The Grey Wolves Novella Collection

Chapter 1-2

Decebel frowned at her. “I don’t buy swimsuit magazines and I don’t watch television, so I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“But you are still a man, with hormones and eyeballs.”

“I’m also a wolf. We see the world differently. We have different values. Our hormones don’t control us nearly as strongly as other primal instincts. The drive to protect and provide for our mate, our family, our pack. Those instincts are far stronger. As much as I appreciate your beauty, Jennifer, your other qualities are far more important to me and my wolf. Besides, would you prefer I not have hormones or eyeballs?”

She thought about it, tapping her lip as she narrowed her eyes at him. “Naw, you better keep the hormones. They give you a sexy, deep voice. But the eyeballs can totally go. You don’t need eyeballs to be a man.”

Decebel growled at her. “Without eyeballs I wouldn’t be able to see you.”

“Ding, ding, ding. You got it, contestant number one. Tell the man what he’s won, Alec.”

“Who’s Alec?” Decebel asked, his brow furrowed.

“Why do you always focus on the unimportant parts of a conversation?”

He crossed his arms and slid to the floor, leaning his back against the wall. “You say so much, I have to weed out the really unimportant parts to get to anything of real consequence. Sometimes it’s tricky.”

“Do you want to die?” Jen growled. She started to stand but then remembered her kangaroo body and sank back down into the hot bubble bath.

Decebel smirked at her.

“Saved by the leaky breasts and stomach pooch.” She huffed. “But as you pointed out, it won’t be like this forever.”

“You’re going to hold a grudge until you no longer have those issues?”

“Maybe.”

“Won’t that be exhausting?”

“Dude, I’m married to you. Everything else is a breeze.” Jen grinned at his scowl.

“Fine, then.” He rose and marched to the door. “Hold on to your grudge. I look forward to letting you take out your frustrations on me later. Do you need anything? I’m going to check on Thia and let you relax.”

“Could you bring me that torture device they call a breast pump?”

“You’re going to try that again?” he asked and cringed.

Jen balled her fists in frustration. “I guess,” she said, thinking back to the first time she’d tried to pump. It hadn’t been a great experience. She was pretty sure she’d said every curse word known to mankind and made up some new ones. Jen had no doubt a man invented the breast pump. No woman would conceive of something that caused that kind of pain with so little reward.

“I think it will be different this time. My milk hadn’t come in the first time I tried it. Now, I’m as full as a dairy cow on milking day.”

He gave a resigned nod. Jen nearly laughed at his pale face. He’d been a little traumatized to see her using the pump. He said it looked like the machine was trying to suck out her soul. And her response was to point out that if a soul was going to leave a body, through the boobs was probably not the direction it would flee.

Jen tried to relax. It was almost like a cruel joke. Here, have a baby. Oh, just for fun, have a psychotic breakdown immediately after you give birth, as a consolation prize for nine months of hard work. But don’t think of it as a psychotic breakdown. We will just call it post-partum depression. That sounds so much better than ‘losing your mind.’ Where were all the picture-perfect happy moments they showed on the diaper commercials? Where was the cooing baby staring up in adoration at the pretty, smiling, awe-inspired mother who appeared as if she’d gotten at least ten hours of sleep the night before? Or how about that mom on the breast pump commercial. She was giving her husband the come-hither eyes as the announcer talked about how the pump enabled you to still give your baby the best, but not change your identity as a woman. Where were those moments? My identity has definitely been changed.

Jen felt cheated. She’d read so many books on pregnancy and motherhood described as such a happy miracle. Then she saw the smiling mothers portrayed by the media. Jen was starting to think she’d inadvertently been led to build up a plethora of unreasonable expectations. Sure, some of the books had warned about the difficulties of the first few weeks, but why the hell didn’t they put pictures of a woman writhing in pain while being attacked by a breast pump? That would have been much more realistic. Or how about a picture of the precious bundle of joy screaming until it turned purple? And how about a woman still looking pregnant a month after the birth, instead of a supermodel dressed in clothes that actually matched, fit, and weren’t maternity leftovers?

She huffed as she wrapped her arms around her raised knees and leaned her cheek against them. All the books she’d read needed to come with a warning label. They should have stolen the greatest quote in movie history and plastered it across the front of those books. “You can’t handle the truth … b***h!’ Because that’s how she felt. The truth was terrible, and she couldn’t handle it.

Okay, so the b***h part wasn’t actually in A Few Good Men. That part was a Jennifer addition. She totally thought it would have added to the dramatic effect. But, then, Jen thought most every response should end with the word b***h. Just imagine it. “‘‘Hey Dec, can you grab the baby shampoo, b***h?” Or “Yes, I’d love some more mashed potatoes, bitch.” See? Everything gets so much funnier just by adding that simple five-letter word.

The scriptwriters should have totally asked for her help during the editing process. When would people learn to ask her for her opinion? She shook her head. Okay, maybe it was because she’d not even been born herself when the movie was released. Yeah, that had to be it. If there is ever a sequel, she was sure she’d be called for advice. Why in the world am I thinking about adding obscenities to old movies? I have lost my mind. There’s no doubting it now. At this point, Jen was just blaming everything on the hormones.

Maybe she needed to write a book and title it Motherhood: Listen Up Bitches. Here’s the Real Truth About the First Week, … subtitle: You can’t handle the truth!

“That would sell millions,” she muttered under her breath.

“Baby, are, are you okay?” Decebel was back. He poked his head in the doorway and spoke hesitantly. His constant gentleness, patience, and attentiveness over the past few days was nearly her undoing. She didn’t know how to handle this version of Decebel. She was so used to his broodiness, his brash leadership, and his challenge of her at every opportunity.

Now, Jen felt like a jerk when she snapped at this kinder, gentler Decebel because he didn’t fight back. Broody version of Decebel, she’d call him D 1.0, would bite back with no apologies. But D 2.0 just gave her puppy dog eyes and petted her. When she snapped at him, she felt as though she was kicking a freaking puppy.

“Where is D 1.0? Where are my diaper commercial moments?” She turned to Decebel and wailed, unable to keep in all the thoughts swirling in her mind. The tears had been flowing down her cheeks, and she hadn’t even realized it. “Where are all the books that tell the actual truth about childbirth? Where is someone yelling at me that I can’t handle the truth? Why didn’t someone tell me that all women turn into psychotic bitches after having a baby? Why are you being so freaking un-broody?” She knew she was throwing a ton of questions at him. There was too much emotion, and it was coming way too fast, but her mouth just wouldn’t stop moving.

“And the breast pump…” She pointed to the thing in his hand. “Where are my come-hither eyes and feminine feelings? They don’t exist. And do you know why they don’t exist? Because that thing sucks out my soul through my boobs!”

She could see Decebel’s mind reeling. He was probably wondering what in the world she was babbling about.

Who, or what, is D 1.0?

What the hell are diaper moments?

Who would yell at her about telling the truth?

Who was a psychotic b***h?

Why did she want him to be broody?

She knew he wasn’t even going to touch the question about the come-hither eyes ad breast pump. That was way above his pay grade.

Decebel slowly set the pump on the counter and backed slowly toward the door. “I think maybe you need to talk to Alina, or Lilly, or someone else … anybody else that happens to have girl parts.”

She waved him off. “You’re right. Go, save yourself. There’s no reason both of us should be taken out by the hormone-induced explosion. Let’s minimize the collateral damage as much as possible. FYI, you’ll have to get some formula for Thia. My psychosis is putting me out of commission for a while. That means the dairy bar will be closed, as well.”

Jen buried her face in her knees. She heard the door close and then Decebel’s footsteps in the hall as he practically ran to find someone qualified to deal with his disaster of a wife. She got lost in her own dread, having been disillusioned by the advertising and media smoke and mirrors that had given her a false expectation of childbirth and motherhood. She’d thought she would smile like an i***t while changing her child’s diaper or caress Thia’s cheek lovingly as the girl nursed (painlessly) and stared up at her mother adoringly. Instead, Jen was cringing to get all her motherly tasks done as quickly as possible. Thia, undoubtedly, cussed her mother in the form of baby wails. The girl must despise the cold baby wipes and lack of nourishing milk. Jen really couldn’t blame her. Thia didn’t want her butt wiped with a cold, wet cloth. And, when the girl went to suck on a straw that she assumed would give her some thirst-quenching satisfaction, it pissed the little bundle of joy completely off when all she got was the gurgling sound of an empty cup. The whole process was stupid. Unfortunately, stupid though it might be, the struggles were necessary.

When her tears finally began to subside, Jen climbed from the tub and toweled off. Decebel had brought her some clothes along with the pump, and she pulled them on, ignoring the snugness of the fleece pajamas.

She glared at the pump as though it had single-handedly ruined her life. “So, it’s just you and me now.” In her mind, she heard the sound of cheesy western background music. Jen pictured a tumbleweed roll by. Now, she knew she’d completely lost it. She had resorted to treating an inanimate object as though it gave a flying flipping duck about her and her hormones. “Somebody shoot me and put me out of my misery.”

Five minutes later, there was a knock on the bathroom door.

“Jen, you okay in there?” Jacque asked.

“I’m totally great. Just listening to my jam and having my soul sucked from my breasts. Never. Been. Better.”