Billy & The Beast (Ever After, New York #3) - Eli Easton

Chapter 1

Billy

“Mom, please get up.”

She was a gray lump on the bed. I crossed to the window and pulled open the heavy drapes to get some light into the room. The May day was sunny and breezy, the sky a deep turquoise blue dotted with fluffy cotton clouds. A perfect day.

“Mom?”

She rolled over onto her back and looked at me. I could tell she hadn’t been asleep—she had none of the bleariness of her half-asleep self. She’d just been lying there in the dark. The aura of despondency around her was almost visible.

“I’ll get up later, Billy. Just let me rest.”

“It’s eleven o’clock. Can I make you some coffee?”

“Already had some.”

“What about breakfast?”

“Not hungry. Just let me rest for another hour, honey, okay?” She turned back onto her side, away from me.

My heart ached. On days like today it was always a balancing act—trying to find a way to encourage her without being a total pain in the ass or nursemaid wannabe. I never seemed to find the right mix because, whatever I did, it rarely worked.

“I was gonna go on my training ride, but I don’t want to leave with you still in bed. I worry about you.”

She rolled over again and studied me for a moment. “You don’t need to worry. I don’t want you to worry.”

“Well, I do. If you just lie in here in this dark room, you’ll feel worse and worse. Get up, Mom. Please?”

She blinked. Her mouth pressed into a tight line, and I braced myself for being yelled at for pushing too hard. But then she sighed. “All right. Go for your ride, honey. I’ll be up when you get back, and I’ll make us lunch.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

I almost asked Did you take your meds today? But every time I asked that, the answer was always an irritated yes. And if I pushed her to go back to her doctor, since the meds didn’t seem to be helping anymore, that would start an argument. Going around and around about that right now would only upset her and squash any chance of her getting out of bed today.

So I went over to her and kissed her forehead. She squeezed my arm for a moment before turning back onto her side.

I left her, closing the door behind me, and went into my room.

My room is a lot like me, I guess. A part of my brain recognizes that it is dorky. Like, if I were to ever bring a hot guy to my room—wishful thinking—I would be embarrassed. And the other part of my brain just doesn’t care, and maybe even likes being dorky? Maybe someday, the part of me that wants to be cool will outgrow the dorky part, but I’m twenty-one, and it hasn’t happened yet.

Since the age of about twelve, I’ve been decorating my room with monsters—on posters, mugs, laptop stickers, and figurines. There’s Frankenstein, Dracula, Creature from the Black Lagoon, and Godzilla. Werewolves are a special favorite—from the original Wolfman, to the shifters from The Howling, to a fantasy poster of Little Red Riding Hood and the wolf that I adored. The red-hooded figure was turned in such a way that it might have been a boy, and the wolfman was dead sexy. There were Lovecraftian beasts and horror icons like Freddy and Jason and Candyman. When your friends and relatives know you collect that kind of thing, you get it every birthday and Christmas. And that’s okay by me.

I threw open a dresser drawer, now in a hurry. I wanted to get my ride in before it got too hot.

I put on black bike shorts and a baggy, oversized T-shirt, bright red for visibility. Ankle socks, bike shoes with toe clips, a helmet, and bike gloves topped off my oh-so-attractive sporty look. And I was out the door.

I’d signed up for a century ride at the end of July. It was a hundred-kilometer ride through the Hudson Valley, complete with rolling hills. I’d done it to motivate myself to exercise more. I loved to bike, and from about the age of eight to seventeen, I rode everywhere. But I’d gotten lazy since getting my old clunker of a car. Signing up for the century gave me the motivation I needed to get my ass on my bicycle seat.

Also? There was a cool medal and a T-shirt! I was gonna do that damn ride if it killed me.

The moment I wheeled out of my driveway, the pleasure of being on my bike zipped through