by Tia Louise
Quickly, I look right then left and skip across to it. People don’t go barefoot to gyms, but short of finding a shoe repair shop, I have to hope somebody wanted to get a workout today before heading to the office.
I’m lucky my feet are average size, but either way, I’ll stuff my toes into whatever I can find to appear somewhat respectable.
“Hey, bro.” A tall, chubby white guy points at me from behind the juice bar.
I pause in making my way to the front. I’m not proud of stealing shoes, but I don’t have a choice in my current situation.
“Hey,” I say, looking down and not stopping.
“You’re new in town.” He’s following right behind me, but I’m still moving quickly toward the exit.
“Just passing through,” I say, even though I know I’ve decided to stay a bit longer.
“I can see you’ve worked in a gym. We need some extra hands. You looking for a job?”
He’s saying the words so fast, I don’t even register his last sentence until my hand is on the door, and I’ve pushed outside. Work at a gym? I stop in my tracks and turn back to doughboy waiting just on the other side of the glass.
Pushing through it, I step back inside in my stolen jeans, tee, and Nikes. “What did you say?”
He looks down and suddenly seems self-conscious. “I wasn’t checking you out, dude. I just noticed you look like you know your way around a gym.”
Glancing down, I own the fact that my arms are ripped, and I still carry the physique of a middleweight boxer. “Yeah, I’ve spent some time in gyms.”
“So I’m Jim. That’s funny, huh?” He pushes a fleshy hand toward my abdomen. I catch it in a strong shake and meet his eyes.
Jumping to conclusions is a dangerous habit. Still, if I had to guess, I’d say our friend Jim isn’t playing with a full deck. He doesn’t even notice that I’m all but limping in the shoes that are a size too small for my feet. Not to mention, I’m ducking in case the owner of said shoes decides to exit the locker room any time in the near future. At least, based on their size, I don’t expect a big guy coming after me.
“Koa,” I say.
“Koa.” His pale eyes roll around a moment. “Sounds… like Hawaii. You from Hawaii, bro?”
“My family was. I grew up in New Jersey.”
Jim nods and returns to his original purpose. “So Andy needs trainers. I’m no good with it on account I never trained nobody, and I don’t really like exercising. But you look like you could fill the spot. How about it? You need a job?”
For a moment I pause, turning the prospect over in my mind. If I’m going to hang around here for a few days, working at a gym would be the perfect cover.
“Okay. What do I need to do? Is there an application or something to fill out?”
Doughboy immediately brightens. He even waddles side to side a bit. “Yeah, bro! I’ll get it for you, and you can fill it out now or bring it back this afternoon. Just be sure you tell Andy I recruited you, okay?”
That seems fair enough. “Sure,” I say with a little laugh, smoothing my hand over my dark hair. I wish I had a cap.
Jim’s eyebrows rise as he watches my actions, and I try not to grin as he straightens slightly and moves a hand across his forehead, pushing his thinning hair back in a manner similar to mine.
“If you could come back around three, Andy will be in to take your application and do an interview.”
“Sounds good.” A quick glance out the glass door, and I look back. “Say, Jim?”
“Yeah?”
“Know any place a guy could crash and maybe get a meal?”
He brightens again and takes my arm. “Dude! My aunt Doris has just the place you’re looking for. A garage apartment not even attached to her house. You can come and go as much as you want!”
I follow him out the door and we’re headed down the sidewalk. This entire setup is getting better by the minute.
Doris White is an odd little woman. Dressed in a pink flour-sack dress, her fuzzy white head only reaches my stomach. Still, her eyes are stern as she interviews me.
“Your name is Kona? Like the coffee?”
“Um, no.” I do my best to appear non-threatening. Don’t scare Doris.
“But you’re Hawaiian?” She squints.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“So, Kona, what brings you to Woodland Creek?”
“It’s Koa. Without the N.” Don’t raise your voice. You need short-term housing.
“What?” Her voice is a high screech.
Exhaling deeply, I try a different approach. “How about Stitch? It was my nickname when I was a boxer.”
“Like the little alien guy? In the cartoon??”
I almost lose it then. “Do I look like a runty alien?”
Her eyebrows tighten even more than I thought possible, just before she breaks into a crackly laugh. “Oh, yes. You’ll do fine,” she says. “Besides, I like having a big strong buck like you on the place.”
“Oh, he’s not at the university, Aunt D,” Jim says, completely clueless.
I can only assume the Bucks are the university mascot. With a smirk, I nod to her nephew, although I know that isn’t what she meant.
“Come and go as you like. Rent’s due on the fifteenth.” She waves a hand over her shoulder as she waddles away.
Jim grins and slaps me on the shoulder. “Dude, she’s never liked anyone that fast before. See you in a few.”
With an exhale, I climb the stairs to check out my new digs. It’s a small, studio apartment above the unused garage. It’s furnished. It even has sheets on the double bed and towels in the closet.
“Not bad,” I murmur, opening and closing cabinet doors. “Now all I need are more clothes.”
Three o’clock, and I’m back at the gym ready to meet Andy. The interim hours had me sneaking around town, finding another few shirts to go with my pilfered jeans, then swiping a pair of boots off a plumber visiting Doris’s neighbor. Handy when they leave them at the back door like that.
The minute I pass through the gym entrance, I drop the Nikes in the lost and found. No harm, no foul. The owner will have his shoes back as soon as he returns to the gym. Same with the other things I’m “borrowing.” Once I’ve got enough money to replace them, the clothes will mysteriously reappear with their owners.
Jim spots me as soon as I walk in. “Dude, you nervous?” He doesn’t even give me a chance to say no before he continues. “You’re a brick house, dude. You have nothing to worry about. Andy will hire you on sight.”
Andy, it turns out, is another small guy, although he’s ripped and clearly uses his facilities, unlike Jim here, who I still can’t figure out. What the hell is this guy doing in a gym?
“Koa?” Andy looks up over the application, his brow arched as if he’s Sherlock Holmes on a case.
“That’s me,” I say, giving him a nod.
“What brings you to Woodland Creek?” He leans back in the chair, and I decide to be completely honest.
“I don’t know, exactly. I was passing through on my way to California, and something seemed to draw me here.”
He nods, rocking in his chair. “We get plenty of that. Mostly hippie nonsense, artists or whatever.”
This makes zero sense to me, but I let it pass. The less questions, the better as far as I’m concerned.
“I need a good trainer for the guys,” he continues. “So far it’s just been me, and well, this town ain’t big, but I can’t train everybody in it.”
“I take it Jim isn’t into the training side of things?”
Andy laughs, “Hell, no. He’s here to help out if anybody gets disorderly. He’s a good handyman, and he’s the punching bag in our self-defense demonstrations.”
“That’s a tough gig,” Jim agrees. “I’m the attacker.”
Andy stands, reaching across the desk. “Good to have you, Koa. Start in the morning.”
“You got it,” I say returning his shake.
Jim is behind me
as I leave. I hang a right out of Andy’s office and walk down to the weight room. A two-sided boxing area sits in one corner, and I can’t resist going to it.
Reaching out, I slide my palm down the heavy bag. A speed bag is suspended from a round platform opposite it, and I lift my hands to do a quick circular motion, sending it moving in a continuous rhythm. Just like riding a bike.
“Dude, you know boxing?” My shadow is right at my side. “The gloves that came with this are behind the juice bar. Nobody’s used them yet.”
It’s not a path I want to revisit, but when something’s in your blood…
“Yeah, I know boxing.” My voice is quiet, reflective. “I can teach whoever wants to learn.”
Jim takes off for the front, and I give the small room a final survey before following him out. None of this makes sense to me.
4
Discovery
Mercy
Dylan didn’t come to the house at all yesterday. I’d wandered around waiting to talk to her, waiting to clear the air, but I learned from a nervous Penny she’d left for Chicago and wouldn’t be back until next week.
“Okay,” I say, turning on my heel and walking the long halls of our parents’ mansion.
When I was a little girl, I used to wish Dylan or Autumn would spend time with me, talk to me, make me feel like a part of this family. Instead, Dylan was too busy proving herself as the alpha of the Quinlan pack, establishing herself as a worthy part of Woodland Creek society.
Autumn was too busy doing everything in her power to get the hell out of here. A fashion designer, she landed a job in the DKNY house, and it was the last we heard of her. I had only Penny and the occasional visiting cousin to ease my loneliness. It was a pretty sucky childhood.
Once I finished high school and graduated from HAU, I decided I didn’t care anymore about the family name or our place in society. I had my own dreams and things I wanted to accomplish, and I intended to do them.
It was around the same time Hayden showed up, and Dylan instituted Thursday night dinners. Speaking of which, I hadn’t heard from Mr. Cross in almost twenty-four hours. It must be some kind of record, and I’m hopeful his little scheme has been derailed by Grant’s drunken slip.
As if I’m interested in getting married—and to Hayden of all people. I couldn’t be less attracted to anyone. The thought of attraction floods my mind with images of last night. Koa’s hands on my ass, his mouth on my clit… Whoa—getting hot in here.
I’m standing in front of a mirror when my eyes land on the faded pink bite mark on my shoulder. I should have bit him back, I think with a little grin. Jesus, Mercy. Shaking my head, I push my dark hair off my shoulders. It’s ridiculous to even think these things. I’ll never see him again.
Aunt Penny’s soft voice cuts through my reverie. “When your mother was alive, your great, great aunt Persephone lived with us.”
Smiling up at her, I shake my head in confusion. I know I had an aunt Persephone, but I don’t know why Penny’s mentioning her. “I never met her.”
“No, she was very old and very sad.” She walks over behind me and combs her fingers lightly through my dark hair. “She passed on before you were born.”
Studying her reflection, I meet her grey eyes in her pale face. Her hair is also grey, but I can see her lynx in her expression. I by contrast am darker brown and black, and while I share our family’s blue eyes, mine shimmer like water.
“She didn’t have a choice either,” Penny continues. Her face turns sad. “But it wasn’t like that all her life. We shifters outlive everything except the gods and vampires.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Dylan said there aren’t any vampires.”
“What?” The old woman laughs, squeezing her eyes shut. “Why of course there are vampires. They just don’t live around this area.”
I take her hands in both of mine and face her. “What else do I not know about?”
She won’t meet my eyes. “Oh… I’m sure you’ll know about everything in time.”
Lifting her hands out of mine, she holds her palms up as if in surrender. As if I’m holding a gun on her as she backs away. “It’s time for my nap.”
Pressing my lips into a frown, I watch as she quickly leaves me alone in the vast hallway. I don’t have anything else to do here today, so I throw my hair over my shoulder and head for my room.
“That right there, Phoebe?” I say to the small grey tabby sleeping on my bed. “That is why I’m leaving. Absolutely no point in me lurking around this house like a ghost while everyone else pursues their lives.”
The small feline blinks lazily as she watches me, undisturbed. I’m slamming my drawers open and closed, pulling out an old, faded pair of jeans. They’re torn at the knees and they fall low around my hips. Another drawer jerked open, and I lift a threadbare tee out and pull it over my head, not even bothering with a bra. I grab a hair tie and twist my long, raven locks into a high ponytail.
I’m barefoot as I storm down the hall this time. Out the back door and across the manicured lawn to a small workshop hidden under a sprawling river birch. It used to be a gardener’s shed, but now it’s my pottery studio. I’m pretty sure nobody even knows it’s here.
Walking to the back, I open the metal breaker box and push the heavy black switch up, flooding the shack with light. Going to a tall cabinet, I lift out my wheel and carry it to a low table in the center of the room in front of a stool.
A few years ago—the same time I started mingling with the “townies”—I came out here and pushed all the long tables to the perimeter of the building and made space in the center for me to have a wheel.
I emptied out the metal cabinet to use for storage and bought a few bags of dry clay. I found a small kiln at a garage sale, and I slowly began building my supply closet.
I have different types of glaze, grips, and even an extender so I can make large platters. Walking to the old laptop in the corner, I sit on a tall stool and click through my favorite pottery websites until I find the designs I want to try. For a few hours, I sit and read the different techniques, noting shortcuts and tips from masters. I want to know everything before I leave here and start my new life on the coast.
After a while, I notice the sun is starting to set, not that it matters. I go to the cabinet and scoop dry clay into a large bowl. Then I walk over to the deep sink and turn on the water. Several minutes and quite a bit of stirring later, I’ve got a nice, thick ball. Going to the center of the room I drop it firmly on the bat.
My wheel is operated with my foot like a sewing machine, and I gently apply pressure to start the lump spinning. A small bowl of water is nearby, and I dip both my hands in it before placing them around the lump of clay, cupping it.
As it spins, I apply pressure with my fingertips and the heel of my palms pulling up to form a cylinder. With my thumb on the top, my arms are in a ninety-degree angle as I press downward.
Another dash of water, and I’m using the heel of my left hand to form a flat top. A light force on the sides, and it’s taking shape. Thick shavings of clay appear at the tips of my fingers. I flick them away as the lump is centered.
Using my thumb, I sink a hole right in the middle. Then I reposition my hand in the center and my thumb on the outside and pinch them together, drawing up the sides of the bowl as the lump spins quickly. I’ve always loved this part. The smooth undulating way the clay moves as I shape it.
A little more water, I keep my fingertips pressed on the inside, and the lump has grown taller with a nice center. I swab it with a sponge to refine the inside, foregoing the rim tool. I don’t necessarily want it to be perfect this time. It’s a wide-open dish with the smallest imperfections from my work.
Reaching for my wire, I slow the speed of the wheel as I pull it under the base of the bowl. A rinse of my hands, and I reach for the towel to dry them before spreading my palms flat down against the bat, and with my thumb and forefingers I gently lift it by the thick clay base. Carrying it over to t
he ware board, I leave it to finish drying. I’ll glaze and fire it in the kiln later, then paint it.
I’m not sure what I’ll do with it. I just wanted to sink my hands in the soft clay and pull something to life. Enough clay remains in my mixing bowl to make something different. Flipping off the wheel, I lift out the lump and begin to shape it with my hands.
First I roll it into a thick column then I slide a finger from one end, swooping deeply to the other. Resting my cheek on my knuckles, I play around with the figure, slowly molding broad shoulders, pinching out a narrow waist. At the bottom, I start what would be a powerful, lashing tail, when I realize what I’m doing, Shaking my head, I roll the male panther figurine back into a shapeless lump.
“I’m quietly going insane around here,” I sigh to no one. A glance out the glass windows tells me it’s completely dark now and late. The moon is slightly bigger than it was last night, but it won’t be full for another week.
Carrying the supplies back to my closet, I empty the bowl of grey water down the sink and rinse it clean. My wheel is stashed, and I spend a few minutes washing my hands. Everything is stowed away, and I lock the door before strolling slowly to the house, hoping for a late supper.
Our enormous, three-story mansion blazes like a lighthouse as I walk across the sea of soft dark grass to my elegant prison. Every light seems to be on, and I ponder how inexplicably, my aunt doesn’t care for shadows at night.
It’s odd because as cat shifters, we’re nocturnal by nature. Still, Dylan supports Penny’s fears. Dylan doesn’t like us to act like “creatures of the night,” as she puts it. I can’t even remember the last time my sister shifted, and I can’t help wondering if she’s trying to erase who we are altogether.
Looking around the expansive yard, I inhale the clean night air. It’s elemental. It’s a part of us, and it gives us strength. I love what we are, our way of life, and our powers.
I stand a moment longer letting the evening wash over me, when my heart ticks a little faster. My eyes flash open, and I sense I’m not alone.