“So Annie says you’re queer,” Tom purred, his eyelids hooding his gaze as he gestured with his beer bottle. “But you don’t date.”
“At least none of the guys she’s tried to set me up with.” The words popped out of Frank’s mouth with nary a thought behind them. Frank thunked his half-empty bottle on the coffee table. Enough of that. Sitting back, he scratched at his thigh and noticed Tom’s gaze following the movement. Frank tamped down the inappropriate urge to rub up the seam of his jeans where his cock stirred. Inside his head, his wolf’s ears perked up.
“I can hook you up. I used to know every gay guy for three counties.” Tom’s words came out slow and deliberate like he was choosing each of them before they exited his mouth.
Frank’s wolf was on its feet now. Frank tried to talk it down in his head. Just because Tom wanted to help a guy out, didn’t mean he wanted… Well, to help a guy out.
“But I’m the prettiest.” Tom’s lazy smile creased his face with an easy slide.
A burning need throbbed in Frank. His inner wolf gave a yawp. Tom was flirting. That was a flirting line. This was a bad idea.
Frank rolled his head on the back of the couch until his eyes were inches from Tom’s. “I’m a little complicated.”
“Sex isn’t complicated.” Tom’s hand landed hot and ticklish above Frank’s knee.
Frank stared straight ahead at the marching band parading around the field. But his thoughts were on the man beside him. He wanted what Tom was offering. Frank wanted Tom with his movie star good looks and flirting words. It could be a normal, healthy hookup with no strings, with a gorgeous guy who was only in town for the summer. A summer fling. Frank didn’t dare glance down at his crotch, where it no doubt looked like he was smuggling a sausage in his jeans.
Tom kept talking in his low, hypnotic voice. “Just pleasurable.”
Frank didn’t register he was moving until his hand had cupped the back of Tom’s head. But Frank stilled, afraid to draw Tom closer but unwilling to back away this time. Tom’s Broadway smile never wavered.
“Don’t stop now. You’ve got me where you want me.”
Frank registered Tom’s silky blond hair caressing his fingertips, the blue, blue eyes staring up at him, the straight nose, the cleft chin, and the wide, generous mouth. Frank gave in and fell on those lips, tongue snaking out to lick at the soft skin that curved up to meet him. And inside his head, his wolf howled.
He ached. Frank pushed Tom into the sofa to get a better angle. His crotch rubbed against Tom’s legs, finding something equally hard there between them to press against. Kissing had never felt this good, this perfect. Frank thrust and bit down on Tom’s lip at the same time.
Tom’s rumbling groan from underneath settled in Frank’s ears like a downbeat, prefacing the action to come.
His thumbs dug into Tom’s hips, pulling him closer. Frank slanted his mouth across Tom’s to deliver a deep kiss, invading Tom’s mouth.
A sharp rap at the door broke them apart like being doused with cold water.
Frank sat back, scuttling off Tom, and got to his feet almost in one movement. Tom looked back over the arm of Frank’s thrift-store couch at the door rattling with another insistent knock.
His lazy smile turned to Frank. “We could ignore it.”
Frank shivered and strode toward the door, shaking away the muddle of beer and pleasure that still clouded his head.
Another rat-a-tat-tat beat against the wood. Frank took a deep breath to calm his breathing and yanked it open.
Mrs. Anderson squinted at him through her thick glasses, perspiration making her white hair stick to her forehead. Her mouth pursed, drawing the wrinkles in like a starburst. She panted, the rattling wheeze in her breath alarming Frank. Did she come to him for help?
“Mrs. Anderson, is everything all right? Do you need to sit down?” Frank reached for her elbow only to have the woman wrench her bony arm away.
“I’m fine.” Wheeze. Just need to”— wheeze—”catch my breath.”
Frank fidgeted, his fingers clenching and unclenching on the door. Mrs. Anderson always glared at him as if he’d been rooting in her hen house. Not that she had a hen house out back, just a lovely stand of woods.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come in and sit down? I could get you a glass of water.”
He glanced back, glad Tom had sat up, before swinging the apartment door open wider.
She shook her head, her curled hair moving like a helmet on her head.
“Hey, Mrs. Anderson.” Tom waved from inside.
She narrowed her eyes at Tom but then lasered them back at Frank.
“I came”— wheeze—”to return these.” She held out a white plastic grocery bag.
Frank took it and opened the handles to peer inside. His cheeks cooled, but a band of sweat broke out on his upper lip. Keep cool. Just keep cool.
“Thank you.”
“They were in the drain pipe.” Her monotone belied the keen glint in her eye as she studied him.
Frank nodded. He knew this. That was where he’d put his clothes before he’d gone running the other day. But why had Mrs. Anderson been down in the culvert?
“Oh?” Frank raised his eyebrows, feigning surprise. A drop of cold sweat raced from his hairline down to his neck.
Mrs. Anderson’s lip raised on one side. “You shouldn’t be throwing out good clothes. Some people can’t afford to buy clothes every week.”
“Yes, ma’am. I won’t.” Frank nodded.
“Or are you running naked in my woods?”
Frank tried to laugh, and it came out weak and nervous. “That’s ridiculous.”
“My late husband used to do that. Crazy fool got himself killed that-a-way.” With that odd pronouncement, she turned and started down the stairs again, the wood creaking with each step.
“Sorry, Mrs. Anderson,” Frank called down, but she waved it away like a fly buzzing her.
Frank shut the door and sagged against it.
“What was that about?”
Frank had forgotten about Tom. Frank thrust the bag of clothes behind his back.
“Nothing. I misplaced something, and Mrs. Anderson was kind enough to return it.” Frank crossed to open the door to his bedroom and flung the bag of clothes inside. When he shut the door, Tom was right there. When had he gotten up from the couch?
Tom leaned in, crowding him. “I thought you were joking when you said you ran naked in the woods.”
“Um.” Frank swiped at his upper lip. He hated lying. So he said nothing, clamping his mouth shut to keep the truth from escaping. But he wanted to tell Tom. Only a few people knew here, Annie being one of them. Heck, she could have told Tom already. Frank knew it wasn’t shameful or anything. He’d known loads of people who saw Galen’s as a simple medical disorder. Granted, they were mostly family members of people like him or doctors, but this wasn’t the Middle Ages, and the townsfolk wouldn’t come after him with pitchforks if they found out he had a rare genetic curse, but…they might treat him differently, like his family had. So he told no one he didn’t have to. And his secret ate at him, leaving a burn in his stomach and a chill in his chest. And Tom had said he liked dogs…
Before he thought better of it, Frank shifted.
He’d perfected it over the years, and it took seconds to complete now. One minute he was boring, mediocre Frank, and the next he was staring at Tom’s pants-clad kneecaps, letting his tongue loll out as he overheated in embarrassment.
Tom blinked, staring down in silence. He backed up, looking around like he was searching for Frank’s human self.
“Ummm.” Tom cocked his head to the side and squinted at Frank’s wolf, the skin bunching next to his eyes. He reached out a careful hand to Frank’s snout and let him sniff him before petting his head.
“Frank?”
Frank nodded, and Tom pulled away. Then he crouched down. Frank didn’t dare move. His clothes would get tangled in his legs, and then he’d have a heck o
f a time changing back.
“Are you… What is this?”
Frank whined. He needed to shift back, and this would be awkward. He thought of fingers. That was his trigger. Paws for lupine, fingers for human. His arms and chest filled out his shirt again, but as he predicted, his pants were still around his ankles. He pulled them up as Tom crab walked away from him.
“It’s called Galen’s syndrome.” Frank’s face burned like it was on fire as he buttoned and zipped his jeans, not looking at Tom. “Someone cursed one of my ancestors, and it affected the genetic line. I’m a manifestor.”
“Wait, I’ve heard of this.” Tom clambered up from the floor. “I was in a play with a guy who said his aunt had Galen’s and used to play fetch with her grandkids. I thought he was making it up.”
“We’re not dogs.” Frank strode away from him, picking up the bottles and glasses from the coffee table. If he heard one more fetch joke in this lifetime, it would be too many. The football players were high-fiving each other on the television. He wondered who’d won the game.
“Look. I wasn’t trying to be offensive. This is just a lot to take in.” Tom spread his hands wide.
Frank turned away. “Like I said, I’m complicated.” When Tom said nothing to that, Frank sighed. Tom was gorgeous enough to have any ten guys. Why would he want someone like Frank?
The glasses clinked as he placed them in the sink, an interrogative sound. “I’ll have the scenes to you by next Saturday.”
Tom still said nothing. But Frank heard him close the door as he left. The bottles broke when Frank threw them with a little too much force into the trash, their tinkling destruction somehow too quiet for the anger and hurt that welled inside him.
He should know by now that fairy tales weren’t real. Even if he could become the beast, he’d never get Beauty to fall for him.
“So how was the date?” Annie’s singsong voice grated on Tom’s ears. He’d walked over to his sister’s in a panic after seeing Frank’s…whatever it was. Tom wanted to discuss the play with her, but he hadn’t been able to get past…Frank. When Tom arrived he found Annie alone, John and Marcie out on a daddy-daughter night to see the newest Pixar film.
“It wasn’t a date. We went over the outline of the play and then watched the game.” His words came out harsh, clipped, almost a rebuke. Tom choked on the flutter of his heart, remembering the moment of panic, as in a blink, Frank had gone from the gorgeous guy he’d just been playing tonsil hockey with to a red-brown wolf, staring up at him through familiar golden eyes. Frank’s eyes. Those amazing eyes Tom had gotten lost in the moment they’d met. But Frank wasn’t…well, wasn’t human, right?
“But you liked him?” Annie stirred the balsamic reduction, turning the heat off under the pan.
“He’s different.”
Annie glanced up. “How so?” The oven timer beeped, and she grabbed a potholder.
“Well, he’s…” Tom searched for a politically correct word to use. “He’s a werewolf. I mean, I saw him change into a dog right in front of me.”
The pan of chicken breasts clattered onto the counter, and Annie took off the oven mitt to throw it down.
“And what’s wrong with that?” She crossed her arms, her older sister scowl settling into her features. “And didn’t you say werewolf? That means he changes into a wolf, not a dog.”
“Yeah, I know.” Tom leaned back against the counter. “But it weirded me out. I mean one minute, I’m discussing Beauty and the Beast, and then the next I’m facing one. A beast, that is.” What he didn’t say was that all his mind had screamed was that he’d French kissed a dog on the mouth, even if the dog had looked human at the time.
“Do you realize what you’re saying?” Annie threw up her hands and plated the chicken and veggies.
“I realize I’m not handling this well.” Tom winced as Annie’s serving spoon rapped so hard against the plate he was sure he’d find bits of porcelain in his teeth after this meal.
“That’s an understatement.” Annie shoved a plate of food at him and went to the dining room table with her own.
“I mean, why didn’t you tell me? You knew, right?” Tom’s plate clattered down as he kicked his chair away from the dining table.
“Yeah. I knew. But unlike some bigots—”
“Hey. I’m not a bigot.” Tom protested her statement, but it felt uncomfortable to be arguing over it. What was wrong with him? Frank was a nice guy. Tom shouldn’t be having so much trouble with this. He was the cosmopolitan from the big city. It took all kinds, right? Frank had even said it was linked to his genes. So it was probably considered a medical condition, maybe even a disability—especially if Frank had to deal with boneheads like Tom all the time.
Annie closed her eyes to say grace. “Dear Lord, thank you for this food and for my idiot brother I get to share it with. Amen.” She grabbed her silverware and speared a wad of green beans to point at him. “Look. This is not something he can change about himself. Cut him some slack. Did you know his family kicked him out on the street?”
“Because he’s gay?” Tom shoved a forkful of food in his mouth. Now he felt even worse. There were still closed-minded idiots that didn’t want gay children. But it was becoming rarer as LGBTQ rights increased. Frank must have gotten one of the backward families.
Annie rolled her eyes so far they could have scraped the ceiling. “No, doofus, because he has Galen’s.”
Tom frowned. That didn’t track at all. “That doesn’t make sense. The curse passes down through the genetic line. He had to have gotten it from his parents.”
“First, it’s not a curse.”
Tom almost spit out his food.
Annie backtracked. “Okay, technically, it’s a curse. But I’m betting he can run faster, bite harder, and track anything better than you ever will, city boy.” Annie thunked her glass of water down on the table so hard it created a miniwave that crashed against the side. “Second, his parents are asshats, which is what you’re being.”
“Look, it won’t affect our working relationship. He’s still writing the play.”
Annie shoved her plate out of the way so she could thump her head on the table. “You are my brother, and I love you, but you are the densest person on the planet.”
Tom considered his sister, a strand of her brown hair trailing in a blob of vinaigrette that had spilled over the side of her plate. And people thought he was the drama queen.
“What? I can be professional. I like the guy. I just don’t like the guy.” Which was a bald-faced lie. Tom liked Frank. He wanted to get into Frank’s pants. Or he would if Frank was a normal guy.
Annie sat up and pulled her plate back in front of her, stirring her chicken around in the balsamic sauce. “So, Mr. Smart Guy, tell me about the theme of the play you’re directing.” She chewed, a faux-interested look plastered on her face. She fluttered her lashes at him like a silent movie starlet.
“You know what it’s about.” Tom moved his beans around the plate, his appetite receding.
“Pretend I’m Serena Waller from the Waycroft Falls Clarion, here to do an interview. Which I’m setting up, by the way.”
Tom huffed out a breath. “Okay. The play we’re putting on in the amazing theater space above the historic Little Dorrit Bookshop is Beauty and the Beast. But not your average Disney version. This is an adult fairy tale about falling in love with someone’s soul and not their outward appearance.” Tom paused, narrowing his gaze at his sister. “I know where you’re going with this.”
“Keep going, keep going. You’re just getting to the good part.” Annie made a rolling motion with her fork before popping it and the chicken on it in her mouth.
“In it, a cursed beast romantically pursues a young woman. At night she dreams about a handsome prince who is aloof and insubstantial, in contrast to the daylight animal who woos her with words and passion. Until at last she’s forced to choose between the beast and the prince.”
“Fascinating.” Annie r
ested her chin on her upturned palm. “How will the beast turn into the prince?”
“You’ll have to come to the play to find out.” Tom stared at his plate. He’d moved the green beans from the left side to the right. His mind whirled. He was missing something. There would be a transformation scene. There always was. He’d planned to use the tried-and-true theater convention of the mask reveal for the beast, eschewing the more expensive and harder to hide double casting, but…
“Oh my God.” Tom’s fork fell out of his nerveless fingers to ping on his plate. “I live next door to a werewolf.”
Annie chuckled, hiding her open mouth of food with her hand. “I was wondering when you’d catch on to that.”
“No. You don’t understand. I have someone who can transform from a beast into a man in full view of an audience.” Tom reached for Annie’s arm, startling her. “I’ve never even heard of an actual transformation happening onstage. No masks, no trickery, no understudy changing places while the lead takes off their makeup. This could be revolutionary.”
Annie finished the last of her water and rose to take her dishes back to the kitchen. “Imagine that.”
Tom fell back in his chair. It would be so amazing to see the beast transform right before the audience’s eyes. God, how am I going to convince Frank to do it?
Chapter Seven
Frank bit the edge of his finger as the printer spit out the script pages. He’d wanted the story to stall, refuse to be written. But it was as if he’d been waiting his whole life to write this story. It spewed from his fingertips. But as fast as he typed, he couldn’t keep up with his brain weaving the story. The anguished hopes and dreams of the beast, cursed as a child, alone and abandoned in his enchanted castle, burned like a wound in Frank’s chest. This adaptation was more autobiographical than comfortable. But when he finished the first draft, it was as if a band squeezing his ribs together had been cut. The closest sensation he could liken it to was that nerve racking, sweat-inducing afternoon he’d come out to his dad and stepmom at seventeen. But not as awkward. He’d just typed “the end” and breathed a sigh of relief. All his blood ended up on the page, and he felt like a husk left behind.
Wolf Around the Corner Page 5