by Chase Connor
“Oma…I don’t even know what to say right now.”
“Guess you’re gonna dash off in the middle of the night again, huh?” She sat back in her chair, a disappointed look on her face.
“Is the…can’t believe I’m saying this…is the were-community confined to Point Worth?”
“Of course not.” She snorted. “They’re all over the damn place.”
“Then where the hell am I gonna go, Oma?” I shook my head. “Where can I go that I wouldn’t have to worry about crazy stuff happening?”
Both of us sat at the kitchen table with that hanging in the air between us. If I was truly only upset about the fact that Andrew was a werewolf—and werewolves could be found everywhere, even if I hadn’t been aware of that fact—Point Worth was as good a place to be as any. I chewed at my lip and looked over at Oma, wondering if I could bring myself to ask the question that was on the tip of my tongue. Lucas had plenty to say about Andrew and Oma. Of course, Andrew had been the biggest problem in my mind because his…issue…had been a severe threat to my personal safety within the last twenty-four hours. Oma’s…issue…wasn’t really of a concern to me. Was it?
“Oma…”
Her arms still crossed over her chest, she just stared dully at me.
Well, dully wasn’t correct. Oma never had dull looks—there was always fire behind her eyes, a gleam in her eye. A little danger mixed with humor.
“What?” She urged me on.
Could I really ask my grandmother if she was a…it was so ridiculous I couldn’t even think it while looking at her. We were sitting at the kitchen table in the house I had grown up in—where I was visiting her and getting away from everything. A home where up until Andrew turned into a werewolf, I was considering living in until I sorted myself out. Now I wasn’t so sure. There were answers to questions I hadn’t even asked looming in my mind, and questions without answers I couldn’t push out of my mind. If the question fell out of my mouth, would there be any coming back from that?
What would Oma say anyway? Who would own up to being a witch??
Maybe someone who speaks openly about werewolves and the were-community, Rob? Ya’ think that might be a person who owns up to being a witch? Sound reasonable to you, dumbass?
“Nothing.” I pushed away from the table.
“Where are you off to?” She frowned, her brow an expanse of furrows.
“I need to clean the…I need to clean up.” I sighed.
Oma grinned widely.
“Piss off, old woman,” I grumbled at her.
Stalking back out of the kitchen, through the living room, and up the stairs, I realized that I hadn’t really come up with a battle plan for what was next in my little Point Worth saga. Obviously, I’d have to address with Oma whether or not she was a…witch…or did I? Was that any of my concern? Whatever she was that she hadn’t told me about was none of my damn business. Right? It wasn’t my place to demand to know everything about my grandmother, especially since I hadn’t exactly been around in the last decade. Hell, I hadn’t even been a good enough grandson to check in as regularly as I should have, so storming back down to the kitchen and asking very personal questions was out of the question.
But what did it mean that Oma was a witch? Was she turning into a crunchy, groovy, earthy old chick who grew herbs and produced handmade jewelry and worshipped nature? Did she brew special teas and tonics for herself and neighbors that she claimed would cure all that ails ya’? Or…was she a witch? Like, did she cast spells and dance naked under the moon and convene with all sorts of…things? I frowned to myself as I reached the top of the steps, thinking of things curling up beside my feet in the middle of the night. Something was going on in Oma’s house—something that had been going on for years, and her being a witch would certainly explain a lot of it.
This is all ridiculous.
I marched down the hall, entered the room I was using and closed the door a little more roughly than necessary. Lucas was probably just being dramatic and using poetic license when describing Oma. I had known the woman twenty-six years—my entire damn life. If Oma were a witch, one would think that I’d be the first to know aside from herself. Witches—real witches—weren’t a real thing anyway. Magic wasn’t real.
Neither are werewolves.
My breath was stuck in my throat as I yanked my shirt off and started to unbutton my pants. How had I been in California a little more than a week prior, skinny to an unhealthy degree, working myself into the ground, and living on caffeine and nicotine, playing at being Jacob Michaels—an incredibly famous actor and singer? And now I was in Point Worth, being Robert Wagner—just a boy born in upper Ohio—living in his Oma’s house, learning that werewolves and the supernatural and…witches?...were a real thing? How had my life escalated to such a summit in ten years and come crashing down within fewer than two weeks?
Jacob Michaels was incredibly famous, incredibly rich, incredibly connected…and ignorant. He knew nothing of these things going on behind the scenes of everyday life. He just wanted to do his work and get paid and hide behind the façade of, well, being Jacob Michaels. Robert Wagner was who Jacob Michaels really and truly was—and he just wanted to move back home and leave the fast-paced and crazy lifestyle behind. Robert Wagner didn’t have the first clue about all of these things going on, either. But…maybe he should have? Shouldn’t I know things like, oh, yeah, my Oma is a witch and a guy I go on a date with might turn into a werewolf at the full moon?
Then there was everything that had happened with Lucas. Actually, the one thing that happened with Lucas, three times. How had I become this guy in the space of fewer than two weeks? I had fallen into bed (and other places) with a guy I barely knew and for whom I didn’t have feelings. Well, not romantic feelings. Actually, I didn’t know how I felt about Lucas. I stood there, shirt flapping open and my pants rolled down to my thighs, staring off at nothing. How did I feel about Lucas?
Lucas was cute.
He was kind.
He was shy and adorably so.
He had steady employment.
Lucas knew who he was.
He had saved my life.
Fuck he was sexy.
But did I think that I could love him?
Abso-fucking-lutely not.
Lucas and I were cheese and chalk. We had nothing in common. He was some boy born in the country—so was I—but that’s where it ended. He was country through and through. He liked working at his grandfather’s hardware store and performing duties as a substitute teacher. And he liked living out on the lake in seclusion. And, for fuck’s sake, being a vegetarian.
But, my God, wasn’t he sexy?
Wasn’t my body drawn to his?
Could I look at his lips without wanting to press mine against his?
Could I look at his body without wanting to feel my tongue drag along the length of it?
Didn’t I, even as I stood in the bedroom at Oma’s house, want to feel his hands grab ahold of me. Anywhere. He could grab me anywhere.
I shivered as I ripped my shirt off in frustration. Lucas was not going to become a thing. He was just a distraction in my journey to turning back into Robert Wanger—er, Rob. I just wanted to be Rob, and romantic or sexual interludes were out of the question. That was not why I had come back to Point Worth. Sure, as Oma had pointed out, I had come to Point Worth hoping to get a little love and friendship back into my life. However, not that kind of love. I didn’t need a man. I had me. Regardless of what Oma thought, that was more than enough. I didn’t want some guy dictating my future. One man—Jacob Michaels—had already done that for a decade. And I was done.
I just want to be Robert Wagner.
Welling up with tears, I rolled my pants down and stepped out of them. I started to cry because I didn’t know how to be Robert Wagner. Because I had no idea who Robert Wagner was. I hadn’t been him for at least ten years. And, even when I was Robert Wagner, I had no clue who he was. I was a man with two names and no idea
who I was supposed to be. Tears were leaking down my cheeks as I stripped off my underwear and carried all of my dirty clothes to the hamper.
Less than thirty minutes later, I was drying off from my bath and sliding into fresh pajamas. Then I was sliding under the crisp, clean sheets of the bed. Sleep. Sleep always helps.
Chapter 3
Oma had knocked on the bedroom door at lunchtime. Then again at dinner time. I didn’t get out of bed or even answer verbally. Pulling the covers more tightly around myself, I chose to ignore her. Tiredness had surrounded me, made my skin crawl and my bones ache and my eyes heavy and bleary. Knowing that I had acted out of character with Lucas—at least, what I thought was out of character—and finding out all of the other things I had found out about my life and Point Worth, made it impossible to exist for the time being. Sleep was the only thing that I could manage.
Finally, sometime around midnight, I felt the house go still. Darkness, though I couldn’t really know, seemed to envelop the entire house. Quiet descended upon Oma’s house, and everything was dead for the night. I rolled over onto my back and stared up at the ceiling. Reaching over, I took my cell phone from the bedside table, surprised it was still working since I hadn’t charged it since the day before. The alerts on the screen told me that I had missed calls from my assistant, manager, and agent—but just one from each. I also had ten texts from Lucas, two from Andrew, and even one from Oma.
Upon listening to the voicemails left, I quickly ascertained that my team back in California had a new project they wanted me to consider. I deleted the messages and shot off a text to my assistant, Jessica, that I wanted to be left alone until I reached out to them. The texts from Lucas were what one would expect from someone they just had hours of sex with throughout a night and morning. Proclamations of missing me, still smelling me at his house, all kinds of vomit-inducingly nice things. Andrew’s texts were profuse apologies, which were almost laughable. And Oma’s was a quick text asking if I was going to eat dinner at least. I didn’t respond to any texts.
When I laid my phone back on the bedside table, after a few seconds, it lit up gently, signaling a text or call, casting the ceiling in an eerie blue. I ignored it. My eyes were getting heavy again. And then I felt the foot of the bed being weighed down by something crawling up onto the bed with me. As I felt whatever it was curl up by my feet, I couldn’t think of anything else to do.
“Don’t get under the covers,” I said as I drifted off. “And we will get along fine.”
I heard something breathe out gently, contentedly. I took that as acquiescence. And then I drifted off to sleep.
When morning came, I woke up with the sun, rising as though summoned by that heavenly star itself. My eyes popped open, and I immediately looked down at the foot of the bed. I was alone. No critter was there, waiting for me to wish it “good morning” or scratch it behind the ears. Which was a good thing, because, unless it had been a cat or dog, that wouldn’t have been in my wheelhouse. Even strange cats and dogs gave me concern since there was no way to know if they were friendly enough to pet. It’s not until you’ve been bitten that you know a being’s true personality.
I slid out of bed and went about getting bathed and dressed once again. Not that I wanted to put much effort in, especially since I was in Point Worth and not Hollywood, but I knew it would make me feel better. I noticed that my hamper was empty of dirty clothes, but I paid it no mind. Things were weird in Oma’s house, and I was starting to just go with it. What I didn’t know wouldn’t hurt me. And what didn’t kill me in the middle of the night could sleep at my feet without me knowing what it was. That was fair enough.
As I bathed, primped, and dressed, I plugged my phone into the charger on the bedside table and cued up some music. Scissor Sisters began to blare, and I smiled to myself as I waited. When the loud knocking began at my door, followed by the bellowing of Oma, I grinned wickedly to myself.
“Go away, old woman!” I bellowed back.
The knocking went on for a few moments longer as I busied myself about my bath and the rest of my routine. Once I was clean and primped and dressed in fresh underwear, jeans, and a sweater, I finally shut off the music. The pounding on my door and the bellowing from my grandmother had ended quite a bit before that, but I hadn’t lowered the volume of my music. I had hoped that it had startled her awake and it had done exactly what I’d expected. Finally, I turned the music off on my phone, leaving the room in deathly silence. I couldn’t hear Oma at all.
Before leaving the bedroom I was using, I made sure to tidy up, make the bed, and leave everything as it should be. Mostly because Oma had made a comment about being more thoughtful about the messes I made and not making messes in the first place. That was probably her way of telling me a secret without actually telling me directly. I wanted to test that theory. See if the scurrying I’d heard during the nights would stop. Just call it a hunch. When I got down to the kitchen, Oma was in front of the stove and had a scowl on her face, which she aimed in my direction when I waltzed into the room, a sweet smile on my face.
“You’re a dick.” She hissed.
“Good morning, crazy.” I chirped as I went to the fridge and swung it wide.
I surveyed the contents of the fridge and grabbed the carton of orange juice before heading over to the cabinet to grab a glass. Pouring the glass of juice for myself, Oma watched me for a few moments as she continued to cook at the stove.
“Pour me a glass, would you?” She asked simply.
I looked over at her, maintaining eye contact, as I finished pouring the remainder of what was in the carton into my glass. Then I chunked the carton in the trash.
“Fresh out,” I said simply. “I’ll get some more when I go into town later.”
She squinted at me.
I lifted the glass to my lips and took a long, refreshing drink, then smacked my lips as I stared at her.
“What the hell has crawled up your ass?” She snapped, poking at the bacon in the pan before her. “Going out of your way to be ugly when you were already born that way?”
“Too much.” I shook my head. “Can’t finish all that.”
I tipped the glass slowly, letting it dribble into the sink. Oma glared at me as the O.J. waterfalled from my glass and down the drain.
“Okay, you little shit…”
“What’s in your house, Oma?” I stopped her.
“What the fuck are you talking about now?” She snapped. “Have you been taking your…Paxil? Paxil. That’s what it is, right?”
“Don’t you turn this shit on me.” I glared at her. “There is something in this house—besides you and me—and you’re hiding it from me.”
“You been taking them pills?”
“You been taking pills?” I snapped back.
She rolled her eyes and poked at the bacon.
“Something crawled into bed with me last night.” I set my glass in the sink. “Just like every other damn night I’ve been here and wasn’t too tired to notice. So…what is it? You have a cat? A dog? A raccoon or opossum or something?”
“Who the hell keeps an opossum as a house pet?”
“Crazy old country women from Ohio who think that the guy they set their grandson up on a date with turning into a wolf at the full moon isn’t that big of a deal??!?”
Her eyes were rolling around again.
“You just aren’t going to let that go, are you?”
“You have some douchebag try to grab your junk, turn into a wolf, and then get plowed into by a truck and see how long you hold onto that nut, lady.”
“Who the hell hit him with a truck?”
“Not that that should be your first question, but Lucas did.”
She thought about this for a moment.
“Well, I guess he had it coming.” She shrugged.
“Oh,” I laughed in disbelief, “you are crazy as a shit house rat, aren’t you?”
“Someone’s getting’ the Point Worth back in their personality.”
She quipped. “Keep talkin’ all folksy and maybe people will start to think you’re actually from around here, no matter how much you’ve tried to act like you’re better than all of us.”
The heat poured off of me as I braced my hand on the sink edge. A shattering sound rang through the air as the glass in the sink practically exploded. Oma jumped back from the stove, putting distanced between the sink and herself. Glass ricocheted off of my knuckles and felt like pinpricks, but I didn’t so much as flinch at the sound or the feeling. Internally, I couldn’t help but wonder why the glass had shattered. However, I was not going to be distracted by Oma’s nonsense or trickery.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“What is in this goddamn house, Oma?!”
“There ain’t nothin’ in this house except my crazy damned grandson breaking my shit!” She growled back. “Your goddamn hand is bleeding.”
I glanced down. My hand merely looked a little scratched up.
“Don’t deflect.”
“You need to take your pills!”
“I am not crazy, Oma!”
“You just tore your damn hand up, Robbie.” She grumbled. “And you’re worried about raccoons and opossums?”
“My hand is far from ‘tore up,’ Oma.” I held it up for her viewing. Just a few small scratches. “What’s been crawling into bed with me?”
“I have no idea, ya’ asshole.” She turned away from me to poke at the bacon in the pan some more. “But you need to take them pills.”
“Fine.”
Without another word, I ripped a few paper towels off of the holder next to the sink and blotted at my hand as I walked towards the doorway.
“Now where the hell do you think you’re going?” Oma hollered after me. “You ain’t even had breakfast!”