Chapter 1
Doug
“ Y ou have got to be shitting me.”
But no, alas, the steaming pile of actual dog shit at my feet is very, very real.
Average, human, mundane dog shit. And here I am, squatting next to it like a deranged dog whisperer, as I wait for my latest cheating bastard of a target to make his move.
Fuck. My. Life.
I know better than to take cheating spouse gigs. They’re always messy, always depressing, and always smell like disappointment and cheap perfume. But what can I say?
Daddy’s got bills.
Ugh. Note to self: Never refer to yourself as “ Daddy ” again, you creepy tool.
Anyway, the guy I’m tailing?
A painfully average human. Guy is rocking his dad bod, thinning hairline, but he might overdose on that complex he’s got.
You know the kind. Supreme confidence inflated by protein shakes and delusion.
He’s mated to a Witch, and she’s the one who hired me, convinced he’s stepping out on her.
Spoiler alert: he is.
I watch him now through the zoom lens of my camera, laughing a little too loudly as he wraps his arm around a petite blonde whose aura is so non-magical it’s practically beige.
Not his mate. Not even close.
Click-click. Gotcha.
Before you go clutching your pearls, let’s get something straight.
I’m a Wolf. A lone one. A PI by trade and a predator by nature.
I don’t enjoy this kind of work, but it pays. And unfortunately for me, rent doesn’t magically pay itself just because I’m morally conflicted.
Do I wish I was investigating art thefts and corporate espionage instead of photographing seedy hookups at eight PM on a Thursday? Sure.
But that’s not the world we live in.
This world is corrupt, dirty, and full of people who screw up spectacularly. I’m just here to document the aftermath.
Could I ask my old Pack for financial help? Maybe.
But I left that life behind two decades ago, and let me tell you, no one throws a goodbye party for a lone Wolf. Except maybe with pitchforks.
Rafe Maccon, our local Alpha and all-around decent guy, let me go clean.
No blood, no fuss, no banishment flames.
I stuck around Jersey, rented an attic apartment that smelled like mildew and unfulfilled dreams, and built a life of sorts.
I don’t cause trouble.
Not unless someone pays me to.
Sometimes that means getting punched by a cheating husband who doesn't appreciate being caught mid-thrust.
Sometimes it means out-running a furious Siren with boundary issues.
But hey, not my fault. I’m just the messenger with receipts.
Do I have friends? Not really. But if we’re being generous, there’s Horace.
Grizzly Bear Shifter. Former hacker, now head tech guy for Date to Mate . He throws me gigs now and then.
Background checks.
Digital digs.
The occasional stakeout.
We have an unspoken agreement. He pays well. I don’t make him talk about his feelings. It's beautiful.
I like to think we’re friends, in a gruff, if-you-touch-my-honey-cake-I’ll-rip-your-arm-off kind of way.
He’s newly mated, actually. Big, growly Bear with googly eyes.
It’s disgusting.
But, I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder.
Mated .
Imagine that.
I shake my head, trying real hard not to inhale, because let me tell you—that pile of dog shit is still waging chemical warfare on my nostrils.
Finally, Dad Bod McMistress exits the house of ill repute, looking entirely too pleased with himself for a man who just cheated on a Witch.
I mean, really? That’s how you end up as a toad. Or a smoking crater.
I follow at a safe distance, hugging the shadows.
He lives close enough that I don’t bother with my truck. I’ll circle back for it once I’m done playing sneak-and-snoop.
Idiot is shitting where he eats, or rather, fucking someone else way too close to his own home.
At least the guy has the basic decency to swing by the local bodega for a bouquet of half-wilted roses and a heart-shaped box of chocolates.
A guilt offering for his magical wife, no doubt.
Another spoiler alert: it’s not gonna help.
I watch them reunite. Him laying it on thick, her wrapping stiff arms around him like she’s hugging a tax deduction.
Yeah, that’s gonna be a fun conversation later.
Satisfied I’ve got what I need, I head back to my ride, the smell of betrayal, and possibly dog crap, still clinging to my clothes.
About ten minutes later, my phone lights up.
Esmerelda Goyle, my client.
Cue the dramatics.
“ Well? Was he with someone? ” Her voice is muffled, breathy.
I picture her pacing, probably clutching a black tourmaline crystal in one hand and a bottle of merlot in the other.
I hesitate for a millisecond. Not because I’m squeamish, but because I know this’ll sting.
Still, she paid for the truth, and in this business, truth ain’t always pretty.
“I tailed Mr. Goyle from his office on Park Avenue to a secondary residence where, unfortunately, your suspicions were confirmed.”
There’s a pregnant pause.
“ That louse! That bastard! ”
Ah, the classics.
Insults like that never go out of style. And really, I can’t say I blame her.
This is why I don’t get involved. I am a one and done deal kinda Wolf.
No relationships.
No risk.
Just a single guy who occasionally likes to shift into my fur and run through the park.
Sure, I’ve had dames on the go, but nothing serious. Never that.
And Goyle and her wayward hubby are exactly the reason why I prefer to be single.
And when the women I date get clingy?
When the women I date start with the whole my boyfriend this and that shit. Then it’s my cue to leave.
No, thank you.
But back to my client.
“All photographic evidence has been uploaded to your file, Mrs. Goyle. You’ll receive the password as soon as the remainder of your invoice is settled. Thank you for hiring Wolf PI.”
“Fine, yes, I’ll pay right now. I need to see those pictures. And then I’m going to ki?—”
Click.
I end the call before she finishes the thought. I’m not about to play witness to a premeditated crime of passion. I do not do courtrooms. Or orange jumpsuits.
Phone buzzes again.
This time, it’s a text from Mrs. Giancarlo, my landlady, and the closest thing I’ve got to family.
Sweet old Kitchen Witch with a spine of steel and the world’s draftiest two family home masquerading as an apartment building in all of Newark.
She's holding onto that property like it’s a winning lottery ticket, but her jerk of a nephew’s trying to swoop in and have her committed just to snatch the deed.
Not on my watch.
I promised her I’d buy the place outright, fix it up, and let her live the rest of her days exactly how she wants.
Herbal tea, cats, haunted basement and all.
I figure she’s earned it.
But dreams like that? They don’t come cheap.
I shoot her a quick text.
All’s good, Mrs. G. Working on it. No one’s sending you anywhere.
Then I start the truck and grin when I hear that blessed ding of a payment received.
Mrs. Goyle came through. One step closer to saving the house.
Just a few thousand more, and I’ll have the deed in hand.
Then maybe— just maybe —I’ll do something reckless.
Like sign up for that ridiculous Date to Mate app.
Horace did it and somehow ended up mated and blissfully obnoxious.
Who knows? Maybe the Fates have someone for a lone Wolf like me.
Or maybe I’ll just end up swiping on a bunch of vampires who don’t do sunlight and Witches looking for a sacrificial softie .
Either way, it’s gotta be more fun than tailing cheating normals and dodging dog feces.