“S-sorry. Don’t know my own strength. Ahahah. Ha. Ha.” Maybe, I should have reconsidered that entrance. Yeah. I definitely should have. I sidle along the wall and then, head bowed, scoot back to my spot between the guys.
“What,” Benedict’s voice is flat, dry, totally unimpressed. “Was that all about.”
“Lay off, man,” Jake comes to my rescue, a growl bristling in his voice, before I can even put two syllables together. “It’s her time of the month.”
I wince. Technically, he’s right. I’m, maybe, a week from a full transformation. But did Jake have to say it like that?
“I can fight my own battles, Rover.” I flatten a palm against his chest.
This time, Jake actually growls, a perfectly canine noise that causes Janine to startle, dropping her cutlery. Benedict bares needlepoint teeth. Who needs to waggle dicks when you can compare dentures? Benedict flaps a hand and again, his glamour courses through the restaurant, wrapping the room in a buttery fog.
All but the three of us.
As everyone else relaxes into the fugue, Benedict snarls: “Didn’t anyone teach you to behave around your betters? Sit. Pup. I was old before your kind was even conceived.”
Jake launches halfway to his feet. Veins bulge against the skin of his throat and his arms, even as he actually snaps his teeth at Benedict, half-barking in rage.
“SHUT. UP.”
That shatters the tension.
Also, the remnants of my dignity but who is keeping track of that, anyway?
Benedict’s the first to open his trap: “You’re going to need to be more specific.”
“Shut up, asshole.”
“Jake,” I rest a placating hand on his wrist.
“He started it—”
“Enough.” I clear my throat. “I’ve had enough. I—there’s really no easy way to put it. I’m rescinding my invitations, Benedict.”
“What?” He goes still and cold.
“Well, they weren’t invitations, per se, but a rose by any other color, eh? Regardless, I’m taking it back. Your invitation to stay in my apartment, your invitation to be here, your very presence in my—”
“Wait—”
“Yes, darling?” I smile, full of saccharine venom.
“Wait.” Benedict’s actually hyperventilating now, his chest hammering. I can see sweat glistening on his forehead. His glamour winks out at intervals, flashing glimpses of his true self, and vignettes of glowy overcompensation, like someone used the Photoshop smudge tool to paint in his skin. “Wait.”
Jake makes a quizzical noise and I smile, patting his arm again. “Go take a few minutes outside, will you?”
“But—”
“Go.”
The best thing about werewolves? They’re all secretly dogs on the inside. A strong word, and you’ll have them doing laps around your little finger.
“Yes, miss.”
And Jake takes off, leaving me with Benedict and a slightly stupefied Janine, who is inexplicably engrossed in the wall patterns. At least, she’s not mired in the drama. Once I’m certain that Jake’s out of earshot, I level the bulk of my attention back at Benedict.
“You.”
“Wait.” He repeats, gulping. No more glamour now, just an emaciated twig of a person, with shoots blossoming between his fingertips.
“I’m not even done. You know what else I’m going to do? I’m going to tell your aunt that you’ve been abusing your power—”
“You can’t.”
“Yes, I can.”
“But she hired you to be my bodyguard.”
“Hired’s a bit of a strong word, but sure,” I wave a hand, then mime for the bill as our waitress whistles past. “Francesca wanted me to look after you, and I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t tell her you were up to no good.”
I grip the countertop and the wood cracks under my hands, even as I continue. “You weren’t supposed to enchant regular mortals, were you? There are treaties, aren’t there? And you’re violating them right now. So, I need you to tell me right now: what’s it going to be?”
Benedict stares and stares, looking for all the world like he’s preparing to argue, to mount a counter-offense that will flatten me with its loquacity. It doesn’t come. Instead, Benedict sags, twisting his waistcoat in his hands.
“Fine. What are your terms?”
I win.
It’s snowing when we finally emerge from BAO, small and powdery flakes that will melt as soon as they touch the ground. In a few hours, the snow will either be forgotten, or trampled silt-grey sludge on the streets. Either way, it doesn’t matter. For now, it’s beautiful.
I walk Janine gingerly out of the door, wrapping both our coats around her shoulders. She trembles under my touch, weak-kneed, underdressed, and still sluggish from the effects of the glamour.
“You’re okay,” I whisper to her, again and again.
Janine allows a wan smile to flit across her face, before resting her cheek against my shoulder. “Thank you.”
I cup her face and smile, breathe in the soft perfume of her. Sometimes, we get the happy endings that we deserve. The negotiations with Benedict were short and brutal. He agreed to free Janine in exchange for directions to London’s sleaziest night clubs. I agreed to accompany him to those places, so long as he agreed to pay for the necessary shopping expenses.
As for accommodations, we settled on delaying it to a democratic vote. The three of us—him, Zora and I—will make a joint decision in regards to which overpriced five-star hotel we’ll park ourselves in. Personally, I’m jonesing for the Ritz. Benedict can make up for his errors with lobster carpaccio.
“How did it go?”
I raise my head to see Jake trotting down from around an alley, full of puppydog earnestness. Still gorgeous, still inhumanly perfect in physical composition. But somehow, not quite as irresistible as I remember.
“Good.” My expression flickers. “Listen, Jake—”
“It’s okay. I get it, ” He glances at Janine, face shadowed with thought. “Everyone likes variety. When you’re in the mood for wilder meats, though? Call me.”
That’s not quite the reason, but whatever gets him through the day, I suppose. The male ego is a strange and surprisingly fragile organism.
“It’s a date.” I concede.
Janine stirs again as Jake lopes gracefully away, her lashes frosted with ice. She raises her head, smiles at me through a halo of dark hair.
“What… happened?”
“I’ll—I’ll tell you. Soon.”
She tucks a few strands of hair behind her ear. “Benedict?”
“Gone.” Inside, waiting his turn to pay the bill, which is pretty much the same thing.
Janine pinches her mouth into a frown, eyes already regaining their usual clarity. With a muttered curse, she fumbles through her clutch for her glasses. “Weren’t you on a date—”
“Yeah. Was. But, you know. It didn’t work out.”
“So it’s just you and me, then?”
“Yeah.” My voice grows hoarse. “Janine, I’m—Jesus. I’m sorry. For tonight. For—for everything. I shouldn’t have left you with Benedict. He has a way of getting under people’s defenses. He—”
“Wasn’t your fault.”
I swallow. “Yes, it was. I should have kept you away from him.”
“Why?”
“I can’t tell you.” Yet. Not until the glamour has worn off in its entirety, and I can sit her down with a cup of tea and a clean-up crew in preparation. After everything that has happened, she deserves to know. “But I need you to trust me. I’m going to get you home. And—and you’re important to me. I know I should have told you before. I’ve—god, I’ve been a screw-up. I nearly got you—I owe you so much. I’ll explain everything. Right now, all I want is to make sure you g
et home safe.”
“That’s very decent of you.” Janine moves ever-so-slightly closer, her lips a hair’s breadth of mine. I feel her lift onto her toes and instinctively, clasp her waist to steady her.
“Do you—I don’t know. Do you want to call an Uber or something, maybe?”
Her breath smells of bacon and sweetness, a bite of jalapenos and the faintest hint of lemonade, a stab of tequila. I can tell what she wants, and I want it too. I want to lose myself myself in the taste of her mouth, kiss her until the air burns from my lungs. But I don’t, I don’t. I need to tell her everything first, see if she’d rather run away screaming, because after everything that has happened, Janine deserves that choice.
I touch my forehead to hers, breathe in her closeness, memorize the feel of waist between my hands in case it’s the last time. “I—” I begin.
“You.”
“I—I’m sorry.”
“I like you, you know?” It’s strange how things can sometimes come together, like the words of a song you’ve almost forgotten. Suddenly, everything fits, and all you can think is: this was always how it was meant to go.
Even if it still isn’t quite right.
“I like you too. A lot.”
“I’ve been hoping you’d ask me out for months.”
“I—I—”
“Ask me out.”
“Not until you’ve gotten a good night’s sleep and we’ve had time to talk about… things.”
“Ask me out then. Promise me.”
“I—okay.”
“Whatever you have to tell me, I don’t think it could change how I feel about you.” Her palm is warm against my cheek.
I close my fingers around hers, close my eyes, and try to smile. “I hope so. I honestly hope you’re right.”
Spoiler: she totally was.
Acknowledgements
Even from the beginning, I was always writing this for my publishers. The Book Smugglers were a dream publication for me, an indie outfit scaffolded on a vivid love for books. More than anything else, I wanted to be a part of their words, their world. I was in love with the short stories they’d put out. So, when the call for novellas came up, I practically fell over myself to write this. Thank you, Book Smugglers. For just being you.
(And for, you know, actually taking the novella.)
To everyone who was forced to listen as I rambled endlessly about the complexities of these genres, my worries about not getting it right, my slightly demented giggling: thank you.
And thank you to anyone who came into this blind, expecting more horror from my splatterpunk-y self. I bet this wasn’t what you were expecting, was it? I’m glad you stayed, though.
Inspirations and Influences
FOR THE LONGEST TIME, CHICK-LIT was my dirty secret.
I discovered Sophie Kinsella in college around the same time that my sister did. I remember coming home and finding a paperback on the sofa with a creamy lemon surface. Its title made me arch a brow. The Undomestic Goddess, it said. I’d snickered.
You have to understand that my alma mater was predominantly male. My classes had six girls, maybe eight. Some classes were all testosterone. The college I attended specialized in all things technology, taught only all things technology, and prototypical nerdbros were the status quo. As such, there were very specific ideas of cool. D&D was acceptable, Gilmore Girls was not. Video games were divisive: DDR made you effeminate (unless you can also breakdance), turn-based RPGs perched on the border, and multiplayer extravaganzas like DotA and Counterstrike meant you were the real deal.
And chick-lit? Chick-lit was social suicide.
So, I turned up my nose because that was what I was conditioned to do. Then, I sat down. Then, I decided to flip through the first few pages, just to see how bad it could get. Kinsella’s breezy, chatty prose was like nothing I’d read, a mouthful of meringue crumbled with blueberries and cream. The protagonist felt ridiculous, overdramatic. What sort of person runs away from a crucial professional mistake? Who walks into someone’s house and then allows themselves to be mistaken for the help? I was appalled, incredulous, mortified at this representation of my gender. Maybe, that’s why my peers couldn’t help but look askance at the girls. If this was the norm, well, maybe it was wrong.
But I ate up the book, anyway, fascinated by its domesticity, its fantasy of rising bread, of finding love even at your most imperfect. It was all so normal, so earnest. Years would pass before I realized why I’d loved it so much and why, despite the judgment of my peers, I would buy up her entire bloody backlist, inhaling her novels like gulps of summer air.
Chick-lit is, at times, what its naysayers describe it to be: a little silly, a little whimsical, full of unwise decisions, improbable joys. It demands that we believe that all a nervous marketing executive might be everything a high-flying CEO could want, that we can be friends with our bosses, that sometimes, everything falls into place and love, that bastard emotion, is all that we need. It is unrealistic, estranged from the cynicism of the real world.
Chick-lit also makes no apologies for women being women, or women being imperfect, or women wanting to take a step back from high-powered careers, to breathe in the country and the idea of being a wife. Good chick-lit doesn’t look down on make-up, BFFs forever, vintage clothes, body image issues, and impulse buys. Good chick-lit might make mothers out of their protagonists, but only because they wanted to be parents, and not because a grizzled protagonist needed someone to shepherd him through the tragedy of a wife’s death.
Most importantly, maybe, good chick-lit is about women, not women as tropes, as things to be coveted, things to be pitied.
And with Bearly a Lady, which, I guess, is more of a “paranormal rom-com,” I wanted to capture some of that. I wanted a story that wasn’t moored in the elegiac monstrosity that defines so much of my other writing. I wanted to create something funny, something compassionate. I wanted friendship, bad decisions, muffins, and moaning about a terrible social life.
Because there’s a place and time for darkness and grim ruminations, and there’s a place and time for bisexual werebears with killer wardrobes and a soft spot for pastries.
About the Author
Cassandra Khaw has written, written about, and been written about in a myriad of press releases. She does social media for Route 59 Games, freelances as a tech and video games journalist, and spends whatever time she has left writing fiction. Bearly a Lady is her first foray into romance, comedy, and people-not-dying-horribly. She can found on Twitter at @casskhaw.
About the Artist
Muna Abdirahman is a college student who also draws on the side. She is a illustrator who lives in Minnesota and works mainly with digital art.
Book Smugglers Publishing
The Novella Initiative
Keeper of the Dawn by Dianna Gunn (4/18/2017)
Reenu-You by Michele Tracy Berger (5/2/2017)
Bearly A Lady by Cassandra Khaw (5/16/2017)
Temporary Duty Assignment by A.E. Ash (5/30/2017)
Summer 2016
The Indigo Mantis by E. Catherine Tobler (5/24/2016)
Kid Dark Against The Machine by Tansy Rayner Roberts (6/14/2016)
How To Piss Off a Failed Super-Soldier by John Chu (7/12/2016)
Superior by Jessica Lack (8/16/2016)
The Life and Times of Angel Evans by Meredith Debonnaire (9/13/2016)
Fall 2016
Hurricane Heels: A New Series by Isabel Yap
A Convergence of Fairy Tales by Octavia Cade
Novels
The Extrahuman Union Series by Susan Jane Bigelow
Broken (3/22/2016)
Sky Ranger (6/28/2016)
The Spark (8/23/2016)
Extrahumans (10/18/2016)
Winter 2015
The Case of the Little Bloody Slipper by Carlie St. George (11/3/015)
The Price You Pay is Red by Carlie St. George (11/24/2015)
The Long and Silent Ever After by Carlie St. George (12/15/2015)
For more on the Spindle City Mysteries, visit booksmugglerspub.com/spindle-city-mysteries.
Fall 2015
Fighting Demons by S.L. Huang (9/22/2015)
The Bridegroom by Amelia Mangan (10/27/2015)
Spring 2015
The Merger by Sunil Patel (6/23/2015)
Luminous by A.E. Ash (7/21/2015)
The Vishakanya's Choice by Roshani Chokshi (8/25/2015)
Application for the Delegation of First Contact: Questionnaire, Part B by Kathrin Köhler (5/26/2015)
For other original tales of first contact, visit booksmugglerspub.com/first-contact.
Fall 2014
Hunting Monsters by S.L. Huang (10/7/2014)
In Her Head, In Her Eyes by Yukimi Ogawa (10/21/2014)
Mrs. Yaga by Michal Wojcik (11/4/2014)
The Mussel Eater by Octavia Cade (11/18/2014)
The Astronomer Who Met the North Wind by Kate Hall (12/2/2014)
The Ninety-Ninth Bride by Catherine F. King (12/16/2014)
For other original & subversive fairy tales, visit booksmugglerspub.com/fairy-tales.
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