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Chapter eleven

Roan

After running away from the café last night and over to the Bookstore, I word-vomited everything to Maisie and Barnaby.

They’re the only two in town I’d consider personal friends and confidants.

The Lumzags are wonderful, but I’m too embarrassed to ask Connie if a hole-in-the-wall is what I think it is.

Beyond just being physically older than me, she seems to know everything.

I don’t want to look silly or like a perv by asking her about glory holes in Hallow’s Cove.

Maisie is the one who talked me off the cliff of despair.

The guilt I felt for flirting with them, the worry about cause a rift in their relationship, all the fear I’d had built up in my head over nothing had resulted in one long crying session into her cold, vampiric shoulder as her husband stood there awkwardly, waiting to hand me tissues to blow my nose.

“Wolven are a very traditional and ritualistic species,” Barnaby had instructed me, stacking book after book onto the desk in the back room of the shop.

“Less secretive now, but they don’t advertise their whole way of life like some.

I can assure you they form triads or packs, rather than a pair like many monsters. ”

I nodded, unbelievably tired and relieved all at once, like the anxiety of being a potential homewrecker had finally stopped chasing me and I was getting my first easy breath. A lot of the titles presented were self-help books, and I tried not to take that personally.

“Sounds hot,” Maisie agreed. “Mitch’s always been super nice to me when I’ve been to the café. He just lets me sit and smell the goodness.”

“And Clay is a good being. Honestly, the only reason we don’t socialize more is because he works those odd baker’s hours. He and I have gotten into many heated discussions during town hall meetings.” Barnaby nods, holding up a bin for me to throw away the used tissues I’m clinging to.

“Look, my unqualified advice, as someone who did the whole miscommunication trope,” she says. “Be up front with these guys. If they are serious, they’ll like you as you are.”

Maisie had been right.

Mitch’s warm hand on mine makes all the anxiety seem stupid now as we sit on the worn couch by the window, watching the sunrise.

Some of the knots in my chest loosen as I look at him in the warm light streaming through.

His fur glows, his oversized hoodie and adorable slippers making him look more like a soft toy I want to cuddle all day.

He takes a slow, appreciative sip of his coffee and I do the same to my tea.

Darjeeling.

“Is it right?” he asks, a nervous flick of his ears.

“I can’t believe you found any in town,” I say, breathing in the almost spicy, floral scent.

“Clay ordered it special. He’s a big softie like that.”

“And what about you?” My fingers tease the short fur around his paws, sliding through downy hairs.

“Aw well, ya know, I’m just the hard, silent type. Big strong monster man.” He grins, teeth all on display as he jokes.

Heat rises in my cheeks as a saucy question pops into my head, but I take a sip of my tea instead. He doesn’t need to know I’m thinking about his hard cock now. It’s only when Mitch’s nose twitches that I realise he can smell something more than just coffee and my deodorant.

“What are you thinking about?” he whispers, leaning in a little closer.

The sunlight catches on his fur, a burning slash of red through soft brown, and I’m in awe at how beautiful he is. He shifts, pulling his knee up to the couch so we’re facing one another. My heart flutters even as I lean into him.

“I’m thinking about you.”

“Thinking about me how?” he pushes, waiting for me to admit that I’m horny.

I don’t know what’s gotten into me recently.

Something about this town has turned me into a sex-hungry animal.

Every night I’ve been here has been spent with my fingers stroking my clit until I’m ruining another pair of panties to the thought of Mitch and Clay fucking me.

It’s a miracle that laundry at the motel doesn’t cost me an arm and leg.

“Seems like a pretty heated thought, with how much you’re blushing,” he whispers.

“If only you knew,” I say, trying to play coy like I was raised, like how everyone else I’ve known has flirted.

“Tell me.” The intensity of his gaze is there and honest, but none of the teasing.

There is only one other person in the café now, and he’s sitting in the far corner drinking his third cup of coffee.

Still I lower my voice, leaning so close to Mitch that our noses nearly touch.

While I’m more tempted than ever to tell him I’m thinking about his hard dick, I’m closer to kissing him.

I want to feel his soft lips on mine. Will his short fur tickle?

There’s only one way to find out. I just need to lean in closer.

“Did you know Wolvens can smell their mates? That’s how they form packs,” he blurts out. “Most beings sorta smell the same, but mates smell different.”

I pull back just an inch. “What do I smell like?”

“Blueberries.” He smiles, his warm breath fanning across my neck and making me shiver. He breathes in deeply, cold nose ghosting over my skin. “But there is something more under it that’s thick and syrupy.”

I shift in my seat as arousal seeps into my panties.

My stomach roll catches on my leg when I push up on Mitch’s thigh to smell him the way he has me.

He smells warm, homely. Good and comforting and delicious.

A rhythmic thump sounds behind him when I linger, trying to breathe him in and figure out what he smells like to me so I can surround myself in it all the time.

“Roan.” He clears his throat with a nervous little laugh.

I sit back down and realise I might have stepped over some unknown boundary. Mitch pulls a pillow over his lap, but I don’t miss the bulge in his loose sweatpants. He doesn’t look away from me, even as my cheeks heat uncontrollably.

“Clay says I smell like vanilla and sunshine,” he offers.

“He’s right,” I agree, because suddenly that’s one of my favourite smells, one I want to wake up to every morning and fall asleep next to.

I sit full back, giving him some space if he needs it, and honestly, because I need it too. My body is hot, blood pounding through me faster than it has in a long while. Seeing Mitch react to me turns me on. That could be addictive.

“I don’t think if I say what I was thinking earlier, it would help either of us right now,” I tell him, even if I still want to flirt.

“Save it for later then.” He sighs, a little dramatic.

A giggle comes out of me that sounds so obnoxious, I cover my mouth. “Sorry, sorry.” I take a deep breath.

“Why?” he asks, cocking his head to the side. “S’cute when you laugh. Like a little hyena.”

My mouth drops open in shock, and he barks with laughter until he snorts, which in turn makes me laugh again. It’s contagious and stupid, but I feel more relaxed than I have in a very long while.

In the few days leading up to our first date, I spend a lot of time staring out the windows of the Art Centre at the coffee shop.

The yellow stucco walls are fading in some places.

The flower bed out front has had small gardening work done to it.

The dark soil looks freshly turned and there are tiny signs placed around it.

And for all my daydreams and staring, they have both been leaving messages for me in the upstairs window.

They’re goofy and hard to read, but when I’m taking a break from cleaning the top floor of the centre, they always make me feel giddy with anticipation.

When I’m getting too into my head, I look out the window and smile at whatever doodle one of them has done.

Today’s message comes with a suggestion.

“Wear your boots” is scrawled in thick marker with blue tape holding it to the window.

Around it is a series of Post-It notes that make a heart.

I’m not sure I know what that means for our date tonight, but I’m excited.

It’s not like I was planning on wearing my rubber clogs like I am now, but Clay taking the lead like this is doing something for me.

I shove one final bag of rubbish out of the back door, heaving it up and over the railing, and let it fall into the giant bin. I noticed Ted moving the industrial bins closer to my building and took that as a sign that he didn’t really think I was a scam artist anymore.

The final space of the Cove Arts Centre was described to me as a studio when I accepted the role.

Mayor Louise and I had many conversations about what I’d be walking into, because neither of us really knew what state it would be in.

It wasn’t exactly the easiest to walk through for her to take pictures, but she assured me it was safe enough.

She had the original floor plans scanned and emailed over to me after I signed.

The second floor looks more like a loft than a workspace now.

There is a kitchenette that was fitted sometime in the sixties, before the centre was boarded up.

The bathroom is full vintage, down to the tiles.

Immediately, I snap a few pictures to show to Connie.

She’s going to love this. Maybe she and the boys would be interested in repurposing this stuff for their rooms, or maybe she’ll know if it’s worth anything.

The bathroom downstairs, while still old, doesn't have this feel, this sense of life.

I wipe my brow with the sleeve of my ratty university t-shirt, making a note in my sketchbook. This could be good to use for a portrait background series—how we as individuals bring life into dead spaces, but that life can linger even after we’re gone.

On the cycle home, I forget about my ideas for work.

My belly churns with nervous energy, a long list of things I need to do before I’m ready for my date with Clay and Mitch.

I couldn’t ask Connie about glory holes around town, but I did tell her I had a date tonight.

She’d already known, because Ted told Lerana, who told Gwen at the game shop, who told Mrs. Harrison at the inn, who told some guy named Jake who has a shop that does something, who told Rick, who told her.

It’s a long, winding game of telephone that had ended with Connie and her adult daughter Bula barging into my room asking me if I had agreed to elope with Mitch because Clay was dying.

I damn near fell off my bed laughing before getting them straightened out.

In the end, I’d promised to give them a little fashion show before the guys came to pick me up.

“Where are you going again?” Bula asks, picking over the minimal jewellery I brought with me.

“I don’t know. They’ve been keeping it a secret.” I have to shout from the bathroom as I flick another layer of mascara on.

“Where could it possibly be that we don’t know about?” Connie huffs, seated on my closed toilet lid. “You’ve got Ted’s, and there’s that strip mall by the highway that’s got pizza, Chinese, and tacos.”

I try not to make a face. It shouldn’t matter where this first date is, because it's the thought that counts.

They want to take me out, and that should be enough.

Nothing wrong with tacos and a drive. Maybe they want to go stargazing or something.

I saw a pamphlet for that when I got a town map, I think.

“Oh,” Bula coos. “Maybe they want to cook for you?”

Now that does sound like a dream. I could use a real meal, one that isn’t from a microwave cup or haphazardly pressed with an iron. But why would I need to wear boots for that? Oh fuck, what if they want to take me on a hike? I’m not one of those outdoorsy girlies. I like the inside.

“I’m trying to keep an open mind,” I say. “I’m not the most experienced with dating.”

“How old are you again?” Connie asks.

“Twenty-six, but I think I’ve gone on like three whole dates in my life that weren’t arranged by my mother.”

Those I had been on were plenty. For about a whole year while I was at university, my mother had me on a monthly rotation of men and monsters of good breeding who she deemed worthy of being tied to our family.

I finally put a stop to it when one of the human men tried to force himself on me after I told him I wouldn’t be going on a second date.

It’s a miracle I escaped from her watchful eye at all, now that I think about it. But then again, I’ve been dodging every phone call, email, and text message she and my brother have sent me.

A walkie-talkie goes off, and Connie practically jumps out of her skin. “Why the fuck are you using those?” she asks Bula.

“Because they’re fun, Mama. How else were Jazz and Rilly going to tell us the boys have pulled up?” she squeals with delight.

Sweat breaks out under my armpits, and I start running around to put on any final touches. Boots, extra perfume, the earrings Bula picked out.

“Is this okay?” I ask in a panic, showing them the outfit I’ve had on for almost thirty minutes. “I don’t look gross?”

“You look great, hun. Knock ‘em dead.” Connie smiles, her tusks teasing the corner of her cheeks.

Bula hands me a small clutch that she’s lending me for the evening. “I put extra condoms in there,” she whispers. ”Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”