Stray
Page 30
Unable to hold his gaze anymore, I let my eyes wander. They fel on a framed photograph on my dresser: Marc and me at my senior prom. My mother must have put it there, because I certainly hadn’t. That was the night he’d asked me to marry him. It was also the night I’d run away for the first time, terrified not by anything that went bump in the night but of growing up to be just like my mother.
Centuries ago, according to legend, our ancestors lived like true cats, with the biggest, strongest toms fighting for the right to mate the available tabbies.
Unfortunately, there were very few tabbies. As I understood it, the problem lay not with the women but with the men. As with humans, the gender of our offspring is determined by the sex chromosome donated by the father. But in tomcats, the gametes carrying the Y chromosome are more motile than those containing the X
chromosome. Simply put, the sperm cel s that would produce male fetuses swim much faster than those that would produce females. This results in an average of five toms born for every one tabby.
To say that the competition for mating rights was fierce and bloody would be like saying the universe is pretty big. There are no words to describe an understatement of such magnitude.
Fortunately, in order to maintain the secret of our existence, most Prides were long ago forced to abandon instinct for the civilization of human society. In our modern Prides, each tabby chose her own husband. And almost invariably—whether through instinct, or deep-rooted social conditioning—she chose someone capable of leading her Pride.
However, even with civilized customs in place and a support system of enforcers, the Alpha had to be a strong leader in order to keep the respect and loyalty of his Pride. A weak Alpha wasn’t Alpha for long, even in the modern world.
By contrast, like my father, Marc would have been a great Alpha.
Marc-in-the-picture looked so young, so happy. He was a triple threat: strong, charismatic and beautiful. Helen’s face may have launched a thousand ships, but Marc’s had sunk at least as many hearts, one of them mine.
When I’d asked him to choose, he’d picked the Pride over me. He wouldn’t get a chance to do it twice.
As he’d pointed out, I’d left, and just because he’d dragged me home didn’t mean I would stay there.
I turned from the photograph to the live version, for the first time noticing tiny age lines in the outside corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry, Marc,” I said, suddenly compel ed to apologize, in spite of refusing to do so earlier. “I’m sorry about the way I left. And I’m sorry about your leg. But nothing’s changed, so please don’t make this any harder by refusing to believe me.”
He stared at me for almost a minute, as if waiting for me to break down and admit I was lying. Then, final y, he nodded, his face hardening with resolve. “Fine.”
His eyes glazed over with the unreadable expression he wore at work, the one that reflected my own feelings but revealed none of his own. He’d cast me out and put up his defenses.
It was about time.
Marc pushed my chair back up to the desk. “You’ve always been stubborn, and I don’t know why I thought that might have changed.”
I smiled, more comfortable on familiar terrain. “I don’t know either.”
“Let’s just try to be civil to each other.”
“I’ve never been less than civil to you, Marc.”
He snorted, pulling his hands from his pockets in feigned exasperation. “What do you cal slapping away my hand when I tried to comfort you?”
“Bad judgment?” I admitted, flushing with embarrassment.
“Damn right.” He didn’t smile, but the line of his jaw softened just a little; it wasn’t often I admitted to being wrong. “Let’s go eat.” He opened the door and gestured for me to go in front of him.
“You go ahead.” I picked at the edge of my comforter. “I’m not hungry anymore.”
“Yes, you are. Stop pouting. You’re hungry, so go eat.”
“You gonna make me?” I asked, trying to make it sound like a joke.
“If I have to.” Marc limped toward me with a determined edge to his lopsided gait. He reached for my arm again, but this time I dodged his grip. I was learning too.
“Okay, okay. I’m going.”
I smiled as I marched down the hal , convinced I was going of my own volition, in spite of the large tomcat walking at my back. Like I said, I find comfort in the familiar.
Eight
I polished off two burgers in spite of the tension. It takes a lot to get in the way of a cat’s appetite, and even Jace couldn’t screw up a hamburger. When the food was gone, we flipped a quarter to see who had to clean up. Owen lost a coin toss to Jace and got stuck doing the dishes. Ethan lost to Parker and wound up wiping down the cabinets and cleaning the stove. Marc was excused because of his injury.
No one asked me to lift a finger. I think they were afraid of losing a foot to my temper. It was kind of nice to be feared for once. Almost as nice as being respected.
From what I can imagine, anyway.
I left the guys in the kitchen and wandered into my father’s office. In spite of our strained relationship, I was more comfortable in his sanctuary than anywhere else on the ranch. It was dark and kept just a little cooler than the rest of the house, and always made me think of evenings spent playing Candy Land or reading the Sunday-morning funny pages from my father’s lap.
As a little girl, I’d known of no more comfortable place to sleep than on Daddy’s love seat, and that was where I found myself, curled up with my knees touching my chest and my head resting against the cool leather cushion. The scent of leather conditioner brought to mind countless times I’d sat there in years past, listening in as my father conducted council business over the phone. I’d dripped jel y from my biscuit onto the cushion once when I was seven, and he hung up on the Alpha of the midplains territory to help me clean it up. I remember being awed by how important he’d made me feel.
Centuries ago, according to legend, our ancestors lived like true cats, with the biggest, strongest toms fighting for the right to mate the available tabbies.
Unfortunately, there were very few tabbies. As I understood it, the problem lay not with the women but with the men. As with humans, the gender of our offspring is determined by the sex chromosome donated by the father. But in tomcats, the gametes carrying the Y chromosome are more motile than those containing the X
chromosome. Simply put, the sperm cel s that would produce male fetuses swim much faster than those that would produce females. This results in an average of five toms born for every one tabby.
To say that the competition for mating rights was fierce and bloody would be like saying the universe is pretty big. There are no words to describe an understatement of such magnitude.
Fortunately, in order to maintain the secret of our existence, most Prides were long ago forced to abandon instinct for the civilization of human society. In our modern Prides, each tabby chose her own husband. And almost invariably—whether through instinct, or deep-rooted social conditioning—she chose someone capable of leading her Pride.
However, even with civilized customs in place and a support system of enforcers, the Alpha had to be a strong leader in order to keep the respect and loyalty of his Pride. A weak Alpha wasn’t Alpha for long, even in the modern world.
By contrast, like my father, Marc would have been a great Alpha.
Marc-in-the-picture looked so young, so happy. He was a triple threat: strong, charismatic and beautiful. Helen’s face may have launched a thousand ships, but Marc’s had sunk at least as many hearts, one of them mine.
When I’d asked him to choose, he’d picked the Pride over me. He wouldn’t get a chance to do it twice.
As he’d pointed out, I’d left, and just because he’d dragged me home didn’t mean I would stay there.
I turned from the photograph to the live version, for the first time noticing tiny age lines in the outside corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry, Marc,” I said, suddenly compel ed to apologize, in spite of refusing to do so earlier. “I’m sorry about the way I left. And I’m sorry about your leg. But nothing’s changed, so please don’t make this any harder by refusing to believe me.”
He stared at me for almost a minute, as if waiting for me to break down and admit I was lying. Then, final y, he nodded, his face hardening with resolve. “Fine.”
His eyes glazed over with the unreadable expression he wore at work, the one that reflected my own feelings but revealed none of his own. He’d cast me out and put up his defenses.
It was about time.
Marc pushed my chair back up to the desk. “You’ve always been stubborn, and I don’t know why I thought that might have changed.”
I smiled, more comfortable on familiar terrain. “I don’t know either.”
“Let’s just try to be civil to each other.”
“I’ve never been less than civil to you, Marc.”
He snorted, pulling his hands from his pockets in feigned exasperation. “What do you cal slapping away my hand when I tried to comfort you?”
“Bad judgment?” I admitted, flushing with embarrassment.
“Damn right.” He didn’t smile, but the line of his jaw softened just a little; it wasn’t often I admitted to being wrong. “Let’s go eat.” He opened the door and gestured for me to go in front of him.
“You go ahead.” I picked at the edge of my comforter. “I’m not hungry anymore.”
“Yes, you are. Stop pouting. You’re hungry, so go eat.”
“You gonna make me?” I asked, trying to make it sound like a joke.
“If I have to.” Marc limped toward me with a determined edge to his lopsided gait. He reached for my arm again, but this time I dodged his grip. I was learning too.
“Okay, okay. I’m going.”
I smiled as I marched down the hal , convinced I was going of my own volition, in spite of the large tomcat walking at my back. Like I said, I find comfort in the familiar.
Eight
I polished off two burgers in spite of the tension. It takes a lot to get in the way of a cat’s appetite, and even Jace couldn’t screw up a hamburger. When the food was gone, we flipped a quarter to see who had to clean up. Owen lost a coin toss to Jace and got stuck doing the dishes. Ethan lost to Parker and wound up wiping down the cabinets and cleaning the stove. Marc was excused because of his injury.
No one asked me to lift a finger. I think they were afraid of losing a foot to my temper. It was kind of nice to be feared for once. Almost as nice as being respected.
From what I can imagine, anyway.
I left the guys in the kitchen and wandered into my father’s office. In spite of our strained relationship, I was more comfortable in his sanctuary than anywhere else on the ranch. It was dark and kept just a little cooler than the rest of the house, and always made me think of evenings spent playing Candy Land or reading the Sunday-morning funny pages from my father’s lap.
As a little girl, I’d known of no more comfortable place to sleep than on Daddy’s love seat, and that was where I found myself, curled up with my knees touching my chest and my head resting against the cool leather cushion. The scent of leather conditioner brought to mind countless times I’d sat there in years past, listening in as my father conducted council business over the phone. I’d dripped jel y from my biscuit onto the cushion once when I was seven, and he hung up on the Alpha of the midplains territory to help me clean it up. I remember being awed by how important he’d made me feel.
