by Troy Hunter
I smile obligingly, but they seem to take the hint. Eventually, they wander away, still chatting about their last flubbed date.
The breeze snaps my plaid shirt to my chest, my muscles on display. I glance up in time to catch the gaze of a man in the distance. He’s staring intensely at me, eyes dropping toward my chest and abdomen. I reach up and run a hand through my hair and I grin when his cheeks flush lightly at my flexing muscles. I want him to approach, but suddenly, a group of teenagers swarms in front of him, blocking my view. And when they’re gone, he’s disappeared.
“Damn,” I whisper under my breath.
Sighing, I bend low to rustle through my bags for one of my newest prints to finish setting up my booth. I’ve got tall easels surrounding the folding table I’ve already covered in a white tablecloth. Short easels are placed strategically on the table, my photographs already framed and resting there.
All my portraits are landscapes or wildlife photographs, with a few candids of ranchers thrown into the mix. My newest is of one of the wolf pups, staring sorrowfully into the camera lens. I took it last week after tracking the mother and her pups while they were away from the den. I place it proudly on a tall easel, in the perfect position to attract buyers.
“Wow,” a woman says, pausing in her wandering.
I turn, smiling proudly. Her husband has wandered ahead, checking out a booth with homemade jerky. She closes the distance, her eyes studying the wolf portrait.
“That’s just amazing. How did you get so close?” she asks.
“I’ve been tracking this family for a while now, so they’re used to my scent,” I say. “I named that pup Lotto. He’s about three months old.”
“Brilliant,” she gushes. “Honey, come look at this!”
Her husband lumbers over, stuffing his hand in his pockets. “Looks great, sweetie.”
“I think this would be amazing in your office, don’t you think?”
He shrugs.
“How much is it?” she asks, turning to me.
“Two hundred and the frame is included,” I say as the husband whistles low. “It’s an original print, the only one of its kind.”
“I don’t know, that’s pretty steep,” the husband mumbles even as the wife is digging in her purse.
“Honey, it’s a wolf pup,” she says, passing me her debit card.
I slide it through my mobile card reader to collect her payment and then slip the frame into a paper bag. They take it, thanking me, and the husband drags his wife to the jerky booth to try a free sample.
Suddenly, I feel a familiar presence behind me. I inhale through my nose, scenting the air, and smell grease and steak. I turn in time to see Nicholas weaving toward me, an uncomfortable smile on his face. The wolf within me snarls angrily at the sight of him, but I school my face, watching him approach with disinterest. He pauses, taking in my wildlife photography.
“So, you weren’t kidding when you said you were a wildlife photographer,” he says, trying to joke.
I bristle, pursing my lips. “A professional photographer, yes.”
He nods awkwardly, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
“What are you doing here, Nicholas?” I ask, leaning back against the table.
“I just wanted to apologize,” he says. “The other night I lost my temper, big time.”
I stare past him toward the crowd. “Well, that’s really thoughtful of you.” I doubt he’s apologetic for what truly made me angry. “If that’s all?”
I want Nicholas out of here. Seeing him reminds me of everything I hate and my temper is short when it comes to men like him. And here, in the middle of the fair surrounded by other booths, I can’t afford to lose control. I can’t afford to shed my skin and become the beast.
“These are really good.” He’s moved closer to my booth now, closely studying my photos.
“Thanks,” I say tightly. The wolf within me is pacing now, its tail twitching dangerously.
“You know, uh, you could probably submit these to National Geographic.” He glances at me and lightly taps the frame of one of my prints of the wolf family. I say nothing, using all my concentration to prevent the shift. “There’s a lottery to win a hunting license for gray wolves, you know.”
“What?” I ask through clenched teeth, my hands curling into fists.
“Yeah, to thin the numbers. Rangers say they’re getting a little too high. It’ll be good to help the deer population prosper, you know how it is.” He catches the scowl on my face. “It’s for a good cause. Conservation.”
I can feel my canines elongating as my fury spills over. “Excuse me,” I growl, ducking my head so he won’t see my teeth pricking my lips.
I shove past him, knocking over one of my easels in the process. But I can’t find it within me to care, all my attention is focused on controlling the wolf long enough to find somewhere private. I feel a sharp pain as one of my canines pierces my bottom lip.
I see the bathroom ahead and break into a sprint, I don’t care what people may think when they see a man sprinting to the toilet. Inside, I burst into one of the stalls, slamming the door shut behind me. I made it just in time, my fingernails elongate into dark claws and I feel my face partially morph, my nose stretching into a snout.
I’m panting heavily, huffing. I dig my nails into the metal siding of the stall as I try to regain control of myself.
“It’ll be okay,” I whisper to myself, my voice muffled by my oversized canines. “It will be okay, calm down.”
But I can’t calm down, my heart is beating too rapidly, my breath too shallow. And I’m afraid. More scared than I’ve been in years. This area has been a haven for wolves, and there hasn’t been a mandate to hunt them in a decade. But now a hunter will be prowling through the safety of the mountains and forests to kill who knows how many wolves.
And my pack is out there.
Those pups and their mother, hidden in the gorge, won’t be safe much longer.
As the sorrow replaces the anger, I feel my body returning to its human form completely and my breathing slows, deepening. My shoulders tremble with emotion as I imagine the wolf pups, bloodied and covered in shredded tissue from the bullets the hunter will put through their skulls.
No. No. NO.
DALE
T he Cocoa Peak is busy with an afternoon rush, but I easily spot my old friend at a table in the corner. She’s standing, hopping up and down excitedly and waving at me. I can’t help the grin that splits my lips at the sight of Kate.
My high school best friend never left Bear Moose, instead taking over her family’s coffee shop down Main Street, the second of the two in town. I weave through the crowded shop toward her. Her blonde hair glimmers in the naked bulbs overhead that give the coffee shop its chic industrial feel.
“Kate,” I chuckle when I reach her.
“Dale!” she squeals, dragging me in for a hug. “Oh, my God, I love the beard!”
I grin, reaching up to run a hand over the trimmed facial hair. “You like it?”
“Um, it’s amazing,” she gushes, plopping into her seat. “You look very Jake Gyllenhal-esque. Honestly, you look so different from high school. You’ve really grown into your height.”
“Stop,” I laugh, pushing her hand away after she starts tugging at my beard. “You haven’t changed a bit, Kate.”
“And why should I?” She pulls out a menu. “It’s not like this place has changed either.”
“It’s like a time machine,” I agree, searching my own menu.
A waiter stops at our table, holding up a pen and pad. “What can I get you? Just a reminder, the city’s ban on tap water is still active so we don’t have any cold drinks.”
I sigh. “Seriously, that sucks.”
The waiter shrugs.
“I’ll just have a butterscotch toffee coffee, medium,” Kate orders, passing her menu to the waiter.
“And I’ll take an Irish coffee, please.” I smile.
Kate raises
a brow. “Whiskey this early?”
“Well, I just stopped by my house, met a new addition to the family.” I grimace.
“Oh, you met Michael,” she chuckles.
“You knew?” I gape.
She shrugs. “Half the town knows, Dale. They don’t exactly keep it quiet, if you know what I mean. I met Michael a few weeks ago. He stopped by the shop to pick up some coffee for your parents. Real nice guy.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I bet he is. He’s my roommate now.”
She laughs. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes. They set him up in my room—his stuff is all over it,” I complain.
“You’d think they’d just have him in their room,” she teases me.
“Ugh. Let’s not talk about their new sex life.” I drag a hand over my face as the waiter returns with our drinks. I take a long drink of my coffee and whiskey.
“So, tell me everything about California. I want to hear about your job, boyfriends, one-night stands, everything.” She leans forward eagerly.
“I hate to disappoint, but I’ve never been much for one-night stands,” I murmur, toying with my mug. “And no boyfriends either. I’m married to my work.”
She sighs deeply. “Alright, alright, then tell me about this wonderful husband of yours.”
“Well, my husband is a real piece of work. But really, the job is great.” I smile. “I’m working on this new project and I’m almost done with it. I think it’s going to be a big hit.”
“Oooh, tell me more.” She sips her drink.
“It’s the Automated Response to Flirtation device,” I explain. “It monitors conversations and other environmental factors and tells the wearer what to say and when to get the best response from the target.”
She cocks her head at me and raises a brow. “Interesting. You sound like such a scientist. So, tell me, what are the…moral implications for a device like that? I mean, the person using it wouldn’t be being entirely honest, would they?”
“Well.” I hesitate, shaking my head back and forth. “All the device does is interpret body language and determine what the other person wants. It’s what we all do when we flirt, when we communicate. The only difference is the ARF device will give you a little help.”
She takes a drink of her coffee. “Alright, it sounds amazing. I can’t believe you made something like that.”
I smile proudly. “Thanks, Kate. Tell me what’s going on with you though. I know not much has changed here but tell me what you’re up to.”
She lets loose a breath, tossing her hair behind her shoulder. “Well, I work in the coffee shop during the day, what’s new?” She laughs. “But I’ve been acting in a dinner theatre.”
“No way, Kate! That’s so cool.”
“Yeah.” She laughs nervously. “It’s a murder-mystery. I love it.”
“I’ll have to come and check it out,” I say.
“Would you? I’d love that.” She grins. “Oh, my God, remember when the school did Grease?”
“Vaguely,” I mutter, my thoughts flashing to Cliff and that football field.
“That was such a riot, and Ms. Turnholt was, like, drunk the whole time.” Kate dissolves into laughter, wiping a tear from her eye.
“Remember in tenth grade when she caught those seniors having sex under the bleachers and told the entire school?” I ask, chuckling over the memory of Ms. Turnholt stumbling around the school yelling about two fornicating youths.
Kate laughs and then falls silent, fiddling with her coffee mug. “Remember that time, in my basement?”
“Which time in your basement?” I laugh. We spent almost every day after school in Kate’s basement, working on homework or playing Nintendo.
“You know,” she mumbles. “When we were trying to figure out if maybe you were straight?”
My brows raise incredulously as I remember that day. The first and only time Kate and I ever made out. “Right.” I take a long drink. “I forgot about that.”
She laughs half-heartedly. “I still can’t believe you haven’t found a boyfriend in California.”
“Come on, Kate, you know me better than that. I get too focused.”
“No, I remember. The only time you let loose was that one rehearsal for the play. With Cliff,” she says.
“Whatever did happen to him?” I ask. I’ve been curious about it since I drove into city limits.
She shrugs and takes a long gulp. “I don’t know.”
I muse over her answer. “I always wondered if Cliff would ever leave Bear Moose.”
Suddenly, a barista walking by with a tray full of empty mugs stops short at our table. “Cliff Taylor?”
“Yeah,” I say, turning to her.
“Oh, he’s still in town. He’s a big wildlife photographer now. He sells his prints at the fairs in town, and I heard he’s got a few big buyers in New York too,” the barista gushes. She looks curiously at Kate. “He comes in at seven every morning for a coffee, Americano. Kate talks to him all the time.”
The barista leaves and I furrow my brows at Kate. “I thought you said you didn’t know.”
She waves a hand in front of her face. “I didn’t realize you were talking about Cliff. I misheard, sorry.” She grimaces apologetically.
I frown but shrug it off. “So, he’s still around…” I mumble to myself, a plan forming in my head.
Kate rambles on about high school, and I chime in every now and then with a bit of information she missed or a chuckle. But I can’t stop thinking about Cliff. I haven’t seen him in almost seven years, though I haven’t forgotten him. Our kiss. Or how he treated me after.
After that kiss on the field, I thought the two of us would take things further. I remember leaving for school the next day with my stomach in excited knots, only to be devastated when Cliff gave me the cold shoulder and even murmured hurtful words as he passed me, so low only I could hear them.
I glare down at the table as the memories come flooding back. It’s like I’m in high school again. I never did react to any of his insults or his iciness. Maybe my revenge is past due. I smile to myself as an idea blossoms in my mind. Perhaps I can kill two birds with one stone.
In fact, he seems like the perfect subject for the ARF device. But I don’t want to fuck this up. No. It has to work perfectly, which means I need it calibrated as accurately as possible to Cliff. I need a DNA sample.
CLIFF
T he sun has barely risen over the mountains, casting a soft glow over the small town. Morning dew still clings to the leaves and blades of grass and birdsong floats down the street toward me. It’s heaven, living this close to the wilderness.
I’ve left my truck down the street so I can walk the last block to the coffee house and just enjoy being on the empty streets with the mountain range looming over me. I breathe in the scent of the morning: flowers, dew, clear summer air. I near the coffee house and see a few customers inside already, mostly locals.
I breeze through the door, the little bell above announcing my presence. “Morning, Cliff,” the barista chimes from the counter.
As I approach, I can see the barista already mixing my drink. In the two years I’ve frequented this place I haven’t changed my order even once. “Hey,” I say, smiling. I slip her a few bills and stuff another into her tip jar.
She beams and passes me my Americano in a to-go cup. I’ve got too much to plan today, to prevent the worst from happening to my pack, to stay and enjoy my coffee here. I turn toward the door, intent on heading directly to my truck and then the mountains. But I find a man standing in the doorway of the coffee shop, the same man I saw staring at me yesterday in the market. His tall, lithe build is framed by the sun pouring through the glass door. I feel a stirring within me, my cock throbbing softly at the sight of him.
He moves from the door, sweeping toward me. His face is narrow, his jaw covered in a well-trimmed beard, dark hair swept back. Fuck, he’s hot. I meet his gaze. As he approaches, I can tell we’re the same height. I might
be half an inch taller but my frame is more muscular. Up close, he looks familiar, though I can’t place him. I sure as hell can’t think of anyone I know who’s that handsome.
He stops in front of me, his hands stuffed into his pockets as he looks at me a little sheepishly.
“Good morning,” I greet him, sparing him the first contact.
“Morning,” he says, his voice deep but as clear as a bell.
I grin and inhale through my nose covertly, scenting him. He smells like the artificial scent of computers and a muskiness I can’t quite place. All of it is undoubtedly familiar, a smell I know and learned. I stick my hand out into the space between us. “I’m Cliff.”
He hesitates and then takes my hand. “Dale.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” I flash him a wry grin that typically sends men’s hearts racing. And it does—I hear Dale’s heartrate accelerate under my gaze. “Do you want to sit down?”
I had other plans for today, plans to visit the pups and their mother and maybe drive them out of the mountains. I don’t want to do that, but with one, possibly more, hunters tracking wolves in the area I don’t know what else to do. Dale is the perfect excuse to put that off.
He agrees and we slide into a table near the window. I lean back in my chair, surveying him. He seems more comfortable now we’re sitting and his brown eyes are studying me just as thoroughly as I’m studying him. Suddenly, he leans forward, his large hand brushes my shoulder. I resist the shudder that threatens to rush through me under his light touch.
“Sorry, a hair,” he explains, pulling back.
“That’s okay.” I grin. “Have we met before? You seem really familiar.”
He shakes his head. “No, I’m only in town for a few weeks.”
“Ah.” I nod knowingly. he’s a tourist in for the summer. “Too bad.”
His lips part in surprise and a soft blush creeps to his cheeks. It’s sexy. “So, you’re obviously local,” he finally says.
I cock a brow. “Obviously?”
He pauses, and then chuckles. “The blue jeans, the plaid shirt, the work boots. You’re an open book.”