignment. Despite the fact that I shut down all communication, I still have this desire to express myself to her. To show what I am.

And it’s not the person I pretend to be. I’m not just the hell-raiser who will probably turn out to be a criminal like his father. The man who stole from the pack. But I did steal this necklace from the beautiful girl up the road.

I am also the guy who kept it all these years, bitter over her betrayal yet still obsessed. Still hoping there was some explanation for why she hurt me the way she did. Why she used what I told her in confidence against me and my family when she promised she wouldn’t.

My mom taps on my door and comes in. “Hey, honey.” There’s a frown between her brows. “I heard something today.”

I groan and sit up. This is the drawback of small towns and wolf packs. Moms hear things. Nothing is ever private.

I brace, instinctively knowing it’s going to be about Lotta.

She folds her arms over her chest. “I heard the fight you were in happened in Lotta James’ classroom. That she’s teaching art at the school now.”

Fuck. I rub my face. Guilt twists in my gut. My mom doesn’t know I’m the one who told Lotta about Dad stealing money from the pack, but she knows Lotta’s mom is on the council and was responsible for getting him banished.

I know my mom feels ashamed of Dad and avoids the council members or ducks her head in submission when she sees them. I fucking hate it.

“Yeah,” I admit.

“You didn’t even tell me you had her as a teacher, and now I find out she’s the reason you got suspended?”

Fuck.

“She’s…” My brain goes blank. I can’t trust myself to say anything about Lotta that won’t reveal too much. I settle for, “I got myself suspended. It was just in her class, Mom.”

She continues to consider me with concern. “You should be careful around her, Asher. You know her mom’s on the council. If she thinks for one second that you’re a danger to her daughter, you’ll be out of here.”

“I’m not a danger to her daughter,” I grumble. Guilt seeps from my pores.

“Well, I know that, but you just got suspended for breaking a kid’s wrist in her class. That doesn’t look good, does it?”

“I know. I–” I sigh and stand. “I’ll be more careful, Mom.” I lean down to kiss her forehead. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

She gives me a hug and leaves, and I drop my head to the door. Dammit. This is a prime reason why I can never claim Lotta James.

It would break my poor mother’s heart.

Lotta

A text comes in from Andy between classes. He sent flowers to my house yesterday. I promptly brought them over to my mom’s house and opened the windows at my place to air out the smell. The last thing I need is for Asher’s wolf to get triggered thinking some other male is sniffing in his territory.

I also texted Andy last night to say,

I told you I’m seeing someone. If the gallery intro is hinging on us hooking up, then I don’t want your intro.

He responds now.

Andy:

babe, it’s all cool, you know you’re still my girl.

Me:

?No, I just told you I’m seeing someone.

Andy:

Don’t be like that. I’ll be there this week. We’ll meet up and talk.

Me:

Forget it. I’m not interested.

This is getting stupid. He didn’t pay this much attention to me when we were living together. Why is he acting stalker-y now?

Asher and his baller buddies walk in the classroom as the bell rings, and I shove my phone back in my purse and start taking attendance.

When I’m finished, I say, “I should have a paragraph from every one of you by now describing what form your self-portrait will be,” I announce in sixth period.

I fan myself with a folder I grab from my desk. I’m having a hot flash. It started the moment Asher walked in the classroom and hasn’t let up.

Worse than the heat is the steady pulse between my legs.

I’m in a room full of shifters. Literally all of them will be able to smell my arousal if they’re paying attention. I need to get a grip on this.

“Asher, I don’t have one for you. If you want to play in the next game, you need to come and see me right now. The rest of you may work on your projects.”

My stomach tightens as Asher unfolds from his chair and saunters up to the front of the class.

I hold my head high despite the wave of dizziness that comes over me when he gets close. I can barely breathe–the air feels too thick and charged.

As arranged, he’s been taking care of my needs. Showing up after dark and letting himself into my casita with the key I gave him. But he’s been cold. Angry. Every encounter leaves me simultaneously satisfied and empty.

Today, I feel a pressure I haven’t felt before. It’s a biological pressure, I think, at least, it’s coming from my wolf. But not to have sex.

To soothe my mate? To connect with him?

I don’t know. All I know is everything feels terribly wrong, and I can barely think.

I hold my ground, even when Asher gets too close, crowding into my space and towering over me, so I have to tilt my head way back to look in his eyes.

I hope he won’t call my bluff on benching him. I simply don’t want to go toe-to-toe with him. He’s angry with me. He’s holding a grudge.

One I well deserve.

He’s acting out, like the rebellious bad boy he’s always been.

That’s not the side of him I want to bring out, and drawing a line in the sand is just going to continue this dilemma.

“I will waive the written paragraph requirement if you can verbalize to me now what your plan is for the self-portrait.”

Asher’s brows pop. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his worn jeans and looks out the window.

“If you don’t have any ideas, I’d like to help you figure something out.”

He drags his gaze back to mine. “No, I have an idea.” A thoughtful gleam is in his seagreen eyes.

It’s my turn to be surprised. “Okay. What is it?”

“Multimedia project. A collage, I guess. With other stuff, too.”

At first, I think he’s just blowing smoke up my ass and really has no idea or plan, but then he says, “I need one of those little canvases.” He holds his hands in the shape of a square the size of the little painting of us that he stole from me.

Oh. Damn. Does that mean something?

No, probably not. I’m reading too much into it. But it’s getting hard to stand up straight with him so close. I sway on my feet.

I hate this loss of control. I hate trying to navigate a relationship with my most difficult student when all I can think about is tearing his clothes off. All I want is to feel his hands on me.

I’m shaking now.

“Okay. Great,” I hope I sound as bright as I’m trying to sound.

I circle around behind my large canvases to find a stretched four-inch frame for him. Of course, he follows me.

When I turn to hand it to him, he’s right there.

I blink back my tears of frustration. Not with him. Not with the situation. I can handle all of this. What I can’t handle is this complete loss of control over my own body. The way my wolf is pushing through and making me feel like I’m going to split in two.

Asher catches me by the nape. His large hand holds me steady, but instead of bringing relief, his support just makes me want to cry even more. I blink hard against the rush of tears.

This isn’t a person I can rely on.

I may want to trust him, and he may be physically safe for me, but I’m not emotionally safe with this guy. Not even remotely .

I’m still alone, still a fish out of water, just like in college only now reversed.

Asher’s brows slam down. He doesn’t take the canvas from me, but instead cradles my face with both hands.

A tear streaks my cheek.

He thumbs it away and shakes his head slowly in a silent soothing.

I want to pull away, but I’m incapable. It feels too good to be touched by him. Every place he’s in contact with, my skin feels electrified. I drink in his essence.

He drags me closer and presses his lips silently to the top of my head. “It’s okay.” He barely breathes the words against my hair. No one would hear it.

His gaze flicks toward the window.

I whirl, but no one is out there. He was just keeping watch for us. For me.

I’m the one who would suffer if we were caught.

“Thanks,” he says in a normal voice, taking the canvas from my shaking fingers.

My head wobbles as I try to say “sure.” I clear my throat. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Oh, I will need more.” It sounds like a threat.

My pussy contracts. I’m lightheaded again. I walk quickly away, careening a bit like a drunken sailor, then righting myself.

I don’t know how I’m going to make it through the rest of the semester. If I were smart, I would pack up and leave town right now.

Screw the job.

Except I already see the brick wall I’m speeding toward. A huge, horrible crash is inevitable for me. And I don’t even know which of the looming walls on all sides I hope to hit. All I can wish for is that it doesn’t destroy me entirely.