by Zoe Chant
When it was time to dress for work, she picked up the apron, now fresh from the dryer. When she looked at it, she no longer saw Pepto-Bismol pink hearts and ruffles. She saw his heated gray gaze, felt the tender command of his hands, remembered her delicious surrender.
And he’d be there when she came home.
She left with a smile.
Eight
West
He watched McKenzi go out to her car, enjoying the prowling cat swing of her delightfully curvy hips, and the little prancy lilt in her walk, emphasized by the contrasting parabola of her glossy hair swishing against her shoulder blades. She was so very . . . cat.
He had never been captivated by a cat—but this one filled his entire world.
When her car vanished down the lane toward the center of town, he retreated back inside. Rolf would show up any minute, but right now all he could think about was McKenzi. His wolf stirred in him, contentment harmonizing with West’s own sense of completion and contentment.
It wasn’t just the afternoon of fantastic sex, though he deeply appreciated the fact that he’d had more sex in the last couple of days than in the last few months. It was the intensity of it, the her of it. In the past he’d appreciated a blow job, especially one as lavish and enthusiastic as McKenzi made it—he’d been content to blow and go, as one of his old road friends had said. With McKenzi he couldn’t let it end there. Oral sex was foreplay to the main event. He had to be in her, next to her, touching everywhere they could—sex with McKenzi wasn’t about getting off, it was about letting go, losing the self in the act of becoming one with another.
If she’d been a wolf, he would be testing the concept of mate.
His wolf echoed, Mate.
How was that possible? He’d always assumed that if it happened at all, it would result from finding his pack at last, and a benign alpha introducing him to a female wolf. As a human, McKenzi was in every way perfect, except that she had that cat-like independence. She didn’t want complications. She’d been straight with him about that. And he’d had a lifetime of feeling the same.
He wasn’t sure what he was feeling now, except that the prospect of saying goodbye to her made him want to howl until the hills shivered with echo.
He turned away, his gaze falling on a shelf fit into the corner next to the TV—DVDs and CDs.
He walked over and flicked on the poor, abused lamp they’d kicked over during their shifter self tussle. He paused to grin at the memory of her laughter, then ran his finger down the CDs. Yes, there was Anessa’s name.
He pulled the CD out, opened it, and checked the liner. He had to laugh. He knew that out of all those songs, maybe two had been written by her, and that was with help. His song, the one she called “Las Positas Motel,” was dedicated to the lone wolf who had walked into her life. And she listed herself as the writer.
Las Positas Motel, wasn’t that the name of the place she’d taken him when they first met at a West Hollywood open mike bar, almost a year ago? He was pretty sure that was the name. Maybe that was where she tried all her prospective lovers before she’d trust them at her mansion in the hills, where he’d spent two of their three days, some in bed, most of it in her personal sound studio. He couldn’t remember the sex—it must have been all right—but nothing to the joyous celebration that was shared passion with McKenzi the cat.
Anessa was ambitious, that much he did remember. She’d told him that up front. He shrugged. Her story was done, as far as he was concerned. The question was, how long would his story with McKenzi last? As he stood there in the middle of her living room, with that mural glowing golden in the lamplight, it occurred to him that he never wanted McKenzi’s story done, that he would never get enough verses to compass all that was McKenzi.
Inside, his wolf let out an internal howl.
A splashing step was all the warning West got, then Rolf banged the door open, bolting in eagerly. West replaced the CD, turned to face the expectant teen. “Help me push the chairs back and carry the table into the kitchen.”
For several hours West put him through some basics. He’d never taught in any formal way. He hadn’t been schooled any formal way, except three periods when he’d stayed in one place long enough to attend classes in aikido (Albequerque) and Shotokan karate (Colorado Springs), and a tough old vet wolf shifter in Chicago during a winter ten years ago had showed him some Krav Maga after he’d helped the guy in a bad situation. So he approached teaching the way he liked to be taught, with demonstration and explanation, then practice scenarios.
Rolf was so eager—too eager. West remembered what he’d been told. He suspected Rolf’s motivation had more to do with Jeff Olsen than learning for the sake of learning.
So he tried again to explain that learning one or two moves wasn’t any guarantee of expertise. “You’ve got to practice until it’s automatic,” he said several times. “If you have to stop and think, it’s probably already too late.”
“I know, I get it,” Rolf said with a typical teen shoulder-jerk of impatience. “Hey, can we go running? My dad said I can’t go out at night alone.”
A run was exactly what West needed. “Sure. But this time, you lead. What’s our first step?”
“Uh,” Rolf looked around wildly. Then he snapped his fingers and said in triumph, “Right. Leave our stuff in a safe place.”
“Safe being the operative word.” West clapped him on the back. “You can always keep your stuff at your house, but it wouldn’t hurt to get in the habit of hiding everything and securing your area of return.”
“Okay.” Rolf straightened, squared his shoulders, and took the lead.
He picked the back porch of the empty cottage. They shucked their clothes, rolled them up, and stashed them. Then they shifted, and ran for the joy of running. The cold that felt so bitter on human skin didn’t bother wolves. Mud was there to splash through on the way to a world filled with interesting scents. At first Rolf did really well, though he often looked back at West to make sure of himself. A yip sent him going again—until he caught the fresh scent of some rats.
He took off like a streak, West pacing him. The rats seemed to be heading for some sort of agricultural establishment. West caught the scents of multiple humans, cows, and chickens, plus fruit crops. From Rolf’s behavior, West established that the boy didn’t recognize these rats—they were not shifters—so he backed off and let Rolf try his first hunt.
With no success.
The rats escaped into a barn, and when Rolf barked and howled, claws scrabbling at a rickety wooden door, lights came on in the house.
A man’s voice shouted warnings, followed by two gunshots into the air.
Rolf took off, West again pacing him—until Rolf stopped, sniffing, panting, whimpering as he looked around. He’d completely confused his own trail, and was lost.
West knocked him over with a paw, and gently tugged at the ruff near his neck to get his attention. Then let him up, and led him back to the trail as another band of rain came sweeping in.
It was nearing midnight when they reached the familiar scents of Upson Downs again, and followed their own trail to the hilltop where Rolf lived. Muddy and wet, they returned to where they’d hidden their clothes. As soon as they were dressed again, Rolf said, “That was awesome. Except when I, uh, got lost.”
“We can work on that,” West said—then caught himself.
Don’t make promises you might not be able to keep. That much was instinct, but with the thought came that hitch at the heart, because for the first time he wasn’t certain about his next move.
“Oh, crap, five texts from Dad—I’m late,” Rolf exclaimed, having pulled his phone from his pocket . “Later!” He sprinted up the hill toward the ranch house.
West walked around the side of the cottage to find the lights on at McKenzi’s. The door opened, and there she was. Happiness ignited in him, heat and light, and he walked into her open arms. She kissed him hard. Exploratory kisses have their own sweet mystery, but this
was a kiss that struck all the way to his marrow, a kiss of claiming and knowing, all layers gone up in smoke.
He was instantly ready for more, but to his amazement she put her hands on his shoulders, stepped back, and looked up into his face. “Rain check?”
She turned her head, and he caught the sound of the water shutting off from the bathroom sink. “I didn’t know what else to do,” she said in a low voice.
The bathroom door opened, and out stepped a scrawny, nervous looking guy with a fearful, gap-toothed grin, a grubby eyepatch covering one eye. The other looked out anxiously from under gutter-water, greasy brown hair.
“West,” the guy exclaimed. “I found you!”
Nine
McKenzi
“Nate?” West exclaimed.
McKenzi looked anxiously from one to the next. Poor Nate looked like he was ready to bolt out the door if anyone blinked.
“Hey, Nate, what brought you up here? Are you okay?” West asked.
McKenzi let her breath out in a long trickle of relief. She’d half expected West to be pissed—she suspected she’d be pissed if someone she scarcely knew sprang Nate on her without any warning.
“Aunt Julia found him hanging around the hotel at the bottom of Main Street,” she said to West. “Nate told them he was looking for you, and Sheriff Odom was going to take him to the lockup, but Amelia’s boyfriend’s mom, who works at the hotel, called Mrs. Nixon at the Crockery, you know, my boss, and told me, and so . . .” McKenzi became aware that she was blurting yet again, and held out a hand toward Nate. “Um, here he is. I didn’t know what else to do,” she said again, in a low voice.
“It’s okay.” West gave her a sweet, distracted smile then up to Nate and clasped his skinny shoulder. “How’d you find me?”
“Sniffed your trail,” Nate said. “You mostly traveled wolf.” He chucked a fearful glance McKenzi’s way. “Um . . . ?” He turned his thumb out.
McKenzi tried not to laugh at Nate’s 100% futile attempt to be subtle.
“It’s okay. She knows about us shifters,” West said, and flicked a questioning look her way. “How about we get you cleaned up, get those clothes into the washer, and get a meal into you.”
Nate’s one eye closed, and he said reverently, “A shower? A hot shower? A hot shower, like, in that bathroom I was just in, with all that clean water?” He pointed behind him at McKenzi’s small bathroom, his attitude as awed as someone who had just discovered the Taj Mahal. “I haven’t had one of those since I sneaked into a pool party July Fourth, out in Escondido. They was all drunk. Got me some beer, too.”
He had a quick, nervous way of speaking, though his accent spoke of some kind of southern origin.
West turned toward McKenzi, who had been thinking rapidly. “Tell you what,” she said to West, and smiled at Nate. “I’ll take him to Kesley’s, and then I’m going to see what Rolf has that he can loan Nate.”
Though Nate was anywhere from nineteen to early twenties, he was desperately thin, and not much taller than Rolf, who still like to wear his jeans loose and sagging. He limped badly on one leg, as he kept turning his one eye anxiously toward West as if to check that he was still there.
Nate said nervously, “That would be mighty nice of you, ma’am.”
The entire world felt unreal, as if McKenzi had slipped sideways into a parallel universe.
She got Nate loaded up with towel, shampoo, soap, and the rest, left him at Kesley’s, then went to the ranch house, where the lights were still on. Late as it was, she knew Rolf, like many teens, was a night creature, and sure enough, she found him watching TV. She’d expected him to dig in his heels, as teens tended to be protective of their stuff and space, but as soon as he heard “West’s friend,” he said, “Okay, whatever.”
He dug out an old pair of jeans, an Avengers tee, and a beautiful, brand new flannel jacket that he never wore, as he and his friends’ social group uniform was hoodies. She took the clothes back to Kesley’s and left them outside the bathroom, from which came the sounds of splashing water. Nate had put his reeking clothes outside.
She held her breath, got them to the washer, threw in a double helping of powder, and retreated to her place, where she found West waiting in the living room pretty much where she’d left him.
“I’m sorry—” he began.
At the same time, she was saying, “I’m sorry—” She stopped. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
“I think I do,” he said, low-voiced. “My past turning up like that. But you certainly have no cause to apologize.” And he gave her a questioning look.
She shook her head. “I thought you might not . . . I don’t even know where to start. But when I heard through the grapevine—and this town could give lessons to the NSA for knowing each other’s business—that a vagrant was caught outside the motel, but he was asking for you, I don’t know, I felt like he was my responsibility. Especially when I saw him. God, West, that poor guy looks like hell. And it’s weird, but he reminds me of Rolf. Is he a wolf cub? No, not a cub . . .”
“He’s a coyote shifter.”
“Well I got the canine part right. He just looked so hopeful and afraid I would kick him, all at once, I couldn’t leave him outside. I couldn’t. I realized you don’t have a cell phone, and Kesley and I don’t have land lines and it just seemed mean to leave him there. In the rain.”
West’s smile softened to tenderness. “If I’d been an asshole about him, what would you have done?”
“I don’t know. Probably stuck him at Kesley’s at least for a night, and fed him and given him my tips to get him going.”
West took her hands. “McKenzi, I think—” But then he stopped, and glanced to the side, his shoulders tense.
She said, “What is it—?” She caught herself almost saying Darling. She never used that kind of language! Ever! Yet the word hovered right there behind her lips, urgent as the need for a kiss.
He turned his head, the light casting shadows under the hard edges of his cheekbones, and his eyelashes painting a feathery shadow on the delicate skin under his eyes.
“Maybe it’s too late at night for this conversation. Because I’m not sure of myself.” He met her gaze, his gray eyes like the sea in winter. “I’m too used to running whenever I smell trouble, or dealing with . . .” He flexed his hands. “With teeth, or fists. I don’t know where I am. Except when I’m with you, somehow everything seems right. Centered. In a way I can’t explain.”
“I feel exactly the same,” she said, and slid her hands around his waist, pulling him to her. She felt a tremor run through him, then some of the tension leave his muscles as she said into his shoulder, “I’ve never felt like this before. About anyone. It’s like I’m Rolf’s age again.”
She lifted her face and kissed him—but then came a soft knock at the door, and they stepped apart. But she saw promise in his heated gaze, and knew he was reading the same from her.
Nate entered cautiously, as if he half expected a hand grenade to be lobbed at him from behind the door, and jumped half a foot into the air when the rain-soaked door banged shut behind him. Rolf’s pants hung baggy on his scrawny hips, though ridiculously short about his ankles. His ratty tennis shoes would have to go, she thought, but the rest of him had cleaned up . . . fairly civilized. Nate was never going to be handsome, but his one good eye was a soft brown, his smile tentative and shy.
“Who do I owe thanks to? I don’t know the smell.” Nate indicated the flannel jacket.
Rolf’s clothes had been clean. McKenzi had forgotten how good canine noses were.
“You’ll meet Rolf, my nephew, tomorrow. Go ahead and use the bed back in that cottage. Or would you like something to eat first?” McKenzi flicked on the light and moved straight to the fridge, and began taking out fixings for a sandwich.
“I can wait,” Nate said, but his face betrayed him—he looked exactly like a dog hopeful of scraps, nearly quivering with silent desire. “Thanks. A warm bed sounds mighty fine, ma
’am.”
“Please, ‘ma’am’ sounds like my mom. Nobody under thirty wants to be ma’amed, especially when they are closing in on thirty,” McKenzi said as she put about ten pieces of bacon into the microwave, and began cutting up a tomato and thick slices of cheese. “Call me McKenzi.”
Nate seemed unable to speak as the aroma of bacon filled the room. He actually swayed.
West guided him to the nearest chair, then poured him a glass of milk as McKenzi finished putting the BLT together. Soon they stood side by side watching Nate . . . well, wolf it down. ‘Coyote it down’ didn’t sound quite right, McKenzi thought with an inward laugh as she set out the rest of the leftover scones, and then watched those vanish, too.
He finally seemed to be filled, and looked just tired. “Off to sleep,” West said. “We’ll talk in the morning, okay?”
Nate ducked his head, opened the door, wiggled it, frowned, then said, “Got a hammer? Tools?”
“Uh, there’s some stuff in the garage up at the house,” McKenzi said wonderingly.
“It’s this door. It ain’t hung right,” Nate said shyly. “I could fix it in a jiffy, if you want.”
“Let’s talk about that later,” McKenzi said. “It’s late, and everyone’s tired. Or at least I am.”
Nate thanked her again and left, and she sighed with relief. Then stopped short. “Oh my God, I can’t believe I forgot. Listen, before the whole Nate thing, Bud Carson, who owns the Surf—that’s the bar across from the Primrose Hotel. Anyway, he heard through the grapevine I mentioned, about your singing. He lets people come perform on weekends. Friday and Saturday are already out, of course, but there’s tomorrow. He doesn’t pay, but you can put a tip jar out. If you’d like to do that, I mean. Earn some money. For . . . whatever.” Blurting! Stop.