Page 40 of Coco and the Misfits (The Candyverse #4)

COCO

R eturning to normalcy is easier said than done. I do my usual routine— “Don’t be a coward, Coco, nothing bad really happened, both times you were rescued right on time, count your blessings, don’t be ungrateful,” and it helps a little.

I wish it were enough.

My internet searches tell me it’s okay to deal with negative feelings and not to fight them.

Thanks, Karen. But I have a life to live, a job to work, and a saddle to get back into.

Is that too beta-like? Would an omega build herself a nest and stay inside until she transformed into a chrysalis?

I feel very caterpillar-like right now. Watching TV shows and eating junk food, keeping my windows closed and the curtains drawn.

Refusing any attempts from my friends to meet or talk.

Becoming a recluse once again.

Shit, right? This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. The bad guys are supposed to be the ones punished, not the victims. And I hate being a victim.

Reclaim your life. Nobody is forcing you under the covers. Nobody says you need to stay in the dark of your apartment, replaying old TV shows and eating comfort food.

You shouldn’t need a coping mechanism now that it’s over.

And yet here I am. Still cowering.

It takes me a few days. I return to work. I go grocery shopping. It’s fuzzy, though, as if my brain can’t quite process everything. Loud noises startle me. I think people are staring at me.

I find myself running back home time after time. Out of breath. My heart pounding. Cold sweat running down my back.

And one of those days, arriving home, out of breath and patience with myself, I find someone waiting at my building entrance.

My first reaction is to panic.

Then I recognize him and some of the tension leaves me.

“Ryder,” I whisper.

“Let me help,” he says and reaches for my shopping bags, but I step back. “If you want.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, you weren’t answering your phone or my messages, so I wanted to check on you.”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you? His gaze weighs on me, too knowing. He was able to see right through me from the first time we met.

“Getting there.” I brush past him to awkwardly open the door while holding the bags. Then of course one of the bags rips and spills my shopping all over the sidewalk. “Dammit!”

Without a word, Ryder moves away and starts collecting my stuff. I watch him, numb, his tall frame bowed over as he gathers rolling oranges—okay that’s a lie, more like rolling chocolates, boxes of pop tarts, tubs of ice cream and bottles of soda.

He gathers everything in his arms and stalks back to me. “Shall we?”

“No.” I shake my head. “No, I can’t.”

His mouth flattens. “Please, Candy girl.”

“No.” I put a hand on my hip, my other arm curled around the remaining bag. “Why. Are. You. Here.”

He offers me a chocolate bar, which I ignore. “To talk.”

“I don’t want to talk.”

He sighs. Tosses the chocolate bar and catches it, adding it to the pile of things he’s holding. “I’m here to apologize. At least hear me out? Please?”

I stare at him. His sharp gaze is fixed on me, his angular face and square jaw tight with tension, but his mouth… it looks uncertain. Soft.

It distracts me enough to nod. “Fine. I’ll hear you out. And then you go.”

“Hear me out and then we do whatever you wish,” he says. “I promise, Coco. Say the word and I’ll stay out of your way from now on.”

That’s what I want.

I repeat that to myself as we go up the stairs together, side by side, his scent wrapping around me, tightening like a rope. I want him gone, I don’t want to sit beside him, I don’t want to hear his excuses.

I don’t want to change my mind. I’m sad, scared, and easy to manipulate.

But I’ve never been known for my good decisions. I’ve always lived life to the full and taken my chances. Now I’m unsure.

About everything.

About myself.

I never thought an attempted kidnapping would shake my faith in myself, my confidence, and my trust in my choices. It had nothing to do with any of that, and yet it made me question it all, from the decision to live alone, to trusting my heart, to believing I’m an omega.

My greatest fear, growing by the day, is what if I’m wrong ?

* * *

Ryder Kassidy, inked badass alpha, tattoo artist and the asshole who fucked me and then sent me away is here.

He’s in my apartment.

Should this feel like some sort of triumph? Because it doesn’t. I feel… defeated. It’s a slump, a low.

We enter, I close the door behind us and unceremoniously dump my remaining bag on the kitchen table.

Taking a breath, I turn around and gaze from under my lashes at the huge alpha looming inside my tiny apartment. After a moment, he steps into my kitchen and unloads my shopping from his muscular arms onto my small table.

“Do you…?” I wipe my suddenly damp palms down my thighs. “Do you want some water or…?”

“I’m fine. Can we sit?”

Maybe. At least it will place us at the same height.

It’s not that he intimidates me. He doesn’t. I’m not scared of him physically. I’m still attracted to him, his strong physique, the tattoos, the lip ring, the intense gaze, the stubbled jaw. Very attracted.

And that’s what scares me.

What can I do? I’m weak when it comes to these guys.

It’s like a déjà vu, sitting on the sofa with Ryder. Not a pleasant one, as the only time he was here before was the day of the kidnapping. I don’t want to associate his face with that fear and panic, so I clench my hands and dig my nails into my palms to ground myself.

He lets his hands hang between his knees. “I meant it, you know.”

“Meant what?”

“That I’m sorry.”

I nod. Not sure what to do with that. It’s easy to say you’re sorry. It’s much harder to make it count. To back it up with actions of contrition and change.

People don’t change. So where does that leave us?

“It’s okay,” I hear myself saying. “You wanted a quick fuck, nothing more. You made that clear.”

“That isn’t… how it was.”

“Oh?” A flare of anger makes it through the numbness. “That’s basically what you said. That’s what you did .”

“Yeah… you’re right. That’s what I did.” His hands twist between his knees. He fidgets with the hem of his black T-shirt.

Ryder. Fidgeting.

I sigh. “I’m tired, Ryder. Is that all you have to tell me?”

“No. No, listen…” He grimaces. “There are things… you should know about me.”

“Why would I care?”

He huffs out a laugh. “Fair question. Because… I truly regret what I did. It wasn’t fair to you.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“No,” he says. “Because it was a lie.”

“I don’t understand. What was a lie?”

“Saying that I didn’t want more with you.”

It’s my turn to laugh. “Really.”

“You’re right to be skeptical. I deserve that.” He lifts his hands and rubs them over his face. “I fucked up really bad with you. It’s not the first time I fucked up.”

I don’t say anything. If this is a ruse to get me to forgive him, it’s well played. His voice is strained, his jaw clenched. He looks distressed. Caged.

“I’ve been an asshole to many girls,” he says eventually. “And a few guys. Fuck them, then leave them. That has been my motto for many years.”

I grab my favorite little cushion and pull it to my stomach. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“No, that’s not… Not what I meant. Of course not. You have every right to hate me. I regretted it the same instant, believe it or not. I’ve never regretted anything more than the moment I told you to go.”

“Then why? Why did you do it?” My voice is rising with every word and I clamp down on the anger and ache that wants to spill out. “Why?”

“It’s… hard to be self-aware,” he whispers. “To understand why you have certain behaviors and how to break them.” He snorts softly. “The villain’s origin story.”

“You’re not a villain,” I say. “You’re just…”

“An asshole. I know. Normally, I choose girls and boys who are already in a relationship and want a night of fun. I’ve never been with someone as soft as you.”

“I don’t know what you mean. I’m not na?ve.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he tells me. “You’re sweet and soft and kind, and that’s a good thing, girl. That’s an amazing thing, and you should never give it up. Even when assholes like me hurt you.”

“But I need to protect myself,” I whisper.

His jaw clenches. “Yeah, you do. I agree. Just know this: I’ve never wanted to be with anyone as much as I want to be with you, as much as I want to try with you.”

“You barely know me.”

“You don’t need long to recognize a soul that fits perfectly against yours.”

His words sink into me slowly, sink deeper and deeper, shimmering.

“So what’s your origin story, then?” I ask to distract myself from that faint but brightening light before it blinds me.

“Your lover left you and you decided to take revenge on the world? Or something darker, like your mom abandoning you as a child?” When he stares at me, I shrug.

“What? Sawyer got me into reading a lot of fantasy novels. Lots of tragic backstories.”

His mouth twitches. “For real?”

“Yeah. So you can’t shock me.”

“No,” he says, “I can see that now.”

“You can tell me anyway.”

“Can I? All right.” His hands drop between his knees again. “I might as well, since we’re here.”

“Should I get some popcorn?”

This time, a muscle leaps in his jaw. “I’d rather tell my story quickly, like pulling off a Band-Aid, if you don’t mind.”

“Go ahead.”

“Thanks. I… Damn, talking about it is more difficult than I thought. It’s the first time I’ve told the story since… since it happened, I guess. Fuck.” He draws the silver lip hoop between his teeth. “It’s an old story by now. It shouldn’t affect me. Shouldn’t dictate my decisions.”

“A true origin story,” I mutter.

His hands are back up, rubbing over his face. Then they move to rake through his short hair. “Yeah. I was a teenager. Fourteen years of glorious badassery. Playing pranks. Smoking behind the house. Hanging out with other punks. Lazy as fuck. Chasing girls and boys. Shooting the shit.”

“You were always a menace, weren’t you?” I wince when I hear the fondness in my voice.

“You wouldn’t have liked me. Fuck knows you don’t like me now and I’ve cleaned up my act by a lot.”

“I didn’t say I…” I don’t like you. I shake my head. Is this a trap? A honey trap decorated with inked mermaids and piercings?

“Anyway, to cut a long story short… I was irresponsible, selfish, careless, and immature,” he says softly.

“Things I’ve been working on ever since.

My family was fed up with me. My older brothers permanently annoyed.

I thought it was both hilarious and aggravating, the way they always snapped at me.

So one day, I played a terrible prank. We were going for a drive out of town, but I stayed back with my aunt.

Can’t recall what my excuse was. I called my mom after they had left and put up a whole theater act like I was being kidnapped. ”

“You didn’t,” I whisper, horrified at the coincidence and cruelty of the prank.

“I was a fucking asshole,” he agrees. “But that wasn’t the end of it. I wish it were. You see, Mom screamed when she heard that. And Dad freaked out and swerved. The car plunged into a lake.”

“Oh, Ryder…”

“My parents died almost instantly. My two brothers survived, though they moved across the country and never spoke to me again. Which is understandable. I’m a murderer.”

“The names inked on your chest… I’m so sorry. You didn’t mean to hurt them.”

“What matters is the end result.” He’s quiet for long moments, worrying the ring in his lip. Then he says, “I decided then that I wasn’t fit for human company. Much less for a marriage or pack. So there you have it. The origin. The cradle of the monster.”

The names, but also the symbolism of the water, expressed as all those sea creatures and elements tattooed all over his chest and arms, make sense now.

He looks at himself in the mirror every day and remembers, punishing himself.

Oh God. This isn’t fair. I said I wouldn’t fall into a trap, but this is an abyss with Ryder’s face.

“You were just a kid,” I whisper.

“A teenager, technically.”

“A kid . And it was an unfortunate prank. It’s not your fault.”

“It feels like it is. It will always hang over my head.”

“It’s not your fault.” I grab his wrist, drag his hand between mine. “You’re not a monster.”

He gives me a faint smile. “Candy girl… now you know it all. I had to tell you. Whether you forgive me or not is up to you.”

“I can’t forgive what you perceive as your fault. You have to forgive yourself first.”

“True. But I’m asking if you can forgive me for hurting you. I regret it every day, Candy girl.”

“And if I forgive you?”

“Then we can talk again.”

His scent wraps around me again but this time it’s like an embrace.