by Sammie Joyce
“I’ll get started on your stock and bond portfolio today,” I said, eager to change the subject even if I was the one who had inadvertently roused it. “I’ll be in touch with you via email by the end of the week with some options.”
Mal rose and nodded, extending a well-manicured hand toward me, and I found myself staring at it as I accepted it, trying to envision it as a bear claw.
Would I even recognize him if I saw him as a bear out in the wild?
It was questions like this which kept me up at night.
“I’ll look for your updates,” Mal agreed, withdrawing his hand and moving toward the door. I followed after him to show him out, Evie casting Mal a covert look out of the corner of her eye as we passed the reception desk.
As Mal exited, Evie tipped her head back to look at me with an expression I couldn’t quite decipher.
“What?” I asked when she didn’t speak.
“Is… was he… you know?”
I felt the muscles in my neck tense slightly, my guard raising. I had no doubt what she was asking me but it was disloyal talking about clients. They chose me because I was discreet and professional, someone capable of handling their affairs without outing their personal issues.
“Is he what?” I asked, coldness lacing my words. Whatever Evie read in my expression made her reconsider her question and she shook her head quickly.
“Nothing. Never mind,” she muttered, turning back to her computer. Evie had been working for me since I’d branched out on my own to open my consulting firm almost a decade earlier. She knew me probably better than I knew myself in many ways which was why she had stopped herself from asking. Not that I blamed her for being curious. The phenomenon was astounding. We had these creatures, these magnificent beasts living among us all along and only now were we learning about them. I didn’t fault her for being as captivated by the issue as I was but they were still clients and deserved to be respected as such.
“Who’s in next?” I asked, pretending I didn’t know my own schedule. It was better to swing the conversation away. I was getting good at that, I noticed. Changing the subject was becoming a quality to put on my resumé.
“Allan Johnstone is coming in at eleven and Gail Branson is con-calling in at one. I’ll put on the espresso for that one.”
I nodded, pivoting toward my office.
“Send Al in when he arrives,” I instructed her. I didn’t need to look at her to know that Evie had nodded. Despite the questions, Evie was the best receptionist a man could hope for. She put in the hours without complaint and handled my schedule like it was second nature. I couldn’t remember a time when she’d been late or taken a sick day, even though she was a mother of two.
That’s what happens when you work with someone long enough, I thought wryly, moving back to reclaim my high-backed leather chair. You start to assimilate. She’s basically in my head now.
I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Veronica had had her doubts about Evie, ones that were unfounded and silly, even for her.
“She’s very attractive,” Vero grunted the first time she’d come to my office, not waiting for me to close the door. “You ever have a thing with her?”
I had blinked at the ridiculousness of her question. I was sure that Evie had overheard, a fact that I later learned was true. Evie hadn’t stopped busting my chops about it since.
“With Evie? She’s married and I’m her boss,” I replied, half-amused, half-aghast.
“And that’s stopped men before?” Veronica muttered. “Or slutty women?”
In retrospect, it was one of the first times I’d been put off by Vero’s behavior yet somehow, she was still around after almost a year of on and off dating. Veronica had brought up the subject of my receptionist a few more times since. I always shifted the topic away from Evie, knowing no matter what I said, it wouldn’t alleviate Vero’s odd jealousy. And her envy was bizarre because she and I weren’t technically together.
I leaned forward in my chair, my hands flying over the computer keyboard to pull up my contact list. I needed to add Malcolm’s profile to the server before Al came in for his monthly appointment. For a moment, I stared at the contacts, the list of clients I’d acquired over the years staring me in the face innocuously.
Should I make a separate file for the shifters?
It was the first time I’d asked myself that and I was mildly surprised at my divisive query. Malcolm would be the fifth shifter client I had brought on and until that moment, I hadn’t thought about it.
Instantly, shame shot through me and I gritted my teeth together.
That question was the product of bad indoctrination. Why would I separate them? Are we really that different?
The answer to that would depend on who you asked.
From what I’d gleaned, the older generations of shifters were irate that the younger were welcoming the humans into their world so easily. The elders would certainly consider the shifters and humans very different. I knew humans who loathed the shifters too, citing them to be “dangerous” and “primitive”. That was the way I’d been raised—hearing about the man-beasts and believing them to be perilous to us all. I had never really believed all the stories I’d heard floating around Eugene as a child, even when I couldn’t explain some of the odd goings-on that seemed to occur with frequency. They had been fairy tales, legends, nothing to be taken seriously. It wasn’t until I was a fully grown man of thirty-three that I had first learned the truth about them and it had been a lot to process.
I’d had seven years to do just that and while I was still enchanted with the concept, I was no longer afraid, even if I didn’t entirely understand it all.
Then why did I just ask myself such a stupid question? Where did that come from?
I heard the front door open with the alarm chime and I hastily completed the task of inputting Malcolm’s information, shoving aside my doubts and embarrassment. I wouldn’t separate my clients. Nothing good would come of dividing us further. We’d been segregated long enough.
* * *
I had no more shifter clients that day, not even via con-call, and when five o’clock rolled around, I was ready to head out to my dinner plans. My stomach rumbled in anticipation of a juicy steak and a few drinks with Dan.
“Don’t forget, you have an early morning tomorrow,” Evie chirped as she reached for her purse to walk out with me. I swallowed a smile and nodded.
“I won’t,” I promised, holding the door open for her. We headed to our respective cars and I waved her goodbye before climbing into my Mercedes Benz 220. I’d just bought the car new, an early birthday present for myself. Evie had dryly asked if it was my mid-life crisis, a question to which I took exception.
It’s not like I have a wife and kids to spend my money on, I thought defensively. I may as well spend it on myself.
I was at Porter’s Steakhouse in less than ten minutes, parking at the valet to meet my cousin who was already seated inside like he’d been waiting for hours.
“You’re early,” I told him, glancing at my iPhone to double-check the time. Dan grimaced, pulling his gaze from the menu to look at me with hazel eyes, not unlike mine. People often commented on our familial resemblance but I didn’t see it. Our eye coloring was similar but that was where the commonalities ended. It was more than just Dan’s dark hair that divided us—it was his surly, uptight attitude. It was hard for me to believe that we shared the same genetics.
But he was still my cousin and I loved him… even if I could only deal with him once every two weeks or so. Family was family, after all.
“I thought you said five o’clock,” Dan grumbled.
“I leave work at five,” I replied, taking my seat and sprawling a linen napkin over my lap. I hoped he wasn’t already gunning for an evening of complaining. It was one of Dan’s favorite pastimes. The man could find flaw in anything.
“I can’t keep your schedule straight,” Dan insisted, darting his stare back toward the m
enu. We’d been there dozens of times for dinner and I knew Dan was nothing if not a creature of habit. He was going to order the filet, medium-well with a side of mashed potatoes and a garden salad to start.
Why is he even bothering to read the specials?
I would have been amused if he wasn’t so exasperating all the time.
“My schedule is almost exactly the same every day,” I quipped, nodding at the waiter as he neared the table to take my drink order.
“Can I get a double Chivas, neat?” I said, glancing toward Dan. “And I’m ready to order, Dan. Are you?”
Dan sighed, making a production out of the question as if he were still deciding.
“Well, if you’re going to rush me…” he muttered and it was all I could do not to grunt.
“Can you give us a minute?” I asked the server politely but Dan held up a hand.
“No, wait. I’m ready.”
I rolled my amber-brown eyes heavenward and almost mouthed the words as he spoke.
“I’ll get an eight-ounce filet mignon, medium-rare with a side of mashed potatoes and a garden salad to start,” Dan intoned precisely as I’d known he would.
“Very well, sir. And for you?” The waiter flipped his gaze toward me.
“I’m going with the surf and turf,” I replied, my mouth almost watering as I thought about lobster tail. “Grilled vegetables on the side, please.”
The waiter nodded and left us alone. Dan wore his customary scowl and I inhaled.
“Bad day at work?” I asked lightly. Dan ran a used car dealership and if he was to be believed, nothing good ever happened there.
“Sales are terrible,” Dan moaned. He’d just been waiting for an opening to spill his woes. I had no choice but to give it to him.
Better we get on with his complaining session before we eat, I mused.
“Have you looked into a better marketing company?” I asked, thinking aloud. “I never see ads for the dealership like I used to.”
“Those things cost money I don’t have right now,” Dan sighed. “And you need to spend money to make money. Why is it all so complicated?”
He really is a ham, I thought with bittersweet affection.
“I could loan you some money but you should be looking into reinvesting in your—”
“Stop!” Dan cried, cutting me off before I could get started. “I don’t need any stock tips. I need business advice.”
I nodded agreeably. I knew I sometimes had a tendency to go off on a full-on spiel about the benefits of financial planning. I didn’t fault him for stopping me mid-sentence.
“Alright,” I agreed. “Then maybe you should broaden your customer base.”
Dan’s brow furrowed.
“You mean nationwide? Who the hell is going to come to Oregon to buy a used car?”
I chuckled.
“No, jerk,” I sniggered. “I mean start reaching out to a broader demographics.”
“Like single moms?”
I could tell Dan still had no idea what I was talking about. I inhaled and leaned in to lower my voice even though no one was paying any attention to us.
“The shifters,” I murmured. “Appeal to the shifter communities.”
Dan’s eyes widened and he drew back as if I’d slapped him in the face.
“Are you out of your mind?” he demanded, his voice raising. Suddenly, everyone was paying attention to us. I frowned at his reaction.
“Why not?” I shot back. “They drive just like we do.”
“Because… because they’re dangerous, Wes! I don’t want to do business with… with things like that.”
My frown deepened into a scowl of displeasure.
“They aren’t things and they aren’t dangerous,” I growled. “I work with a few and my business is booming.”
Dan’s mouth gaped open.
“Y-you’re working with them?” he choked. “Taking them on as clients?”
“They’re just like you and me, Dan,” I insisted, exasperation creeping down my spine. “How do you think they’ve managed to stay hidden for so long?”
Dan didn’t speak for a long moment, his eyes shadowing to turn their hazel color a burnt honey.
“They don’t like us, Wes,” he murmured quietly. “They think we’re the enemy.”
I snorted and shook my head.
“If that were true, why would they trust me with their money? Would you just hand off your finances to anyone?”
Dan was silent again, his mouth pursing into a fine line. I didn’t think I was winning him over with my argument but he seemed to be considering my words very carefully.
“Seriously,” I said, softening my tone slightly. “Think about it. It can’t hurt to try, can it?”
The waiter reappeared with my drink and Dan didn’t speak until he had moved away but when he spoke, the words chilled me to my core.
“I don’t need to think about it,” he replied quietly. “But I’ll start preparing your eulogy now for when you end up another victim of a shifter attack.”
2
Wes
Unsurprisingly, our dinner ended awkwardly and without much more conversation. I was eager to finish up and get home, away from Dan’s semi-baleful look as I scarfed down my steak and seafood combination. As much as I’d been looking forward to eating lobster tails, the meal was tasteless in the wake of Dan’s sentiments. I didn’t know why I was disheartened by Dan’s words. I expected nothing less from my sour cousin. It was rare that I ever met with him and felt joyful upon departure.
I lived in Veneta, fifteen miles outside of Eugene and far enough from the city that I appreciated the time to clear my head after work. That night, however, I wished I was home, rather than overthinking my cousin’s dark warning.
He’s such a drama queen, I thought, infuriated that I was wasting so much time considering Dan’s comments, but even as I thought that, I couldn’t stop. If the shifters wanted us dead, we’d be dead by now. They just want to be accepted, just like any of us.
I didn’t remind myself about the attacks that had started the vigilante group who now prowled the nights, seeking out supernatural souls to attack in retaliation. If I asked any of the humans, they would insist that the shifters had started the mini war occurring in western Oregon those days. Yet I imagine if I questioned the shifters, they would cite hundreds of years of oppression and fear of their own. Of course, I hadn’t asked the shifters. I wasn’t close enough to any one of them to delve into a deeply philosophical or moral conversation on the topic, much to my chagrin.
That’s why it’s more important than ever to unify us, I thought firmly, determined not to let Dan’s misguided views change my mind. I made another mental note not to broach the subject with him again. Dinners with Dan were trying enough without me adding more tension to the matter. It was my own fault for having thought he might be open-minded enough to accept such a solution.
I pulled into the driveway of my sprawling bungalow home on the outskirts of Veneta. I’d purchased the lot twelve years ago and started to build my dream home while living in a camper on-site. It was supposed to have been a house for me and my girlfriend at the time, Elle. My plan had been to propose after the frame had gone up but by then, she and I had gone our own separate ways. It was for the best in hindsight and I was honestly grateful I hadn’t married her. I knew too many people who had settled into loveless marriages for no other reason than they feared being alone and I desperately didn’t want to be one of those—even if I sometimes acted to the contrary. Elle and I had nothing in common and had dated out of practicality rather than love. We seemed to fit together, if only from a socio-economic standpoint. Translation: we looked good on paper. When we split, I hadn’t been particularly upset about it, maybe because I had the house to focus on. It had taken four years before it was finally complete but now, I stared at the building with pride, knowing that I had poured my blood, sweat, and tears into its construction. I often wondered what my father would have said about
it if he was still alive to see it. It was just another unpleasant thought to file away in the back of my mind with the other stuff I didn’t want to sort through.
Not bad for a numbers nerd, I often thought as I parked my car in the garage. Of course, I’d had help with the electrical and plumbing, friends pitching in to hammer and drywall with me, but the house was my project and I was intensely proud of it. Every detail was mine, handpicked and scrutinized. I refused to put anything within the walls that I wasn’t absolutely in love with and the result pleased me.
And maybe one day, it will please someone else too.
I entered through the kitchen and threw my keys onto the granite countertop, noting the blinking light of the voicemail on my landline.
Puzzled, I pulled my cell out of my pocket but there were no missed calls there. Whoever had called the house hadn’t bothered with my mobile phone.
Telemarketer, I reasoned, dismissing the notification as I ambled toward the fridge and pulled out a beer. I hadn’t even been able to appreciate the scotch I’d drunk at the restaurant. I didn’t have high hopes for the beer either but I wanted to do something to calm my nerves, if only slightly. I hadn’t forgotten that I had an early morning and I knew I wouldn’t overdo it, despite the bitter taste in my mouth from the dinner.
Taking a swig from the bottle, I moved to grab the cordless phone from the charger.
“Alexa, play some Chopin,” I sighed. “On low volume.”
The Echo Dot acknowledged my command as I sauntered further into the house, picking up my voicemails. The speakers in the other rooms began to follow my movements and soon the house was filled with the sound of Piano Sonata Number 3. I paused in the study, flopping down into the darkened room, relishing the sense of peace in the dim light. Beyond the half-closed blinds, moonlight trickled through. It would have been a beautiful night to share with someone.