Page 19 of Trees Take the Long View

That night, we just held each other for a while. It wasn't hard not to get down and dirty, because he really wasn't in the mood. He was too sad to really consider sex seriously. Not to mention we still needed to have that talk—and tonight definitely wasn't the night.

It still felt good to hold onto him, promising him silently, with every breath, that I would support him and keep him safe in whatever way I could. I might not be able to wrangle lawyers, judges, and organizations for him, but I'd be here for him...if he wanted me to be.

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I must admit I was curious to meet an owl shifter, since I never had before, but I respected his wishes and stayed away, not even following Dean so I could get a glimpse and a sniff of the guy. It seemed downright selfish to spent another day just enjoying the trees and quiet when Dean was working so hard, and so much was at stake, but an idea had half-formed for me last night, and I decided it would be a good use of time to try to follow it up.

First I looked up the judge; a quick search on my phone easily found a picture of him on a news article. Even shaking someone's hand, he looked mean, although perhaps I was biased. It was gross to think of him being out to get an owl shifter. Plenty of people still hated shifters, so I guessed I shouldn't be surprised. I still was, though.

Another search showed there were only three golf courses within convenient distance of the town. I only had enough data for a quick search, and figured I'd have to go to the library, or each one in turn, to figure out where the judge played. (He was an old rich white guy; of course he played golf.)

But luck was with me, when I happened to click on one of the golf course's promotional pages. There he was again, in a line of rich-looking white guys, wearing their golfing clothes and grimace-smiling at the camera as if they were one of the main selling points. Probably they were: connections to be made and pesky little legal issues to be circumvented, all that sort of thing.

Of course none of this actually told me a damned thing, but it was a place to start. Quickly memorizing the address, I headed out. It was a long shot but I had time to kill and there was no risk for Dean. Even if anyone figured out I was a shifter, and interested in the judge, there'd be no way to connect it to Dean, or to anything illegal—because I wasn't going to do anything illegal.

I just wanted to talk to a fox about a man.

I'm not saying foxes know everything that goes on in a town, but the ones I've met have had to keep their noses to the ground, so to speak, just to stay safe and survive around non-shifters. Fox shifters tend to get the short end of the stick, and sometimes they're even more wary of the law than my folks, which is saying something.

I've always gotten along with other sorts of shifters pretty well. Too bad I couldn't prove that to the owl. But I'd met enough foxes that I had a pretty good idea that a golf course with a judge was not the last place I should look.

Caddying is not the sort of job that most people crave, but it takes place outdoors and doesn't require any fancy degrees. I met a fox one time who told me he was pretty sure there was at least one fox at every fancy golf course in the country—and not just hanging around the sand traps. He was kind of drunk at the time, so I wasn't sure he was right, and not just shooting his mouth off to impress me. (I'm still not certain if he was trying to get into my pants or just felt like chatting. I don't think he knew, either.) Anyway it didn't seem like the worse place to check.

The judge being an avid golfer, if there was a fox or two working at his favorite club, they'd probably know as much about him as they could, just for their own safety. Especially since he apparently had a strong bias against shifters.

He would be the sort of guy you'd want to know the dirt on. Hell, that's what I was trying to find out. This was just a shortcut. I'd try something else if it didn't work; maybe talking with his staff. He was sure to have staff. And if they didn't have anything they were willing to spill, then I'd try something else—maybe just watching him for a while. I could be patient. It would just be nice to have a shortcut if possible. The owl didn't need this dragging on.

Even if I found out something juicy, there was no telling it would be any help. Like I said, a long shot. But I didn't have anything more important to do. It was worth trying.

As to whether there was anything to find out about the judge? Hell, he was trying to block a veteran's benefits—of course he was dirty as hell. And if he lived and worked in a place that was friendly to him and inclined to turn a blind eye to any shenanigans, or else simply couldn't remove him even if they wanted him gone, he'd probably gotten pretty brazen over the years.

Whatever they say about old people getting frail and whatnot, I'd never noticed old people suddenly start being more cautious and wary. Most of the time, for good or for bad, they start acting like they don't give a rat's ass. Maybe when your time is short you become a real badass.

It could be a good thing, like when my maternal grandmother stood up to the whole pack and told them they could kiss her ass if they thought for one second she was letting her little grandpups go away to some strict, military-style school, no matter if they were offering scholarships or not. And older people could be badass in other, far worse ways, too.

(By the way, it turned out my grandma made the right call there. The pack heard horror stories years later of how that school was mainly interested in reforming shifters to fit society better, and removing their allegiances to their families. The goal was teaching them to "focus on humanity" rather than their natural, duel natures. An updated version of trying to civilize the beasts—and thanks to her, our pack was spared the painful fallout from such hatefulness.)

I hoped I'd be the good sort of badass when I got old. But right now, I was just sneaking around, trying to dig up dirt on a golf enthusiast who hated owl shifters, veterans, or maybe both.

I spotted my fox first thing—but not, I think, before he spotted me.

He was cute in a sleek, slim-hipped way, although I could see from the cut of his hair, the emphasis of his golf shirt on revealing his biceps, that he was trying to look bigger, stronger—possibly straighter. Probably a good idea, since most golf courses probably didn't go out of their way to hire gay men. Much less shifters. He also had a "what can I do for you, sir" haircut—very short, 1950s-like. Altogether it worked for him: made him look younger than he was, eager to please, and harmless.

"And what can I get for you today, sir?" He made his eyes large as he asked me that. He was working as a club bartender at the time. Even though I'd put on dress pants, a white shirt, and tie, they must not pass muster, because one of the staff was eyeing me with more interest than I liked.

This part of it was open to the public, at least presently, so I'd have thought I'd get away with it. The fox at the bar was giving me that "I'm innocent and eager to please" look which I have to admit was good and probably fooled most people.

I leaned into the bar and said in a confidential drawl, "Bourbon on the rocks...and the dirt on a certain judge." I was teasing him, trying to act like I thought I was in a detective movie or something, but he didn't laugh in my face and tell me to get lost. His eyes widened and it took him a second to hide his shock.

Obviously he wasn't shocked I was a wolf; he'd known that the second I walked into the place.

"What, is that too plain-spoken for around here?" I asked.

Then he laughed. It was a very soft laugh, but a real one. "Not for me. Careful you keep your voice down or the man'll hear you." He glanced past me, but didn't nod. The guy was obviously still watching me. The fox, whose nametag said "Freddie," began to fix my drink. "Right now he's trying to decide whether to collar you to join the club, but I think he can't quite decide, based on your suit not quite fitting. I mean, they're desperate for new members, but you've got to be able to pay for it."

"My boyfriend's clothes," I said smugly. "I can't help it he's so muscular I barely fill in his shirts."

The fox bit down on his laughter. All that emerged was a snort. "Brag about it."