I sighed, lost for a way to explain my thoughts. “I don’t know. Kind of feeling stuck, I think. Wondering how much more I have left in me.”
Jax nodded, understanding my thoughts. Hockey and football are brutal on the body, but for somewhat different reasons. In football, a player is more likely to get head injuries, whereas in hockey, players are subjected to pucks traveling upwards of eighty miles per hour. And the whole skating on a blade thing, which is why I was never meant to be a hockey player. Jamie and ice don’t mix.
“Whatever happened to that last girl you were dating?” Jax asked, jarring me with how quickly he’d changed subjects.
“Susan? Nothing. We just stopped talking. Never really ended things.”
“And that was, what? Six months ago?”
I did the math. “Closer to nine.”
“‘Bout the time I met Becca,” he’d said, a lovesick expression covering his face.
“I guess.”
“Is that the last time you got laid?”
“Jesus, Jax. You ever heard of the expression ‘don’t kiss and tell?’”
“I’m trying to figure out if part of your crabby-ass mood is because you need to get laid. There’s a girl who hasn’t taken her eyes off of you since we sat down, but I’m not gonna play Cupid if I don’t need to. I know you’re pretty particular about women.”
Once Jax realized it had been nine months since I’d gotten laid, he played matchmaker anyway. Which is how I’d ended up at Maven/Moira/Monica’s apartment. And how I ended up running home, dodging snowdrifts and piles of sand leftover from recent winter storms. And yes, I mean sand. The plow trucks dump a mixture of salt, sand, and other chemicals. Salt alone will corrode asphalt. Did I know this before moving to Denver? Nope.
Once in my neighborhood, I slow to a jog as I pull my phone from my pocket. Opening the security app, I open the gate at the end of my driveway as I approach, then quickly close it behind me. I’m not dumb. I know there are probably thousands of Coyotes fans out there who know exactly where I live. I protect myself with twenty-four hour surveillance, a six-foot privacy fence, and a film on every window that provides a layer of reflection, as well as a security measure that strengthens the glass.
I unlock a side door that leads directly into my spacious mud room, toeing off my shoes as I pspsps to let my cats know I’m home. I hear Maverick meow in return, then a guttural yowl sounds from somewhere upstairs. “I was gone for all of five hours, Goose. Chill.”
Another yowl. Sounds like he’s looking through the metal spindles on the walkway that overlooks the two-story foyer and great room. As I walk into my large gourmet kitchen, I can see Goose with his head through the spindles. Shaking my head, I grab a can of soft food, pulling the tab until the lid opens. A loud slam echoes throughout the house, followed by a disgruntled meow, and Goose gingerly walks in from the great room. “Jesus! Did you jump?”
He stares at me in response, but I swear Maverick shakes his head in disgust. Chuckling, I separate the food onto two plates, setting them on the ground next to my cats. I know they’ll happily ignore me until they’re done, so I head upstairs to my bedroom.
I love my house. But it’s big and empty. I pass three empty bedrooms before walking into the primary bedroom, thinking about how I figured I’d be married with a couple of kids by now. While I’m sure I could have married a model, or influencer, who would blatantly use me for my name and bank account, I couldn’t stomach that. I don’t want to be with someone who doesn’t actually like me for me. And once women get to know me a little better, they usually run for the hills. I’m incredibly type-A, and everything in my life has its place. I don’t deviate from most things that are part of my everyday schedule.
I take a quick shower, washing off the night. It felt off from the moment I stepped into that girl’s apartment. I should have left right then. Should have faked an emergency text, or just barreled out of there. My mind was elsewhere, and I wouldn’t have been able to come without fantasizing about someone else. As I watch the suds cascade down my legs and into the tiled drain of my too-large steam shower, I’m acutely aware of how alone I am, and how I don’t want to be anymore.
But I don’t know how to be any other way.
I was raisedto be soft, with an elegant demeanor. Don’t raise your voice, Audrey. Represent the Carrington family. Marry a family-approved man from a respectable family. Never get involved in drama, online feuds, or participate in any activities that sully our name. We are Carringtons. Respect us.
I’m not valuable to my family unless I add to their connections or wealth.
“We participate in this charity foryou, Audrey Elizabeth,” my mother says through the phone, her voice somehow loud and soft at the same time. Her nasally whisper gives me an immediate headache with childhood flashbacks of her holding her wine glass, most likely filled well past halfway with an aged Bordeaux that cost hundreds. Glancing at the clock, I see that it’s just past four. Knowing my mother, this is already her second glass. Hell, it might be her secondbottle. The subtle dig at their involvement in a local charity that provides assistance to pet owners who are financially struggling? It’s not the first time my mother has attempted to demean me this way, and it certainlywon’t be the last. Heaven forbid they donate their money to a good cause.
My family is a mixture of old and new money. My great-great grandfather came to Colorado during the gold rush, but he was already considerably wealthy courtesy of hitting it big in Texas when he tapped into oil. My parents have no problem reminding me of the legacy our family has built in Colorado, and how important it is to keep up appearances within our snobby little community of who’s who in the area.
Barf.
There was a time when I envisioned being the prim little princess my parents wanted. Following in the footsteps of my older brother and sister in how they always seemed to please our parents. My brother has been molded into a fine successor for my dad at REC. Real Estate Consultants is the company my father and grandfather founded in the seventies, and it’s grown faster than anyone could have predicted. My brother, Preston, has known since he was a kid that he’d take over REC, regardless of whether or not he was the most qualified for the job. Probably why he has never shown any ambition, choosing instead to spend time partying and sleeping with anyone he comes across — both male and female. Our parents turn a blind eye to his shenanigans, only getting involved when his actions show up on the news or gossip websites.
My sister, Paige, also has no professional goals or ambitions. If this were one hundred years ago, she’d have happily attended a finishing school, ready to get married to any rich man she could find, and have a kid or two. Actually, there’s hardly any difference to her life now. Married to an assistant district attorney for the county, she has one child, a snobbish and entitled brat named Daughton. I don’t enjoy spending time with him. Even at the ripe age of nine, he’s mastered a sneer as he judges me for a variety of reasons. I rarely see him, as a nannyspends the most time with him. Paige lunches with her equally as stuck-up friends often, then comes home to get railed by the man in charge of their landscaping. Her husband routinely stays late at work, and has bagged many interns for some extracurricular activities.
It boggles my mind how my parents find these behaviors acceptable. Yet somehow, me being a veterinarian is a punishable offense. Heaven forbid a child of Charles and Emmanuelle Carrington have a job. Even worse: it’s a job that doesn’t pay that well, and I work with animals. Gasp.
Pets were a no-go my entire life. From as early as I can remember, I’ve wanted any kind of animal. I’d have been happy with fish, hamsters, or even a rat. My mother could never hide her disgust when faced with a critter, regularly referring to it by its domesticated name. “Hello, dog. Oh, there is that cat.” Honestly, that was my first sign that my mother lacked the necessary maternal instincts to parent well.
My parents also despise where I live. I had the audacity to leave our wealthy neighborhood of Cherry Creek Hills, the community I’d been raised in, and live in a small townhouse on the southwest side of Denver, in the Englewood suburb. How can they keep me under their thumb if I’m not under constant surveillance by them and their neighbors? Then I did the thing that basically put a nail in the metaphorical coffin: I adopted a dog. A handicapped dog, no less.
I fell in love with Flash the moment a passerby brought her to me after seeing her get hit by a car. The accident caused damage to Flash’s spinal cord, paralyzing her from her belly to her hind legs. Corgis are known to have temperamental personalities, disliking other animals, and being somewhat difficult to have, and Flash was no different. Once I’d trained her in a specialized wheelchair, she happily zoomed all over my home, but shehas never been social and friendly to anyone. She despises my parents, and the feelings are quite mutual.
