Break Me (The Wolf Hotel Book 2)
Break Me: Chapter 19

July

“Abbi!”

I glance up in time to see Autumn hop over a row of small boxwoods.

“Look!” She holds up a stack of magazines, but then pulls it away, eyeing my dirty gardening gloves with a wrinkled nose.

With an eye roll, I pull them off and brush the streak of soil on my thumb onto my t-shirt. I peeled off my sweatshirt and jacket about half an hour ago; the late-afternoon sun too hot for layers. “What am I looking at?”

“Articles about Wolf Cove.”

I flip through the first one, until I come to a full-page spread of Henry, his piercing blue eyes staring out at me. I instinctively take a deep, calming breath, as I always do whenever the topic of “Mr. Wolf” so much as touches anyone’s lips.

I remember these pictures. They’re the ones Hachiro, the tiny and inappropriate Japanese photographer, took of Henry. It was during those very brief few days of bliss, after I discovered his attraction to me and before I learned what a cruel bastard he can be. “Where’d you get this?”

“In the lobby. The hotel shipped a box to us.”

“Huh…. Great pics.” I flip through them, feigning disinterest, even as I secretly plot an excuse to get to the lobby and steal myself a copy.

It’s been six weeks since Henry left. I haven’t spoken to him once. Haven’t heard a word from him. All that I know, I hear either through Tillie’s passion for gossip or from what’s posted online.

The official handover of Wolf Hotels from William Wolf to Henry happened immediately following the grand opening here, as Henry said it would. The newspapers reported it around the same time that they divulged William Wolf’s dire health situation as potentially one of the reasons for the accelerated change in ownership.

Henry’s not just officially a billionaire anymore. He’s now a billionaire many times over and one of the most eligible bachelors in the world, as this magazine so aptly calls out.

I don’t think most wealthy business guys get this kind of media attention, but most don’t look like Henry. Plus, he’s really been putting himself out there as of late, spotted at movie premieres and celebrity-type events with this model or that actress on his arm. Tillie has nicknamed him Bruce Wayne, because he’s now flamboyantly acting like the playboy that everyone has apparently known him to be.

I try to let it not bother me. Every day, I try. I keep telling myself that it’ll get easier, that I’ll clue in like I did about Jed, and truly stop caring. After six weeks, the only thing getting easier is being able to compartmentalize the pain.

“And look at this other one.” Completely clueless to my personal struggle, Autumn shakes the Luxury Travel magazine in my face. “Remember that evil woman? Well, she wrote a rave review of Wolf Cove. Said it was one of the best experiences of her life.”

I’ll bet.

“Since this article dropped last week, our reservations desk has been going nonstop. Next year is nearly sold out. Can you believe it?”

“That’s great.” I’m not good with faking amusement, and it shows.

“Hey, red! You almost done with those? I’ve got another one for you and we need to get them in before we can break for the day.” Ronan steps over the bushes in his work boots and sets another flat of summer annuals in front of me to plant.

I could kiss him right now for interrupting this conversation.

“I’ll let you go. See you in the lodge later?” Autumn says, collecting the magazines from me. I know she’s going to tuck them away in her cubby. Unlike me, she and most other women here still live in fantasyland as it relates to their CEO and hotel chain owner.

“For a bit, yeah.”

Autumn flashes a polite smile at Ronan, but I know it’s fake. She doesn’t much like him. She doesn’t know the real him. She only knows the version that I knew early on, and I didn’t much like him then, either.

But things have changed.

“What’d she want?” Ronan leans down to grab the old trays as I pull my gloves back on. While I love the days when I get to garden, I’m covered from head to toe in dirt, and I have only three uniforms to last me through the week.

“Nothing. Just showing me some magazines.”

“About Wolf?”

I hesitate. “Yeah.” While Ronan knows—or strongly suspects—my secret, he’s kept his word and never mentioned it once. In fact, we’ve stayed far away from any topic involving Henry.

He sighs under his breath, but I think I hear him murmur, “He’s an idiot” as he walks away, his cargo pants hugging his impressive backside well.

It makes me smile. I know Ronan doesn’t harbor a secret crush on me, for no other reason than I just know. But I also know he’d gladly sleep with me if I suggested it. That’s something else I just know.

Because I’ve gotten to know both Ronan and Connor well over the past six weeks.

Every day is the same—I roll out of bed, throw on my uniform, and spend the day sweating and slaving and shrugging off their inappropriate jokes. We work long hours and I’m sore by the time I stagger in to the lodge for dinner, usually followed by a few drinks, until warmth begins spreading through my limbs and I can forget for just a while that Henry is gone and hasn’t bothered to call. Not even once. Then I repeat it all the next day.

Ronan, Connor, and I work together most days, paired up to do trash runs, firewood collection, and a lot of gardening, me planting and pruning while those two do the heavy lifting. The odd day that we’re not together, I don’t have nearly as much fun.

Plus, we eat most of our meals together, and on our days off, we usually grab a ferry to Homer with the other guys from the crew.

Really, the only time I’m not with Ronan and Connor is when I’m showering or sleeping, and they’ve both joked plenty about how we may as well do those things together too.

We’ve formed an odd friendship of sorts, where there is an underlying and unspoken physical attraction—how can there not be when the guys looks like Connor and Ronan do—but we’re all happy just hanging out and laughing while we work.

All day, almost every day. That’s a lot of time to spend with two guys. You get to see beyond the facade.

Like, for example, Connor loves to toss casual sexual innuendos at me tirelessly, but when someone else in the crew besides him or Ronan tries to join in on the teasing, their hackles instantly rise.

And, while Connor impersonates the true player who won’t commit to one girl, he actually hasn’t messed around with anyone other than Tillie in the almost two months since they started seeing each other. Or whatever it is they’re doing, that he won’t officially acknowledge.

On the other hand, Ronan is the quiet player. Everyone knows what happened between Katie, Rachel, and him, but I’m pretty sure that’s because of Katie and Rachel. He may like to kiss, but he’s not one to tell. I’ve caught one or two comments about something that had happened the night before at the lodge with a girl, but it’s never outright disrespectful.

And they’ve both sort of taken to watching out for me. Connor always saves a seat in the lodge next to him, and Ronan always brings me a second coffee in the morning, because one is never enough. They both know my affinity for sweets, and they take turns surprising me with a chocolate bar or a freshly baked cookie.

It’s kind of sweet.

And, though I doubt they realize it, it has been my saving grace while I wait for my broken, angry, untrusting heart to heal.

~ ~ ~

Ronan and I are pulling up to the gate with the garden tools just as Connor pulls in, slamming his truck door shut. Darryl had him doing something with the electric fencing today and he’s scowling. It’s a rare sight. “You guys ready to go? I could use a drink.”

“Yeah. How was your day?”

“Fine.” He lets out a heavy sigh and then, throwing his arm around me, he pulls me into his sweaty, dirty side.

I push hard against him, prying myself away, fake-gasping. “God! You need a shower!”

Connor lifts his arm up and smells himself. “Dude, you’re right. I do. So do you. Let’s help each other get clean.”

“No.”

“I’m serious.” His eyes rake over my body as if to prove a point.

“So am I.” I smack him in the chest. “No!”

“You’re missing out.” He speeds up to join the other guys. That’s how the crew always travels—in packs.

“What’s up with him today?”

Ronan hesitates. He’s not one for talking about other people. “Him and Tillie got into it last night in the lodge, and whatever that was, it’s officially over.”

“Really? I had no idea.” She’s my roommate but to be honest, since I started working with the guys, there’s been a noticeable rift forming between us. Maybe it’s because I’ve gotten so close to them. Autumn thinks it’s because she’s jealous. Tillie does get very jealous, very easily, and she’s not the typical southern belle who’s good at hiding her bitterness behind a fake smile while she talks behind your back.

“Yeah. She wanted a label, and he didn’t. So now….” Ronan rubs the muscles in his tattooed forearm. “Tonight should be interesting because he’s going to want to get laid.”

“Shit.” Something else that I never used to do pre-crew and now do almost constantly is cuss.

But this night may deserve it because I have a feeling I know who will get an extra heavy dose of Connor’s attention.

~ ~ ~

“Drink up!” Connor shoves another shot into my hand.

I lick the salt sprinkled on my wrist and tip the glass back, anticipating the tequila burn before it even hits my throat. It’s even worse than the first time. I cringe as I reach for the slice of lime in Connor’s hand. But he raises it above his head, a sly grin on his face. “Open up.”

I’m desperate for that lime and he knows it. I eagerly part my lips and he slides the slice between them, the soft pad of his thumb lingering on my bottom lip. His heated gaze is locked on my mouth as I bite down, the sour lime combating the aftertaste of the tequila. “That’s a good girl. Now suck hard.”

I punch him in the arm for good measure, but he just chuckles, reaching over his head to yank his t-shirt off, revealing that ripped body of his. Every guy in the crew has a body like that, to one degree or another. Even my body has hardened, my arms taut and shapely, my abs more defined.

“Alright. On that note, I’m out.” I always leave—to shower and get a decent night’s sleep—around the time that the debauchery begins. Which, by Connor’s level of intoxication, was a few minutes ago. I don’t know how these guys do it day in day out and still manage to get their butts out of bed for a 7:00 a.m. start. As it is tonight, I’ve only stayed this long because I wanted to make sure Connor was truly okay with breaking things off with Tillie.

Tomorrow is going to be a rough morning.

“No way. You need to stay and protect me from making a fool of myself.” Connor slings an arm over my shoulder and pulls me into him, until I’m pressed up against his hot skin. “Come on. Pick any spot on my body and give it a good lick. It’s a helluva lot more fun than licking yourself. Well,” His gaze drops to my mouth, and his voice drops a few octaves along with it. “I enjoy watching you lick yourself, but I’d rather you lick me. And I won’t expect you to call me in the morning. We’ll never even talk about it,” Connor taunts with a grin.

I roll my eyes, but there’s a point in the back of my mind that wonders if maybe I should. It would be very easy to fall for his charm, especially if I was drunk. He’s attractive, and it’d be nice to feel something again. Physically, anyway. I know I wouldn’t have to worry about developing real feelings for him.

I’m pretty sure Henry’s broken that part of me.

“It’s late and I still need to shower.” I punch him in the stomach as I squirm away, earning a fake grunt of pain.

But he holds on tight. “Please?” Earnest eyes beg me. He holds a shot up.

“Come on, red. Just one,” Ronan goads.

“You’re not helping,” I mutter.

“Sure I am. I’m helping him.” He nods toward his partner in crime.

I heave a sigh. “If I do one, will you leave me alone?”

“Promise. For tonight, anyway.” Connor grins mischievously. “Tomorrow’s a brand-new day.”

“Give me that.” I reach for the shot.

“No way. First. Pick a spot to lick.”

“Fine. Your forearm.”

“What?” Connor’s face scrunches up. “That’s not sexy.”

“I’m not trying to be sexy with you!” I giggle nervously, feeling curious eyes on us from all directions. Maybe this isn’t a good idea. If Tillie hears about it and gets upset….

“Ronan, pick a spot for the Abbs.” Another nickname that Connor has started using on me.

“Stomach.” No hesitation.

I roll my eyes; though, given it’s Ronan, it could have been a lot worse. And Connor’s stomach, well… I’m staring at it right now and it’s perfect. Everyone around here talks about how sculpted it is, with his eight-pack of ridges and that V-shaped cut of his pelvis.

And now I’m going to lick it in front of everyone.

I’m deciding how best to tackle this when Ronan kicks a chair over with his boot, a silent indication for me to sit. “Makes it easier for you.”

“Thanks.” Clearly, Ronan has done this before.

Connor steps forward to stand in front of me, straddling either side of the chair, reaching back to scoop my hair into a tight ponytail. It’s hard for me to focus on his stomach when his crotch is basically in my face, too.

It looks like I’m about to give him a blow job.

I’m guessing this was intentional on Ronan’s part. I shoot him a dirty look but he merely smiles and winks, nodding toward the shot in Connor’s hand. He’s enjoying every minute of my embarrassment. Jerk.

“Let’s see what you’ve got, little one.” I peer up and into Connor’s face, staring down at me with heated eyes, his fist tightening its grasp of my hair. It would be easy to catch his skin with just the tip of my tongue, to get this over with quickly, to play up the naïve, innocent, inexperienced girl that Henry accused me of being.

I don’t want to be her. So I lean forward and flatten my tongue against his stomach above his belt, just like I would have done to Henry’s cock when I was sucking him off. And then I take a long, leisurely lick upward, coating my tongue in the taste of his skin.

“Here.” Connor’s smiling as he hands me my shot, only temporarily distracting me from the hard outline of his erection, directly in front of my face. He loosens his grip of my hair but doesn’t let go as I tip my head back and down the tequila, the overpowering taste worse this time around because there wasn’t much salt on his skin. Ronan tosses a slice of lime, which Connor catches effortlessly. Instead of handing it to me, allowing me to quell this bitterness in my mouth, he slides it between his teeth, flesh side-out.

And then he stoops down and leans forward to feed the lime to me with his mouth. I’d argue with him if I wasn’t afraid that I may vomit from the tequila.

Our lips graze as I bite down, but I ignore it, reveling in the sour juice as it explodes into my mouth. I sigh with relief, milking the slice for every last drop, until I can’t get anymore. I release it, and expect Connor to back off. Only he doesn’t. He lets the chewed up fruit fall from his mouth and then he pulls my mouth to his to lay an unexpectedly sweet kiss against my lips.

It doesn’t last more than four seconds but it feels like an eternity because it’s been an eternity since I kissed anyone.

And I’m not exactly sure how I feel about Connor kissing me.

“Thank you.” The smirk on his face when he pulls away is nothing short of victorious.

Clearing my throat, I grab my sweater, offering a mumbled “Night,” on my way past Ronan.

~ ~ ~

I let the hot water soak into my back muscles, soothing the ache in them. It’s times like these that I wish I could show up at Michael’s cabin, lie down in his bed, and get him to rub my back like he did that night.

I rarely think of him anymore, which just proves how messed up I was—and still am—over Henry, and how much I was just looking for an escape from my pain. In some ways I’m glad Henry shipped him back to Aspen. It’s made me not have to deal with the mortifying aftermath of using a guy like that.

A shower starts a few stalls over, and it brings me a degree of comfort. While the women’s shower room is big and bright and well-maintained, being the only one in here this late at night is a little unsettling.

I’m halfway through working the shampoo through my hair when the first deep moan carries over the running water.

My hands stall as I listen. Nothing but silence and running water responds.

Until I hear it again.

There’s no mistaking that kind of moan.

I should ignore it. I should quickly finish washing up and leave. But I’ve had three shots of tequila and Connor kissed me so sweetly, and my curiosity now overtakes my surprise. So I crouch down to look under the stall. I see two sets of feet—one male, one female—both facing the showerhead, the male standing behind the female, the female’s feet spread fairly wide apart.

Oh my God. Someone’s having sex in here. I’ve heard rumors of it happening—people will go anywhere for a bit of privacy—but I thought it might be just that, a rumor. Clearly it’s not.

There’s no way they don’t know I’m here, so they must not care.

I take my time, running my fingers through my hair to work the shampoo out, all while keenly aware of what’s happening just a few stalls over. Listening intently, hoping that a word or a sound might tell me who it is

Their soft pants grow louder, along with a few grunts and indecipherable whispers. If I close my eyes, I can imagine the guy thrusting harder and faster into her from behind.

That familiar sensation begins to build in my core.

I’m getting turned on listening to them.

It doesn’t help that I’m standing naked in a shower, I guess. Or that I was treated to several days of mind-blowing sex, only to have it yanked away abruptly, leaving me with absolutely nothing for the past six weeks. Plus I’ve been the subject of constant flattery and brute charm by two attractive sexual men day in and day out for those six weeks. And I’ve had three shots of tequila and Connor kissed me tonight.

I’m sure all of that plays a role in why my breasts are growing heavy and my nipples are pebbled and when I run my soapy hand between my legs, my fingers are stalling on my clit.

Biting my bottom lip with hesitation, I peek under the stall again like the pervert I obviously am. The woman now has one foot raised beyond my view. I can judge each thrust by the movement of the guy’s feet, spread out farther

Closing my eyes, I imagine myself in her position, with a man behind me, filling me like that.

But who? I don’t trust anyone.

Except for maybe Connor or Ronan.

It’s so wrong and dangerous to even let these thoughts enter my head, but I can’t help it. I trust them more than I trust anyone else. I like them, I’m attracted to them, and I’ll never get caught up in anything more than feelings of friendship toward them.

And I’m so damn horny right now.

Enough that I wish I’d taken Connor up on that offer of a shower.

“Oh, God, James. Yes!” A woman cries out in a deep southern lilt.

I bolt upright, wide-eyed, any thought I may have had of getting myself off while listening to them dead.

That’s Tillie!

And James. Which James?

I only know of one—Lorraine’s James. I saw them walking hand in hand along the path just this afternoon, so I’m pretty sure they’re still together.

This must be another James.

A part of me wants to towel off and duck out of here right now, because otherwise our paths may cross and they’ll know I stayed and listened to them have sex.

And yet I don’t leave.

I grab my razor and take my time, dragging the blade over every square inch of my legs, hoping I don’t accidently cut myself with my shaky hands. Tillie or not, there’s something about listening to two extremely attractive people having sex that stirs my blood. Or maybe it’s because I’m simply envious of them.

Either way, I’m sure that whoever Tillie’s with is hot.

“Yes. Yes. Yes!” Tillie moans just like I’d expect a southern belle to moan—deep and throaty—as she comes, closely followed by James shouting, “Oh, fuck! Yeah!”

And in that moment, I know that this is Lorraine’s James, because he said the exact same thing the night I overheard him and Lorraine, when I was with Michael.

Oh man… this isn’t good. But maybe Lorraine and he broke up after I saw them today? If not… am I a bad roommate for not telling Lorraine about this?

I’m pretty sure several of Jed’s and my “friends” knew about Cammie before I found out. Their decidedly calm reactions when I told them what happened indicated that.

But Lorraine’s going to replace out anyway. Nothing stays secret around here. And then living in that cabin is going to be a nightmare. I sigh, debating what to do. This is the longest shower I’ve ever had in my life. My fingertips have turned prunish, and the water isn’t as hot as it once was.

I really want to leave, but I absolutely don’t want to come face-to-face with either of them, so I huddle under the water until I hear James say, “Catch you later.” I peek through the side of the curtain in time to see him stroll out with a towel wrapped around his waist.

I wait another minute and then I shut the water and duck out in record time, leaving Tillie humming to herself.

This place….

It’s definitely not Greenbank, Pennsylvania.

~ ~ ~

I reach over my head to shut off my reading light.

And then I do the same stupid girl thing that I’ve done every night for the past six weeks—pull my phone out, crossing my fingers that my Internet connection is working, and I refresh the search engine for “Henry Wolf” to see if anything new about him has been reported.

Most nights, it’s the same old stuff. Articles about Wolf Hotel, about the eligible Wolf bachelors. There are articles about the Wolf gold mine, and forecasts for how long it can be mined before the cost of increased diesel fuel consumption with mining so deep outweighs the profits and effort. Apparently there was a small accident five years ago when one of the tunnels collapsed. When I read that, I found myself wishing that Scott had been in that tunnel. I of course immediately felt guilty for thinking that, even if he deserves it.

Every night I brace myself for a picture of Henry with a woman. There have been a few, and on those nights I feel sick to my stomach and spend the night tossing and turning and, occasionally, crying quietly. I hate letting myself cry over him, so I usually fight it.

Tonight, a new article pops up. Wolf Hotels is opening a location in Prague.

I sigh, imagining what it would be like to hop on a plane and fly over an ocean to Europe. Maybe I’ll do that next year, once I’m finished my last year at North Gate. I never thought I’d end up in Alaska this summer, so who knows? I don’t even have a passport.

According to the article, the company is set to begin remodeling a historic building shortly, in time to open next year. My heart jumps at the picture set in the inset, of Henry in his suit, his dark hair combed back, the curls rolling at the nape of his neck, visiting the location just last week. Another picture follows it, of him stepping into a famous local opera house, his arm around a beautiful and glamorous brunette identified as Czech-born supermodel Luciana Boren.

This is the third picture I’ve seen of them together.

Tears sting my eyes as I read through the rest of the article.

Clearly, Henry has moved on.

I really need to, too.