Bear Outlaw

by Candace Ayers

  She pulled him toward her, nipping at his lower lip, drawing him to her until she was tucked completely beneath him, bringing her legs up and inviting him inside of her.

  He needed no more invitation, with a gentle kiss he was moving upward, sliding into her slick depths, just as desperate to feel her as she had been to feel him.

  And then there was nothing tender or unhurried about their union. She matched his pace, asked for more, her hands moving freely over his body, caressing his shoulders and back, dipping down to cup him and pull him more closely to her.

  “Don’t stop.” It was her turn to moan in his ear, to beg for the pleasure he was giving her.

  And he was only too happy to comply.

  9

  Afterward, they lay sated and spent on the cool cave floor, Paulette tucked neatly into Zed, marveling at how well she fit against him, at how easily his body enveloped hers. Everything had been perfect. The kind of perfection you were sure couldn’t be real until it was happening. She gave a little sigh, reaching for him again.

  She knew they would have to leave this place, this sweet sanctuary where she had been allowed to know him — all of him — just as he had her. That they would return to the little home she thought of as hers.

  And try to figure out how to bring this back with them. To let him be a part of their lives the way she knew with certainty she wanted him to be. To be the first thing she woke to, the last thing she saw at night. She wanted to see the baby in his arms, that irritating endearing smirk. All of it.

  As much as she never wanted to leave this place, she was ready to go back. She was more than ready to have Abigail in her arms again, to feel that soft, small body against hers, and know she had been given a reprieve, and the right to raise her as she had always wanted.

  But this, Zed’s hard, warm body, the way he was moving his hands over her skin. It was hard to give it up. Even for just a little while.

  She finally disentangled herself from him, reaching for her dress, trying not to become distracted by the way his hand was moving over the small of her back, down further over the curve of her backside.

  “Zed,” she whispered, caught somewhere between warning and desire. “We should get back. To Abigail.”

  “Ah, yes,” he gave her a lazy grin, his hand continuing its progress, and it had her thinking of all the things he had done to her body, another tremor of excitement, anticipation of the pleasure she knew he would bring to her again, slipping through her. “Abigail. The other woman in my life.”

  She turned away from him, trying to hide her grin. It felt strange to hear those words on his lips. She hadn’t been anyone’s woman in a long time.

  And now here she was — his, completely.

  And he was hers.

  THE END

  Full Moon Lover (FML)

  STORY DESCRIPTION

  Mary is a young, single, attractive woman living in Baltimore.

  Which should mean she is active in the city's dating scene. And, she probably would be if it weren’t for that one little issue of... social anxiety.

  Besides, there’s really no one she’s even remotely interested in. Well, there is the steaming hot guy with severe bed head and horribly mismatched socks who doesn’t drink coffee but frequents the coffee shop to get the old Polish barista to comb his hair and help him match his clothes.

  Mary figures that even if she weren't painfully shy, she still wouldn't have much of a chance with him, though, since half the woman in the city drool over him. She's seen how women in the coffee shop behave when he's around.

  One night, fate delivers "Mr. Hottie" right to Mary’s door, only he’s not exactly what she expected; he is, in fact, much more. So, so very much more!

  This time, Mary is not about to let her painful shyness stop her from having the adventure of a lifetime as the two set out together to save the city from a monster running beneath the full moon.

  1

  The first thing she noticed about him, besides his devilishly handsome features and ripped physique, were his socks. They didn’t match, not in the slightest way. It wasn’t just a matter of mixing a blue sock with a black sock. No. One was a brownish plaid while the other was white. So, safe to say, he was in the realm of what the hell is wrong with him?

  OK. She could move beyond that, but then there was the issue of his hair. It was a bed head to the nth degree. It looked like he had maybe used his hand to comb it two days ago, but had since slept multiple times and driven in a convertible.

  But there were many parts of him that made him easy on the eyes. Well, his eyes for instance. She had never seen any like them before. They were the kind of eyes you would see in a perfume ad or a pretentious music video. You know the ones she’s thinking about: the world behind the model is gray and slightly discolored, while the eyes are an unnatural shade of blue. Alien even. Electrically vibrating.

  It was hard not to be entranced by his eyes, which was probably why he always wore shades— Perhaps he was aware of his power. She had only seen him with them off once, and that one time was enough for them to be burned into her brain. She wasn’t the only one to see them that night when the shades fell off. All the girls in the cafe turned and watched him like a robot in sync, or a field of muskrats entranced by a mystical shift in the cosmos.

  Of course it wasn’t just his eyes, though. She had a mega crush on him before that. His cheekbones and jawline were enough to make even Clint Eastwood jealous. He was a perfectly sexy Polish boy in Baltimore, Maryland. Her mother would be so proud if she managed to take him home. But of course, she wouldn’t get with him simply because of her mother. No, he was a catch, and she wanted to catch him with all her might.

  All that was in her way was her social anxiety and fear of rejection. If she could just get over those two things, she would be in the clear…

  But his hair and the way he dressed! Was he a fourteen-year-old boy caught in a thirty-year-old body? Could he not see himself in the mirror?

  There was a woman who worked at the cafe

  that seemed to take care of him. Every night the old barista saw him and waved him to the back. With a hairy mole on her chin, and the kind of slouch and shuffle that only accompanies an eighty-year-old woman, she managed to make him look… presentable. Hollywood handsome, even.

  One night Mary peeped into the back as the old woman mothered him. With goggles for glasses, she peered at him at him closely as she delicately combed his hair, shaved his face, and even changed his bowtie. Yes, even his bowties sometimes didn’t match. He took out four from his pocket for her to choose from, and moaned, “Oh please just choose for me. I can’t bother to worry about this at the moment. There’s just so much nonsense going on that I have to deal with tonight.” She chuckled a guttural old woman laugh, shuffled close to him and untied his horrendous abomination, moving like an arthritic turtle.

  To the old woman’s credit, he always came out looking damn good, albeit still a little out of place (but for that there probably wasn’t a cure). There was something else about him that pampering couldn’t fix. Besides the mismatched socks (which the old lady never bothered to fix), the alien eyes, and the chiseled facial features, there was something else, and Mary was never able to put a finger on it. It wasn’t for lack of trying— she often thought about it. More than she would ever admit to even herself.

  Don’t tell anyone, but the one or two times she had seen him with his sunglasses off, she actually thought about trailing him.

  Openly.

  It was the oddest thing and she knew it, but she just wanted to follow him to wherever he went. She didn’t need to speak with him, she just felt an unnatural desire to be close to him. Now if he proposed his undying love for her and asked her to marry him would she say yes? Well yeah, but that was it.

  That wasn’t so weird, was it?

  Then, she saw his socks and thought of something better to do with her time.

  Oh, but his body. He did have a hell of nice body. One night wh
en it was cold— frigidly so— upper teens without wind-chill factored in— he came in wearing nothing but flip flops, slacks, and a tight white t-shirt and shouted for the little old lady. Most nights he just looked like a bum, but on this particular night he looked like a deranged bum— granted a very hot deranged bum with a rock hard, chiseled body that turned every woman’s head— but a deranged bum nonetheless.

  “Aniela! Aniela! Quick! I’m in a hurry!” Aniela was Polish for angel.

  “Pracuję, głupek! Bądź cierpliwy!” I’m working, stupid boy. Be patient.

  Mary’s mother was Polish. She grew up speaking it in the house.

  “Aniela!” he huffed and puffed. “This is important!”

  “Znaleźć inną staruszkę do hepl ciebie.” Find another old woman to help you then.

  “Jesteś jedyną kobietą dla mnie.” You are the only woman for me.

  “Idiota, jestem 83 lat.” Idiot, I am 83 years old.

  He shot his hand in the air as if she spoke nonsense.

  She finished making a customer a teapot of Earl Grey tea, and waved him to the back when she was ready. He quickly beat her there and sat down in his chair and waited for her to shuffle over.

  Mary remembered thinking, whatever you do, grandma, leave that chest the way it is. He’s fine. He won’t get pneumonia, I promise.

  But Aniela didn’t leave it alone. In fact, it was the first thing she changed. She shuffled farther into the back and came back with a green knit sweater (one apparently she had knit herself) and pulled it over his head. It seemed she knew this night would come— him completely ill prepared for the weather and the social reactions and constructs of the world in which he lived when dealing with such pesky nuisances as… cold temperatures.

  Mary tried to ask her once about him, but she responded, “On jest po prostu jakiś głupi chłopak wiem.” He is just some stupid boy I know.

  She tried to let him go. But a part of her just couldn’t. He was just too… weird.

  But something happened on a cold January night that changed things.

  2

  Saturday night. Yes, it was three weeks after Christmas, and yes she still had her tree up. But who cared? She’s a grownup. She could live her life the way she wanted.

  Well maybe watching Love Actually for the tenth time after Christmas was a bit much, but it wasn’t like she was addicted to the movie or anything. She just couldn’t afford Netflix or cable, and it just so happened to be one of the only movies she had that didn’t skip. She had the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice, but… that scene had started skipping long ago. And really, if she couldn’t watch Colin Firth get wet head to toe what was the point?

  She walked to the kitchen to get some more cereal and heard the footsteps of the neighbor above her walking up the wooden fire escape. She had blinds pulled, and her lights weren’t on, but she still felt it best to hide against the wall until she heard him walking into his apartment.

  When she heard him rummaging around in his apartment, she pulled the blinds a little out just to be sure he wouldn’t be able to see her.

  You see, the door to the outside in her kitchen was the door to the fire escape, and this door had a little sliver of a window above it that she couldn’t cover with anything besides paper bags— and had somehow still fought the urge to do so (but it seemed like a better and better idea every day). Mary factored that if he got on his belly and lowered his head past the landing, he might be able to see her. Maybe not her body, but at least the top of her head, and maybe some of her boobs if she were naked— which she sometimes was.

  She looked out once more double checking that absolutely no one would see her go to her fridge.

  Wait a minute, she paused and thought. Is my fire escape really made out of wood?

  She looked out the window to double check.

  Son of a bitch, it is. How does that make sense?

  Bowl full of gluten free cereal, she snuck back into her room where, thankfully, the only window in the room looked straight out into faded red bricks.

  She got underneath her covers and watched Colin Firth frantically look for the windblown pages of his draft in the pond.

  She giggled. She loved this scene. Both he and his future wife finishing each other’s sentences even though they spoke different languages. It melted her heart every time. Like every movie she watched incessantly, it was a happy sad ordeal.

  A knock on her back door. The one with the window she wanted to cover up.

  She put her spoon down and paused the movie.

  No one had ever knocked on that door before. Ever.

  The one or two friends she had that maybe came over every six months always buzzed and came up the normal way.

  Plus, she didn’t even like to use that door. The railings on the fire escape sucked. They moved with the slightest bump, and shook and vibrated when a person simply used the stairs.

  Knock knock knock.

  She hit play on the DVD and decided that she would ignore it. If she knew whoever it was, well… then he or she had her number. If he or she didn’t know her, then Mary had no interest in whatever he or she had to tell her.

  But the knocking got louder. So loud that whoever was knocking was practically banging on her door with fists.

  She really wished she had a weapon. But where do you get a weapon when you don’t have a car? Target doesn’t sell anything. Neither does Panera. Aneila’s Cafe? She probably had two or three somethings for herself, and would probably actually sell one of them to her if—

  Knock knock knock.

  She thought about calling 911, but knew that when they asked her what the problem was, she’d have to tell them the truth (she was weird that way), and the truth was that her only problem was that someone was knocking at her door. Not exactly a capital offense. She put on a sweater and threw on some jeans over her pajama bottoms. In a pullout drawer in the kitchen were some steak knives she never used, but for some reason had ten of. She slipped one out and looked out the window perpendicular to her back door. A drunk, disheveled man with dark hair was banging his head against her back door.

  He seemed to sense her looking at him, and quickly turned around and saw her.

  “Can I come in?” he asked, ashen faced.

  “No!” she yelled. “Go away! Go home!”

  “Please! I need to come in. I need help!”

  “Call the police,” she said. “Stop bothering me!”

  She closed the blinds and stepped around the corner, hoping he would disappear. Her apartment was only a block away from a popular bar. These kinds of things happened once in a while.

  Knock knock knock. The banging resumed.

  She didn’t know what to do besides threaten him.

  She pulled back her blinds again and shouted, “If you come here, I’ll stab you! I have a steak knife!”

  She winced at herself and went back into hiding. Why did she tell him she had a steak knife? What difference did it make that it was a steak knife in her hand? She could have just told him she had a knife. Why did she feel an overbearing need to be honest and forthright with—

  “PLEASE! May I come in?” he moaned. “I really don’t feel well.”

  She decided to call the police.

  It only rang once before it was answered.

  She told the woman on the other end her problem, and was told to not, under any circumstances, let him in. That she should not talk to him any further, and if he asked her any more questions, questions revolving around getting to know her and whatnot, to just ignore him and not say anything. Ignore everything he did, essentially.

  OK. Easy thing to do. When were they coming over?

  “We’re very busy right now. Just make sure you don’t say he can come in. Do not, under any circumstances, say he can come in.”

  Well no-duh. Why would she do that?

  “We’ll get there as soon as we can. You’re on the list. Goodbye.”

  She went back to her room and tried to resume Love Ac
tually, but the pounding became incessant.

  Then he started screaming.

  “LET ME IN! PLEASE, MAY I COME IN?”

  Did he think she was his ex-girlfriend or something?

  There would be no concentrating.

  She turned off her TV and listened, making sure he wasn’t trying to force his way in.

  Was someone after him?

  She went back to her window. Again he felt her looking at him and turned around.

  “May I come in?” he asked. He was simply pitiful

  May shook her head no. “Are you OK? Are you sick? Why can’t you go back from wherever you came?”

  He sniffed the air. “Because you’re the only one I can find. Please may I come in?”

  “What am I the only one of?” she asked. She felt she was egging on further crazy, but it felt nice to be special.

  “You’re an oh,” he said, his head against her back door. “Positive or negative. I can’t remember. I just know you smell right, and you’re the one I need.”

  Wait, was he talking about her—

  “Sorry,” another man called up walking up the fire escape. She stood up on her tippy toes to see who he was.

  It was that man! The man the old barista fawned over!

  “Sorry, he got away from us. Come along, Jordan. We have what you need in the car. Sorry again,” he said waving at Mary through her window.

  Mary tried to hide and wave back at the same time.

  Hot damn his chest was chiseled.

  He led Jordan down the stairs, and asked, “Isn’t this where Scott lives? He hasn’t let us into his place yet. We need to make sure we do that soon.”

  Jordan grunted, “Why are we leaving, Dorek? I need her.”

  “No, no,” Dorek said. “We’re getting you to the car. Hurry up now.”