Page 8 of Manhattan State of Mind

Our eyes widen as our fate is sealed. No one’s going to dare question him or voice any disagreement.

Then he’s leaving. Thank you, God.

But just as he’s about to turn, he stops and stares at me again.

“It’s Lucy, right?” he practically growls.

I nod, throat tightening. “Y-yes, sir.”

Those brown eyes bore into mine. “Consider this your one and only free pass, Lucy. I don’t tolerate disrespect. Cross me again, and you’ll be fired on the spot.”

ONE

ONE YEAR LATER: PRESENT DAY

JP

I used to believe love was a distraction. An inconvenience. Love was for the weak-hearted, those still stuck in the pitiful illusion of the quintessential American dream, the white picket fence, and the two-and-a-half kids. It didn’t align with my game plan.

But then, it caught me off guard.

I found love lurking in the most unlikely corner of my empire. The IT department, of all the damn places.

It’s like an addiction, something I never imagined I’d be susceptible to. Something that chips away at my armor. Something that makes me vulnerable. Something that gnaws at me until I start to crave it, the sweetness, the warmth, the… fuck… love.

Then, true to form, I ended up sabotaging it all. I screwed it up. I took that delicate thing and wrecked it because that’s what I do.

Damn it, even a wolf can bleed.

TWO

Lucy

As a kid, there was this giant, snow-white dog named Buddy who lived down my street. Every day, like clockwork, I’d poke my arm through the fence just to give Buddy a rub, and his deep, amber eyes felt like they understood my childish chatter.

One day, it all changed.

I heard a shout and ran to the window to see a van across the street. Buddy’s human was hysterical. I watched, frozen, as Buddy was muscled into a cage by two burly men. His head forcefully jerked against the bars in protest as they restrained his neck with a pole. He thrashed and snarled, clearly expressing his disapproval.

My dad wrapped his arms around me as we watched the van carry Buddy away.

Where had all the fury come from? In a blink, our neighborhood marshmallow had morphed into a raging beast. I can still hear his pained howls ringing in my ears. It sounded as though something precious had been taken from him.

Every so often, I get flashbacks of poking my little arm through that fence, but instead of seeing Buddy letting me stroke him, I see the snarling face and bared teeth ready to chomp on my arm.

Somewhere in the far-off distance, there’s a beeping sound—like an alarm clock from hell. It won’t quit. And in my mind’s eye, I can hear Buddy’s grumbling growl as I reach my arm into the danger zone.

I can’t help myself. His intense amber eyes lock onto mine just as his teeth sink into my flesh.

Jesus, that’s real pain.

I try to yank my arm back, but he clamps down even harder, stealing the groan that’s building in my throat.

“Urghhhhh.”

I’m pretty sure that the guttural sound is mine.

But it’s more than my arm that hurts; it’s my head. It pounds like I’ve been flattened by a truck, and the giant tires are still rolling over me.