Six months. Half a year….
It felt more like half of eternity to Martin Riggs's as he woke muzzily headed to the scent of the half a dozen bottles of Jim, Jack, and Jose in various states of consumption that littered every available surface and the half moldering burger that lay still wrapped on the table in front of him.
He had been planning to eat something real the night before. His stomach had been screaming for it in fact, but in the end, he decided to drink his dinner.
The lone wolf dies, while the pack survives…. An old wolf proverb his granddaddy had taught him when he had still been just a pup himself. But what did the lone wolf do when he was the one that survived when his pack – his mate and unborn pup – where the ones that were lost instead?
The rumble of the surf and the salt air scent of Miranda's beach filtered into the old airstream as gulls called from the air and Riggs felt the yawning black abyss of grief twist open anew in his chest and he bit back whimper edged howl of his wolf behind teeth that were just a shade to sharp for all that he was in his human skin.
His girl. His boy, his mind tormented. His mate. His pup, his wolf howled.
He threw back another shot of cheap liquor (he'd stopped caring about quality a while ago) but was numb to the burn it should have scorched all the way down his gullet. Still it was something to help soften the jagged edges of his shattered self and could perhaps keep him from heeding the siren call of the revolver on the table before him. Keep him from shaming her as he ate the silver caped bullet he'd picked out special.
He stretched out a hand, slapped it down palm first upon the revolver and drew it towards himself, then with a flick of his wrist sent it spinning round and round like the world's most macabre game of spin the bottle.
It stopped barrel pointing at his sternum – "bang," he murmured, but he couldn't allow the revolver to speak with its own voice. His phone was ringing….
He still had work to do….