by Lynn Red
At least you weren’t alone?
That’s how thinking of Orion made me feel.
Irrational as hell, completely wrong in every possible way.
What can I say? I’m a hell of a sucker for a cute smile.
-5-
“I’m not entirely sure, but I think I just got hit on by a jack donkey.”
-Clea Kellen
“I had to do something to get your mind off your nascent bear-boyfriend, Clea,” Dean said into the phone. His voice was muffled and if I was about a half-step more paranoid, I’d think he did this on purpose.
The crowd in The Tavern was starting to get more dense and thicker and the smell of Axe body spray was dangerously close to hitting overload level. I imagined there being some kind of dial in my forehead, and when the Axe level got too high, I’d start whistling and spraying steam like an old time boiler.
But, he was right. Going on two weeks after Orion saved me from death-by-tree, I still had trouble thinking about anything except those eyes, those scars, the kindness in his voice. So far though, his mysterious promise that I’d see him again had amounted to exactly squat.
“Anyway,” Dean said, cutting into my mounting fantasy about my head blowing up. “Don’t worry about Jake. He’s a pretty standup guy. A little into his whole news anchor thing, I’ll give you that, but I wouldn’t set you up with a creep or anything.”
I let out a long, impatient sigh. “Okay, well, just tell me a couple things. Is he going to excitedly talk about his hair styling products? If I touch said hair, will it cut my hand? And finally, if a sharp wind blows, will his hair move at all, or—”
If you’ve never heard a coyote laugh, let me warn you – coyotes? They can laugh. It isn’t just hyenas with the high pitched half-squeal thing going on. “I,” he paused to suck a breath. “I just don’t know. I’ve never rubbed his hair or anything, but I doubt he’s going to show up to a date with a newsman ‘do.”
“Well, okay,” I said, smiling a little for the first time in too long. “If you say so, I—”
“Clea? Hey!” I moved my mouth, but no words came out. It was like a djinn came out of a bottle and sucked the voice right out of my throat. “Clea! What’s going on?”
I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. It defied logic, defied gravity, defied the laws of physics themselves.
“It’s absolutely perfect, Dean,” I said when I finally regained the capacity of speech. “His hair, it... it didn’t move when he bumped into someone.”
“Whew,” Dean said. “I thought you’d had a coronary or something.”
“I’m not that old. But you totally lied about the newsman hair. That shit wouldn’t move in a hurricane.”
Dean, bless his heart, started laughing again, but I cut him off before he got into full-on howl mode. “I guess I better actually talk to this guy, huh? I’d rather not go down in history as the one girl who ever didn’t want to listen to Jake... what’s his name? Newsman, so probably something like Jake Jakeman, right?”
“Jackson,” he said.
“Of course it is. Okay, bye! And no matter how much I complain, thank you. This was a really nice thing you did.”
The phone clicked off at exactly the same moment Walter Cronkite sat down in front of me, but sans mustache, thank goodness.
“Hi,” he announced. And that’s what it was, too, a proud announcement of his arrival. “I am Jake Jackson.”
“Oh my God,” I said with a smile. “You absolutely are. I’ve seen you on the news, but I had no idea this was actually who you are, you know? Whit Whitman, I can’t stop watching his—”
“You watch Whit?”
The air basically got sucked right out of the room, Axe body spray, stale cigarettes and all. It was like a hole just got punched in the space shuttle. I’d done it. I’d mentioned the local news god. The Zeus of the six o’clock news, I had invoked his name. I was sitting in front of the girl he’d turned into a bull and went after. Except that was a Greek god, and I’m talking about the dork with the overdone hair on the evening news.
Oh, and I was on a date with what I guess was his greatest disciple.
“I just love the way he reads the news,” he said, sitting up straighter and squeezing his hands together like he was plotting a murder.
Little background here – Whit Whitman is the local ancient, undying newsman. That’s not to say he’s a vampire, which usually needs to be clarified around here. Actually he’s a silver fox. Like an actual one, not like Anderson Cooper. Anyway, he does every single thing you need a newsman to do. He’s got one of those silver voices that can make anything sound smooth, he’s got those eyes that convince you everything he’s saying is absolutely the truth, and he’s got a perfectly groomed mustache that would make Walter Cronkite proud.
Of course if you listen to any of about a dozen women around town, he’s also the biggest sleaze the world’s ever had the opportunity to birth.
But damn if that guy can’t read the news.
And chase ambulances.
And bother the police.
“He’s just such an incredible human being,” Jake said, as though he’d been reading my mind and waiting for the least appropriate possible time to interject that idea. “He just... the way he reads the news, it’s almost like sex to my ears.”
“I’m sorry did you just say—” I scoffed a little louder than I meant to, and then pretended it was a cough. “Can I get you something? Beer? Pickle juice?”
“I’ll have The Glenlivet, twelve-year, please. It’s nice and rich without being too overpowering, and anyway it’s about a quarter of the price per pour as the twenty-one. I do love the older stuff though. It’s so smooth and sweet.”
“Oh-kay,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone wax quite so philosophically about whiskey before.”
“Oh, yes. And remember, you shouldn’t spell Scotch whisky with an ‘e’, it’s just w-h-i-s-k-y if you’re being correct. Only Irish gets the ‘e’, although it does show up in American brands from time to time for various reasons.”
“I’ll... keep that in mind.”
I escaped the tractor beam just before he launched into a discussion about... who knows, something else that I barely understood, and headed to the bar. Jack and Coke for me, and a well bourbon for Captain Picky. On the one hand, I wanted to see if he was going to notice, and on the other hand I didn’t want to pay eighteen bucks for a single drink. I told myself that if he did notice, I’d play it off like a joke and go buy him the real thing.
Watching him preen in the screen of his cellphone as I waited on the big, beary bartender to pour our drinks, I had a feeling I wasn’t going to be losing any money.
Luckily, a buzzing phone interrupted me actually reciting what Jake just said. Sex to his ears? Jeez Louise, this guy was about as exciting as a fire hydrant without any grass around it to a cocker spaniel with a full bladder.
“Sorry,” I said, acting embarrassed. “My mom’s sick, I’d never do this normally, but—”
“No, no,” he said, waving his hands in a gesture that had to have been practiced. Right after it came the smile that would normally tell me he was about to try to sell me a car. “Not at all, I understand. Our loved ones, you know, they’re the most important things in the world and so when they come calling we have to...”
His own voice is the only thing in the world he likes more than Whit Whitman’s, I thought. I tried to conceal my grinning, but it wasn’t working so I bit my lip instead.
Jake took a sip of his whiskey. Whisky? Whichever. And then groaned in appreciation, licking his lips. “It’s just so smooth and delicate,” he remarked to anyone who was listening, which was no one.
Yeah, I thought. The subtle flavor of McCormick’s from a plastic jug. Complex, fantastic flavors. Silently, I giggled to myself, feeling really good about both my frugality and my bullshit-o-meter.
Dean’s text was a warning I wished I’d had before this whole thing started. “He�
�s got a real man-crush on Whit Whitman. Probably best to avoid talking about the news. In fact, it might be best just to make sure you talk the whole time and don’t let him get more than a couple words out.”
I blushed. He really wasn’t that bad. I mean sure he got a little obnoxious with the self-satisfaction, but he wasn’t like a straight up ass or anything. And anyway, I decided as I started tapping my finger on the screen, it was always fun to screw with Dean’s head.
“It’s not that bad,” I texted back. “Actually, I think I’ve pretty much forgotten about that bear. What was his name? Anyway, Jake is really, really cool.”
In my mind’s eye I could see Dean sitting there in his living room wondering what the hell he’d done.
I’m making it sound like he was playing a prank on me. That’s really not the way of it. He tries really hard to help me with dates and things like that. He tries so, so, so hard to hook me up nearly constantly that it had turned into a little bit of a game.
“Sorry,” I said again. “She’s got typhoid or something.”
“Really?” Jake sat back and laid both his hands on the table. “That’s horrible, I’m so sorry, I... I don’t know what to say.”
“Laugh,” I said flatly.
“Huh? Laugh at typhoid?”
Can’t do it. I just can’t do it. A guy with a gut doesn’t bother me. A guy whose eyes are just a little bit crooked? Fine. Bushy eyebrows? Too much nose hair? Gross, but trimming works wonders. But no sense of humor? Where is there to even go with a sourpuss?
“I’m... I’m sorry,” I said, covering my mouth with the back of my hand. “I was just saying stuff. She’s not actually dying of typhoid. Can you even get typhoid anymore?”
“Oh, I know,” Jake said in a way that told me very clearly that he did not, in fact, know. “I like to pretend not to get jokes. You know, as sort of a roundabout way of making a joke. I act like I don’t get it and then you get confused.”
I nodded, very slowly. “Well,” I said with a grin. “I absolutely am confused.”
“Oh... oh no,” Jake said as his phone started buzzing. “Oh good lord, I’m so sorry... this is an extremely important call. Do you mind?”
Never in the world has a telephone buzzing been the sound I wanted to hear most.
He exchanged a few words with whoever it was that called him and had an incredibly grim look on his face when he finished and laid the phone on the table. “I’m sorry to say this, Katy, but I have to go.”
I opened my mouth to correct him, but stopped myself before the first sound slid off my tongue. “I see,” I said, looking as grim as possible. “I’m sorry too, Drake.”
He didn’t even notice I called him the wrong name.
Whoosh.
That was either the sound of the bullet I dodged, or of everything in the entire world going right over this guy’s head. Of course, it would have a little dip in the sound before going over his head because of the wind-current resistance caused by his hair.
“This,” I put on my best Shakespearean theatre voice, “this could have been something real. Something... certainly something.”
With such aplomb and gravitas that it almost made me believe it was real, Jake grabbed my hands. “I know what you mean. I felt it too, Katy. I felt like we were two hearts thrown together into a tornado that came out the other side. But... But duty calls, Katy. I have to go read... The News.”
It took literally every shred of self-control in my entire body not to roll my eyes so hard they clacked in the sockets, but I’m proud to say I managed. “Go,” I said with a whole lot of heavy breathing. “Go, Drake. Go and read the news.”
He stood up and slung his blazer on like a matador taunting a bull. “Thank you for understanding,” he said as he slid his arms in and buttoned the middle button in one smooth motion. “I will.”
“Holy shit,” I said to myself, picking up his leftover drink and pouring it into mine before taking a sip. “The only date I’m having tonight is with the television.”
Finishing the drink took a half second of swallowing and about three seconds of grimacing as it burned on the way down. Biking home took about fifteen minutes, with a tiny bit of extra time granted for some wobbling.
As soon as I felt my mountain bike tires start to crunch over the gravel in my driveway I immediately felt relief rush over me. The whole day – hell, the whole week – had been the same way. An up and then a down, a turn and then another. And the whole time, the only thing that had been constant? Me thinking about Orion.
I looked up into the stars, unconsciously looking for his constellation. There he was, almost directly overhead. The three points of light that made up his belt, I noticed, painted a line directly from the bear he was hunting, to my heart.
“Oh my God,” I said to myself, laughing in the darkness as a cricket chirped nearby and something flapped overhead. “This is a new low in the history of pitiful crushes. Now I’m fantasizing about stars pointing at my heart.”
I took a big, deep breath, inhaling all the scents of the forest that surrounded my dark green, wooden shingle-sided house, and made an incredibly slow trek to the front door.
The knob’s metal felt cool on my palm. A tiny shock of goosebumps ran up my arms.
For some reason, I started imagining him charging out of the woods, coming right up to me and taking me in his arms. Another deep breath lingered in my chest. I thought I smelled the hard, leathery, dusty scent that had come off his shirtless body when he held up the tree that was going to murder me.
Shaking my head and laughing at myself again, I pushed open the door, threw off my Birkenstocks, and collapsed on the couch. I’m a classy damn lynx. So the wine bottle I opened the night before and the glass I used to drink it were already on the table at the end of my couch. I plucked the bottle off the table and went to pour before shrugging and putting the bottle to my lips.
Kicking back and throwing my feet up on my squishy, delightfully busted faux-leather couch, I flicked on the TV. A familiar theme song played, familiar faces appeared on screen.
“I kinda do want to go where everybody knows my name,” I said as I took another sip. “Or maybe I want to go where no one knows my name. Well. No one except...”
I couldn’t do it – couldn’t bring myself to say his name. It was like saying it made it real.
George Wendt showed up on screen.
“NORM!” I yelled at the television, right in time with everyone else.
I took three more drinks, and closed my eyes.
Before Norm finished his beer, I was dead to the world.
-6-
“Sometimes everything falls into place. Life, work, love, it all just works out. Other times? You’re me.”
-Clea
“One.” I tensed my legs, looking straight ahead.
“Two.” My knees were ready to launch, the tendons tight.
Sun beat down on the back of my neck, warming my shoulders, prickling my skin with the radiant heat. It was early – just past six, and the sun hadn’t been up a half hour or so, but it was already sweltering hot.
But that’s how I liked it, especially when I was running.
It’s in my blood, in my soul, running is. When I can’t think, or when I can’t stop thinking, this is what I do.
The remnants of last night’s wine pounded in my temples. It’d be gone soon. Probably after the first sprint, but certainly after the second.
“Three,” I said.
Bang!
The starting pistol went off in my head. I exploded forward, claws digging into the dirt, spotted fur slick against my skin. I lowered my head, letting the torrents of air slide over me, as I cut through the drafts.
I closed my eyes. I didn’t need vision.
Aromas of grass, of dirt, and of Orion filled my nose. I don’t know how, but I remembered exactly the smell of sweat, of the road, and of his ancient leather jacket. Pulling in a deep breath, every nuance of his scent was right in the front of my m
ind. Drilling through my skull with every pounding drive of my paws against the earth, Orion pulsed in my mind.
Why did I want him so bad? Why did it feel like I needed him?
Was it really fate? I mean, hell, I didn’t believe in that stuff. I never had. My mom always talked about how un-fun I was with the tooth fairy and Santa Claus. I never believed any of it, but the truth is that I wanted to believe. More than anything, I wanted to find the same comfort in things like that as anyone else. I wanted to have something to fall back on when my life went to shit.
My lungs started to burn. I opened my eyes, blinded for a half second by the sun, and then stuck my hands out, grabbing the shoulder-high, chain link fence that I’d been using to stop my sprints for as long as I’d lived in this house.
Ten years, I thought, snorting and shaking my head.
I bent over, resting my half-shifted hands on my knees. One sprint wasn’t going to be enough to stave off either my fretting, or my hangover. Not today.
“One,” I said, breathing through my nose.
Cut grass, dirt, the fir trees, and... Orion. Why couldn’t I get my mind off him? Was it all real? All the fate stuff, two souls being one, fated mate business? Could it be?
“Two,” taking another breath, I blew a droplet of sweat off the tip of my nose. I checked my ponytail, making sure it wasn’t going to flop in front of my face. Everything was in the right place. The clouds of my hangover parted slightly.
Everything was in place, except for my heart.
“Three.”
Bang! Off went the imaginary gun, and off I went, too.
The moisture in the air beaded on my fur, running down my shirt, down my back, wetting the cloth and making it cling. I opened my hands, using my fingers to cut through the air, moving just a shred of a second faster than last time.
I grabbed the fence, laying my forehead on the twisted chains above the crossbar. The metal bit into my skin just slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me that I was alive. Turning around, I pressed my back against the chain link and bounced against it like a boxer on the ring ropes.