Kristie Cook - Purpose

“Hey, little man.” I ruffled his hair—the snow-white color had been unexpected, but I had a feeling a similar-looking towhead had been running around a couple-hundred years ago—and gave him a big smile, too. Only Dorian could elicit a real smile from me. “You ready for school?”

He shrugged. “I guess. Just today and tomorrow and then it’s Spring Break. And Uncle Owen’s coming!”

“No fighting at school, okay?” I warned.

“I’ll try.” He gave me the same promise every day…and rarely followed through on it. He had control of his anger about as much as I did. Usually, he fought kids who teased him about me, his crazy mother.

“You said the same thing yesterday,” Mom reminded him.

“That stupid Joey! I hate him, Mimi! He said my dad’s a no good shithead who didn’t want me.”

“Honey, that’s a bad word. You are too young to be using such language,” Mom said.

“I didn’t say it! Joey did!”

The anger at the memory flashed in his eyes—tiny sparks in the gold flecks around his pupils. Anger boiled in my own chest. Once I became “America’s favorite young author,” the media quickly discovered I’d been pregnant at the tender age of nineteen and the father was nowhere to be found. People made up their own stories from there. So when Dorian didn’t feel a need to protect me, he defended his so-called deadbeat dad. Because he knew better.

“Good for you!” I said, giving Dorian a squeeze. I would have done the same thing—punched the kid in the face. In fact, the lunatic in me wanted to hunt down the little brat right now. The not-so-crazy part of me at least wanted to find his parents.

Mom shook her head disapprovingly. I ignored her.

“Don’t you ever let anyone talk about your daddy that way,” I said. “He’s a wonderful man and he loves you very much. It’s not his fault he’s not here. You know that, right?”

He nodded, his cupid-bow lips quivering with sadness. I held my arms out and he gave me a bear hug—as big of a hug as a six-year-old can. He knocked me to the floor and I gave an exaggerated cry. He laughed and showed me his guns, flexing his biceps. I ooh’ed and aah’ed over them. They were actually impressive. He had his dad’s strength.

Then he crossed his arms over his chest and looked at Mom and then me, his eyes lit up with mischief. “I’ll stop fighting if you get me a dog. Then I’ll have a friend and I’ll ignore everyone else.”

I bit my lip, not knowing whether I would laugh or cry. I knew how Dorian felt to want a friend so badly. I also knew he would promise anything to have a dog, which he’d been begging us for since his last birthday. We had a hard time believing, though, that he would stop fighting. It was just part of his nature.

“I turn seven in twenty-eight days,” he said when we didn’t respond. And then I did chuckle.

“We’ll see,” I finally said.

“How about no fighting between now and your birthday and then we’ll discuss it?” Mom suggested.

I looked at her with surprise. She was the one usually against adopting a pet. A dog would be another responsibility to worry about if we ever had to go on the run again. Then I realized she must have figured Dorian wouldn’t be able to hold up his end of the bargain.

“Deal,” he said and I cringed. I agreed with Mom on this one.

I gave Dorian another hug, then Mom took him to school. As soon as I was alone, I poured a cup of coffee, went out the backdoor and snuck around the side of the house for a cigarette. When I heard Mom’s car return nearly an hour later, I snuffed out my third one and drained my third cup of coffee, then hurried inside. I munched on chocolate-chip cookies when she came through the door and dumped an armful of grocery bags on the counter. She eyed me, her mahogany eyes filled with disdain.

“Those are healthy,” she said as she placed the bags on the counter.

“Breakfast of champions.”

“Alexis—”

I felt a lecture coming on and there were plenty of areas she could pick on. The ticking in my head grew louder. Some kind of switch flipped. I couldn’t control the need. I wanted to lash out. Psycho Alexis reared her ugly head.

“I don’t want to hear it, Mom,” I snapped, marching out of the kitchen. “I fucked up by not having a girl, but I gave it my best shot. I’m writing the damn books. At least back off everything else, okay? I’m trying as hard as I fucking can.”

“Alexis!” she admonished, following me into my office. She hated my language, which was exactly why I used it. “I just wanted to remind you Owen will be here later. You might want to clean yourself up.”

I looked down at myself. I wore the same raggedy t-shirt and sweatpants I had slept in. Pretty much my normal attire. What the hell do I care what Owen thinks? I didn’t. Mom seemed to, though. In fact, she seemed to care a lot about what Owen thought lately.

“I’m fine,” I snarled.

I grabbed my laptop and headed outside. The mid-March morning in Atlanta, Georgia, had been a little crisp earlier, but the air quickly warmed. It would be a nice day to write outside and I hoped the fresh air would help my mood. I set up the laptop on the patio table, opened the document and then stared at the screen. For a long time. I just couldn’t focus on stringing words into meaningful sentences. Giving up, I gazed absent-mindedly across the yard, thinking about last night.

I considered writing out the evil vampire Claudius, after that rendition of him interrupted my dreams last night. Maybe the time had come to kill him off. Of course, he was one of my primary villains in this last book of the series, so he was necessary until the end. But I was pissed at him now. How dare the asshole harass me at night! I eventually dismissed him for the time being after deciding he would die, a final death, by the end of the book.

Tired of thinking so much about the stupid vamp, I closed my eyes and tilted my face toward the sun, focusing on the heat of the rays on my skin, giving me paradoxical goose bumps. I felt the burn of someone watching me, but I ignored the feeling. It had to be Mom and I didn’t want to deal with her yet. With the warm sun washing over me, I actually felt…well, not good, of course, but at least no longer Psycho. Then a slight breeze came up, light against my skin and just a little cool. And with it, a familiar scent.

Mangos and papayas, lime and sage.

My eyes flew open and I sat straight up, nearly knocking my computer off the table.

“Relax, it’s just me,” Mom said. She placed a tray of food on the table. “Seared tuna on greens with a lime vinaigrette dressing and fruit. I thought you’d be ready for lunch.”

I eyed the tray and realized the food must have given off that mix of aromas. How could I even think it’s anything else? I slumped back into my chair, feeling the emotional wound pulling open again as if a physical gash had been carved into my chest. My body quickly healed cuts, burns and bruises, but not this most painful kind of mutilation.

I moved the laptop out of the way and took a plate from Mom. She joined me across the table. When I looked up at her, I noticed for the first time that someone stood behind her. Quite a ways behind her—at least seventy-five yards, on the other side of the pool, by the fence lining the back of my five-acre property. I froze at his sudden appearance, sure he hadn’t been there just a minute ago.

Something fluttered in my stomach and I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him. I stood up and took a couple steps toward him, not able to control myself. He just watched me, his arms folded across his chest. Could it be? I had a sudden need to see his face. I slowly moved another step or two toward him, frightened and curious and…hopeful. Who are you?