Cougarlicious Read online

  #Cougarlicious

  Lily Ryan

  #Cougarlicious

  First printing, 2018

  Copyright © 2018 by Lily Ryan

  Cover art copyright © by Imagination Uncovered

  Cover photograph copyright © by Imagination Uncovered

  Book design by Lily Ryan

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without the written permission of the publisher.

  The persons and events portrayed in this work of fiction are the creations of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Published by: Lily Ryan

  Publisher’s Note: The author and publisher have taken care in preparation of this book but make no expressed or implied warranty of any kind and assume no responsibility for errors or omissions. No liability is assumed for incidental or consequential damages in connection with or arising out of the use of the information contained herein.

  Printed in the United States of America

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  Lily's Newsletter

  For

  All the women who have lost their partners and soul mates. Life goes on. Here’s hoping you find your second shot at true love.

  Chapter 1

  I take a deep breath. It doesn't do much to calm me. A fresh wave of tears streams down my cheeks. I take another long look into his blue eyes. No matter how hard I search them, they’re flat and devoid of what I’m looking for.

  A spark. Recognition. Life.

  I miss the way his face lit up when he looked at me. The playful twinkle in his eyes when we spotted each other across a crowded room.

  I clutch the framed picture to my chest wishing it was him, warm and in the flesh instead of just a moment in time, an image captured and held in cold, hard glass. What I wouldn’t give for one more touch. One more kiss. One more chance to say I love you.

  Missing him hurts. It’s destroying me. Everything I do, everywhere I look, reminders of him tease and torment me. Memories bombard and overwhelm me.

  *

  I glance at the oven clock. Shit. I’m running late with dinner. I’m making Mike’s favorite, lasagna. I usually save it for holidays and special occasions. But Mike’s starting a new job next week and has spent his week off helping around the house. I want him to know how much I appreciate it. I just didn’t expect to hit so much traffic on the way home from the grocery store.

  Apparently something big happened at the bank. Streets were closed off as sirens blared, and emergency vehicles raced to scene. Mike had some errands to run today, but this craziness in town seems to have delayed him, too. If I’m lucky I’ll finish preparing dinner before he gets home.

  The doorbell rings.

  I jump. Bumps cover my skin. For some reason it sounds five times louder than normal. It breaks the unnatural silence in the house. It’s a rare moment when my eleven year old isn’t raising hell. He’s not blasting his music. Doesn’t have the television or gaming system turned up to deafening levels.

  My breath is caught in my throat at the sight of the two officers on the other side of the door.

  “Mrs. Doherty?” The taller officer asks.

  No! I’ve seen this on television and in movies. I’ve read about it. No. No. No fucking way! NO!

  Neither man looks comfortable, or happy. Both officers remove their hats from their heads.

  “May we come inside?”

  NO! My brain screams.

  Tears fill my eyes as blackness creeps in from every angle. My brain can’t process. My heart is about to explode. My lungs don’t want to pull in air. My body knows and now, with the blackness overtaking everything else, it’s shutting down.

  *

  Two years have passed, but it isn’t any easier. The pain is fresh. Sharp. His loss devastates me as much today as it did when I first found out Mike had been shot in the head and killed in a bank robbery.

  Mike shouldn't even have been there. That’s the real bitch of it. Payroll goofed when he left his job and instead of depositing his last check electronically, they cut him a paper check. Bills were due before he’d get paid again from the new job he hadn’t even started yet. My husband wasn’t one to trust technology. Especially with banking.

  "Mom," Timmy calls from the other side of my bedroom door. "Are you okay?"

  I sniffle and try to pull myself together. The key word is try.

  "Yes, sweetheart. I'm just tired."

  I hate lying to him, but he's taken his father's death so hard, I don't want to stir up any pain.

  "Can I come in?"

  "Um." I clear my throat, blow my nose and wipe my eyes. "Sure."

  The door creaks open. My son doesn't move. He stands at the entrance to my bedroom, and evaluates me.

  "You're not tired, you've been crying."

  "I'm fine, Timmy. Really. I'm just a little emotional."

  He nods as he approaches the bed and sits at the edge.

  "I'm going to find a way to kill that fucker."

  "Timmy! Your language!" I scold.

  "Fuck my language. That dick killed Dad, and when I'm old enough I'm going to hunt him down, cut his balls off and kill him."

  Maybe I should be grateful that my son wants to avenge his father’s wrongful death. Maybe it will motivate him to do something great with his future. Perhaps he’ll want to serve and protect the innocent and go into law enforcement. I should be proud.

  I’m not. Instead I’m terrified. I’m scared to death of losing him, too.

  "Sweetheart, I know you miss your father. I do, too. But he wouldn't want you to sacrifice all the good things you have yet to come in your life for revenge. He'd want you to become all you can be."

  "Dad taught me to stand up for what’s right. He said I should never be afraid to what I need to, as long as I’m on the right side of the issue."

  "Yes,” I nod. “But you're talking about murder. There’s nothing right about killing someone."

  “There is if it saves lives.”

  Timmy says it so matter of fact and emotionless. His words send shivers down my spine. I understand where my son is coming from. I'd like nothing more than to put a bullet into the bastard's head myself, but I can't risk jail time and being separated from my son. Timmy is the only thing that makes life bearable. I have to trust in the system.

  "He's behind bars. He's never coming out. Let him rot there like the piece of shit he is."

  "That isn't enough. I want him to suffer the way we do. Besides, you don’t know if he’ll get paroled. And then what? Huh? Dad will still be dead and he’ll be able to live. To have a life. "

  Timmy doesn’t talk much about his feelings. He doesn’t show that the pain of losing his father is like an open chest wound. Wearing emotions on the sleeve, that’s my specialty, and I see firsthand the effect it’s having on my son.

  "Get over here."

  I sit back, lean against the headboard, and stretch my arms open for my son.

  He shakes his head. “I’m not a kid, Mom. A hug isn’t going to fix what’s wrong with me.”

  Not what I needed to hear right now. He’s right. He’s not a kid. But he’ll always be my baby. I’ll always want to mother him. Love him. Protect him. Hugs are just a natural consequence of those other things.

  Chapter 2

  “The reason I’m calling, Mrs. Doherty,” the man on the other end of the line explains, “is that Timothy threatened to cut a boys penis off at lunch today.”

  “Timmy wouldn’t just say something like that. I’m sure the other boy did something to prompt my son.”

  “This isn’t the first time something like thi
s has happened.”

  “You’re right. And the last time he threatened someone, a kid opened five ketchup packets and squeezed them out on Timmy’s head.”

  “Regardless, we have a zero tolerance policy and I was able to justify not giving Timothy any punishment last time because your son didn’t retaliate against the other boy in a physical manner. This time, however, I have a lunch table full of boys that heard Timothy’s unprompted threat. Perhaps it’s time to seek professional help.”

  “What?”

  “I think it’s time we stop pussyfooting around the fact that your son is a bomb ready to explode. It’s time Timothy sees a psychiatrist. We have a list of doctors the district uses if you’d like recommendations. ”

  “Maybe what Timmy needs is a little more positive attention and understanding at school, Mr. Butler.”

  I recognize the frustration in the long sigh coming over the phone. “This is an official warning. If Timmy doesn’t straighten his act out I’m going to have to get the authorities involved. I can’t follow the old adage of let boys be boys and look the other way. Not in today’s environment.”

  “I’m not asking you to look the other way. I’m asking for fairness and a little bit of understanding.”

  “Here at Sylvan middle school, we treat all of our students with fairness and understanding. It would serve you well to remember that.”

  I’m not sure but I think that dick of an assistant principal made some sort of threat. He’s had it out for my son since he started at the school. He’s made comments about how boys without fathers tend to be wild troublemakers.

  “In my opinion, you’ve been too understanding. Too permissible when it comes to your son’s aggressive behavior.”

  “That’s not your call to make.”

  “Perhaps, if he had a strong male role model around to teach him how to deal with his violent tendencies . . .”

  I bite my tongue and tune the fucker out. Maybe the asshole thinks I should’ve married the first warm body I bumped into after I lowered my husband’s casket into the ground. Too bad this conversation isn’t taped. The superintendent needs to hear this first hand. I can write a long letter to him and the entire board detailing how this man has mishandled my son from the day he walked into that school.

  Even if I do and he gets reprimanded, he’ll turn it around and claim that I misinterpreted his statement and all the fucking bullshit he’s thrown my way. He’ll pull the man card and say I’m over sensitive because I’m letting my emotions get in the way of reason.

  That’s his go to. It’s the same shit he’s pulled with other mothers. He only speaks civilly to men, and even that’s not guaranteed. There’s a whole conglomerate of parents working actively to have him removed without pay. The sooner the better.

  *

  I look at the clock on my dashboard. It’s a quarter to five. Timmy should’ve been out of practice fifteen minutes ago. Mine is one of the last cars in the parking lot. I don’t want to smother him and be one of those helicopter mom’s, but I’m worried. Especially after the phone call I got earlier in the day.

  I check my phone for a missed message, but there isn’t one. I don’t know what’s going on and the last thing I need is for him to get into some sort of trouble. Not today.

  I get out of the car and start up the steps leading into the school as a young man in sweats and a T-shirt walks out.

  “May I help you?” He stops and asks.

  I barely give him a cursory glance as I answer, “I need to go inside and see Mr. Carter”

  “Can you tell me what this is reference to?”

  Shit. I don’t want to get into this, but I know those damn doors are locked, and I need to get in.

  With my eyes on the school entrance I begin. “He’s the wrestling coach and my son hasn’t come out of practice yet. I want to make sure everything’s okay and that there aren’t any problems.”

  “There aren’t,” he says in a tone that’s too light, and too airy for me to take him seriously.

  Condescending prick. He doesn’t understand I don’t have time for games or mindless chit chat. I need to find my son ASAP. I take a deep breath, so I can explain that I need in there and time is of the essence.

  Standing strong and tall I meet his eyes. Green eyes that are alive and vibrant. Eyes so powerful I feel them take hold and pull me close. Eyes that stare back with an intensity that peels back my skin and looks deep inside, behind the facade I keep in place for the world to see.

  I look down and reset. I never had a reaction like this before, and it threw me for a loop. I wasn’t prepared. I didn’t expect it. Now I know better. I won’t be taken by him and rocked to my core this time. I gather my strength determined to do this right.

  Only I don’t.

  My eyes open and find his still locked on me. Two warm pools of liquid jade that I want to fall into and drown in. The air leaves my lungs in a hurry. The wind is knocked out of me by a simple look. The heat and depth of his eyes turn the look from simple to mysterious and mystifying. I stand captivated by those eyes, unable to do anything but stare at him and his perfectly sculpted features.

  Aside from the eyes that can be mistaken for gemstones, his jaw is strong. Solid. And his nose turns up just a bit at the end. All of this perfection is framed by dirty blonde locks that look a hair too long as the front hangs below his eyebrows and just above his eye lashes. It’s not so long that it hides his face, just long enough for me to want to run my hand through it and brush it back to get a better view of his playful eyes.

  As if he knows the reaction he’s having on me, his thick, full lips curl into a smile. The type of smile you see on commercials for breath mints or mouthwash. Fresh and clean with straight white teeth. The type of mouth you want to meet with your own to feel the tingle of his warm peppermint breath.

  I don’t know how much time passes while I’m held there staring in his eyes. I’m unable to move. Or speak. I’m lightheaded from a lack of oxygen. I force myself to pull in a deep breath before the light dims around me and I fall at this man’s feet.

  It’s more than his smile that melts me like chocolate in the sun. It’s not his kind but mischievous eyes either. It’s both of those things. And neither.

  It’s him.

  His presence. The whole damn package including the kind, concerned look on his face that makes me want to stay and talk to this beautiful stranger.

  Where the hell did this come from?

  I don’t understand this reaction it’s foreign. Like my mind short circuited. It’s faltering like an overused battery, unable to turn over. I close my eyes and shake off thoughts about this man and refocus them where they should be. On Timmy.

  “I’m Chance Carter,” the man says, offering his hand to me.

  Chance. What a perfect name. It means something random and unexpected. Like this meeting. It says something more personal to me. Chance is a risk that connotes a positive outcome. Take a chance on me.

  I’m really fucking losing it.

  “You? But you’re so young.”

  I’m mortified by the tone of my voice, as if being young is something bad. Offensive.

  He smiles again. This time I notice more than his perfect smile. I notice how his green eyes reach into my soul and knead the pain and darkness there. It’s being massaged. Manipulated. It hurts, but the pain is what reminds me that I’m still alive.

  My heart beat picks up speed. I don’t want to look away from him. I avoid it as long as I can, wondering if my hair is a mess, and cursing myself for not putting make-up on before I left the house.

  I’m flustered and angry at myself. Why? Why is this man, this man that’s so young I’m not sure he’s legal, having this kind of effect on me?

  “I’m going to pretend you meant that as a compliment,” he says stroking his thumb across his bottom lip. Bringing my focus to his full pouty lips once again. “Even though the look on your face says you’re troubled.”

  “No. Of course not
.” I compose myself and regain some semblance of the woman I am. The woman I was before this conversation started. “I just thought the coach . . . I mean you . . . were one of the teachers in the school. I expected him . . . you . . . to look different.”

  “Different how?”

  His head tilts, his brows furrow as he contemplates me or what I’m saying, I’m not sure which. I think he’s even more handsome wearing this serious face than he was a moment ago flashing his dazzling smile.

  Handsome? Shit where did that come from?

  “Older. You know, kind of soft around the middle.”

  “Ah, fat and out of shape.” He jokes. His tongue peeks out of his mouth and wets his bottom lip before a smirk covers his face. “I can’t say I’m upset I’ve left you with a better impression than the one you imagined.”

  His eyes shine playfully as he looks me over. Why is he looking at me with hunger in his eyes? Suddenly I’m insecure about my ripped jeans and the old, washed out, possibly stained, shirt I’m wearing.

  “I don’t like when things are one sided.”

  Is he flirting? He can’t flirt with me, aside from the age difference between us, he’s my son’s coach, and I’m a married woman. That last thought cuts off my breath and threatens to choke me. It rips into my heart like a samurai sword. Sharp. Cold. Deadly.

  I’m not married. Not anymore. I’m a widow and have been every day for the past two years.

  “Mom! What are you doing?” Timmy shouts before I have a chance to respond.

  Guilt overwhelms me. My eyes fall to the ground as I scramble to find words to explain my actions. I sure as shit can’t tell my son that at this very moment, I’m having unsavory thoughts about his hot coach.

  “Hey, Tim. Cut your mother some slack,” Mr. Carter comes to my defense. “You’re late and she’s worried about you. You left the gym over ten minutes ago. What took so long?”

  “Nothing.” My son looks away. He’s lying.

  “I can’t help if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”

  “Mr. Johnson stopped me on the way out. He wanted to talk for a minute. Turns out his idea of a minute is everyone else’s idea of ten minutes.”