by Eden Winters
Oh, crap. Bad news coming in five, four, three…
“All your life, you’ve let others tell you what to do—me, your overbearing grandmother, and you accepted whatever we dished out. Stop doing that. You’re too nice a guy to let others run your life. Trust yourself to make decisions and stand by them. If someone else doesn’t like it, too bad. Do what’s right for Seth.
“Also, the next guy you’re with? Don’t judge him by me. Let him in. But if he means something to you, don’t give him up without a fight. I wish I’d focused more on us instead of me, that I’d tried harder to meet you halfway. I missed my chance and I know that. I consider you my friend, a good friend, and I hope in time you’ll feel the same about me.”
Their talk turned to other things, and when they parted company, Seth held out his hand. Michael pulled him into a hug. “Thank you,” he said. “I don’t know where I’ll go and what I’ll do now, but wherever I am, you’ll have a friend.” He drove off in a rental car to who knew where.
The more Seth thought of Michael’s words, the more sense they made. He needed to stop letting other people call the shots. He needed to take control and stop letting life simply happen. But how did one change the habits of a lifetime? By taking chances. From the parking lot of the Pitted Pig, Seth made a phone call.
“Dr. Livingston’s office,” a perky voice answered. Tiffany, the woman who’d changed his life forever. Strange, until now he’d never even considered a woman capable of changing his life so dramatically. Equally surprising was the fact the accident seemed more and more like a blessing rather than a curse. Perhaps he should be sending Junior’s flowers to her.
“This is Seth McDaniel. Can I speak to Monica, please?”
The woman squealed, and Seth snatched the phone away from his ear to avoid permanent damage. “Seth McDaniel! Oh my God! I’m sorry. I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am!”
Seth spent the next five minutes trying to calm the hysterical woman enough to get a word in edgewise. Remembering how softly his aunt had once spoken to him when he was upset, he waited until the wails subsided before venturing a gentle, “Tiffany?”
Sniff. “Yes?” Her voice wavered, as though she expected him to yell. Seth didn’t think he could be harder on the poor thing than she was being on herself. If what Dustin said was true, she couldn’t be expected to completely control her impulses yet, being a new shifter, right? Attempting to channel Auntie Irene from years ago, Seth lowered his voice, took a deep breath, and tried again. “I want to thank you.”
“Tha… thank me?” Sniffle. “For what?”
“If it hadn’t been for you, I might have gone back to Chicago without ever knowing the truth about my family.”
“And you’re not mad?”
“No, I’m not mad.”
“Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you! I was worried! And I—”
Having already spent far longer on the phone than he’d intended, he firmly but politely cut her off. “Nothing to worry about. No harm, no foul. Now, can I please—”
“You want to speak to Doc Livingston?” A bit of hopeful curiosity bled through her occasional snuffle.
“Actually, I’d like to speak with Monica Sims, if she’s available.”
“Monica? Why do you…. Never mind. Not my business. Hold one moment, please. And thank you again.”
“Hello?” a gruff voice asked a moment later, the harsh tones exactly what Seth needed to hear. Thank goodness one person in town wasn’t falling all over him, seeking his approval.
“Monica?”
“Who is this?” Ah, lovely, lovely growling.
“It’s me, Seth.”
“Oh, in that case,” Monica said, her voice softening for a second before resuming a hostile edge times two. “What the fuck do you want?”
Ah! Some might find it sick, but Monica’s disdain sounded like music to Seth’s ears. Maybe a country and western tune about a no-good cheating scoundrel who’d done run off with the truck, but music nonetheless. “I want you to have dinner with me.” He could go two rounds at the Pitted Pig, no problem.
“Me? Why me?”
“I’ve been a bit… overloved lately. I need someone to smack me back to Earth.”
Monica hesitated before responding, a little more enthusiastically than the occasion warranted, in Seth’s opinion. “I’m your woman!”
Seth got the impression that not much surprised Monica, but from her shocked tone, he believed he just had. He licked a fingertip and drew a tick mark in the air. That’s one for me!
Chapter 17
Seth waited on the back porch at The Pitted Pig, alternately chewing a hangnail and trying to convince himself that hurts! Cut it out!
He felt Monica’s presence long before her long blonde braids came into sight in the parking lot. She pulsed power, pissed-off attitude, and fuck, I’m hungry from a mile away. Seth tracked the trail of white-hot energy through the restaurant, easily imagining people scrambling out of the Valkyrie’s way.
I want that! Not Monica, but the command she possessed that made people stand up and take notice. A few months ago, he’d longed to be desired, but having two men competing for his affections was highly overrated. Now he preferred… respect.
Okay, maybe not what Monica had, which inspired submission and fear, and maybe not the respect Dustin commanded without actually posing a threat. Seth wanted respect with a healthy dose of “owns a can of whoop ass and isn’t afraid to open it” thrown into the mix. Used only as necessary.
Monica slumped into a chair across from him. “You’re paying.” Damn! Even while slouching her presence was commanding.
“Of course. To save us some time, let’s get a few things out of the way right now. Yes, I was a lousy great-nephew. No, I didn’t deserve a fabulous aunt like Irene. And yes, I’m from She-cargo, and have high falutin’ city ways. Did I miss anything?”
“Insufferable asshole.”
“Oh yes, how could I forget my favorite nickname? Since we’ve settled important matters, let’s order half a damned pig and proceed to harden our arteries while you answer my questions.”
A half hour and a pile of rib bones later, Monica unabashedly licked sweet-and-spicy sauce from her fingers. A smear marred one cheek. She either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Rearing her chair back on two legs, she rubbed her stomach. “Man, I’m full as a tick! Now that we’ve eaten enough for a small country, why did you want to meet with me, other than to smack you around and deflate your puffed-up ego?”
Seth grinned. “Because you don’t like me.”
The chair dropped back on four legs. Monica extended her palms in a warding-off gesture. “Don’t be talking no kink at the dinner table. I may be a big woman, but I don’t get into whips and chains and shit, no matter how many times I’m asked.”
She meant her comment as a joke, right? The mental image of Monica in dominatrix mode—not that it’d be much different than how he normally viewed her—wasn’t something he wanted in his head. “Junior and Dustin both have their own agendas when it comes to me, and let’s not even talk about my ex suddenly showing up. You’d like nothing better than for me to hop a plane out of here. Personally, I’d like to hop a plane out of here too. But you also cared about my aunt and have your own opinions about local politics.”
Monica surveyed him almost clinically. He half expected her to break out a scalpel and start dissecting. But where disgust had been the only expression he’d read so far, something new crept into place. A softening of the eyes. And did the corner of her lip twitch upward for a split second? Could that have been the beginnings of a… smile? “Why should I help you?”
Seth knew with that one question he’d broken through. It might take weeks or even years, but one day, without a doubt, Monica and he would be friends. “Because you’re just about the most invested person in this damn town I’ve met. Spill!”
In an uncharacteristic display of doubt, Monica nibbled her lower lip, giving her sauce-encrust
ed nails a thorough examination. “How much of the ‘Chandler-Frost Virus and You’ lecture did Dustin give you?”
After a quick belch into his napkin, Seth faced Monica with resolution. He needed to be honest if he expected honesty in return. “Dustin tells me there’s a good chance I’ll go furry on the next full moon.” He’d hoped with this meeting to open a door with Monica, maybe a crack. She flung it wide and barged on through, telling him far more than he’d dared hope for.
“The day you arrived you smelled like passel, only not very strong. Since you were bitten, your scent’s grown stronger. Even if I wasn’t sitting across from you now, I’ve smelled you on Dustin. I’ve picked up your scent in the grocery store without even having to lay eyes on you.” She tapped a fingertip against her nose. “Hypersensitive sniffers come with the territory.”
Since she’d been forthcoming up until now, Seth started in on the list of questions he’d compiled while wondering whether or not she’d show up. “Have you ever wondered, ‘Why possums’? I mean, I understand a bear or wolf, to help you defend yourself, but what advantage is there in turning into a possum?”
Monica shrugged a pair of shoulders any high school linebacker would be proud of. “Depends on the threat. If it were another animal, a bear or wolf might work, but what if it were a man? Say you’re running through the woods from an enemy. In prehistoric times, he might have a club, or in more recent years, a gun. You turn into a wolf and he kills you. Same with a bear, because you’re a threat. But if you turned into a possum and scuttled off into the underbrush, you’re home free.” While she spoke, she shredded a slice of Texas toast with her fingers, dropping the torn chunks back into the basket. “And I can’t tell you how many of our young folks get snapped up by certain government agencies that go by three letters.”
“What?” Seth couldn’t disguise a gasp. “The government knows about us?”
“Yep. And has a vested interest in keeping quiet. You think secret papers about Area 51 might cause a scandal? Wait until the public gets wind of the military using shifters for espionage.”
Whoa! Seth hadn’t even considered how useful a shifted possum might be. “How about the locals? Is everyone here a possum shifter?”
“Not everyone. But those who aren’t have family ties, their own folks to protect.”
Her words made a weird kind of sense, in a twisted, sci-fi, B-movie kind of way. “What happens now, to me?”
“Now we wait until the next full moon. If you shift, you’ll be expected to assume responsibility for the passel.”
He’d been afraid the “gift” came with strings attached. Unfortunately, the only thing, or rather person, he wanted to be attached to was Dustin. “Do you like football?”
Monica gave him an incredulous glare. “I haven’t missed a Possums game in five years.”
“Good. Now imagine you’re the quarterback, and you try to snap the ball to me.”
The brow slowly rose over Monica’s right eye.
“You hold it out, I ignore it. What do you do?”
“Give it to somebody else?”
“Bingo! I don’t want the ball! Give it to Dustin.”
Monica’s inelegant snort startled Seth. “He doesn’t want it either. We’re about to lose the game to the opposing team.”
Dustin didn’t want leadership? Then why send workers to the house, or otherwise try to butter Seth up? “Why not give it to Junior, if Dustin doesn’t want it and I don’t want it?”
Monica inclined her head toward a boisterous family of six dining a few tables away. “Do you want to walk over there and tell Mr. and Mrs. Sanders that they have to leave the town they both grew up in because they’re not ‘one of us’?” Her indigo gaze settled on a man with long, sandy-blond hair pulled back in a tail and a woman bearing a noticeable baby bump. “Andy there is Reynard of the local fox skulk. Most of his older shifters are refugees from a vicious power struggle and have nowhere else to go. Want to go tell him and his pregnant wife you’re pulling the rug on Irene’s promise of protection?”
Seth eyed the two families in question. “Why does Junior want to get rid of them?”
“It’s not just them. He’d give me the boot too, for not being ‘full blood’. That's the main reason I’d never want to be Jill, the other being that I couldn’t tolerate folks calling me at all hours to solve their problems for them. In case you haven’t noticed yet, I’m not known for suffering fools lightly.” An understatement if Seth ever heard one.
“You’re not a full blood either,” she continued, “but the name McDaniel carries a lot of weight around here.” Monica spat a toothpick onto her plate. “Dustin didn’t want the job, but he’ll take it to protect the innocent.”
From the sounds of the job description, Seth wasn’t sure he wanted the job either. What the hell had his family gotten him into? A bit of light showed at the end of the proverbial tunnel. “Can’t I name Dustin leader? Give up my claim?” Richard had hinted at such, hadn’t he?
“I wish it were that easy. The passel might demand that he challenge you, and he won’t, because it’s a mark of disrespect. Junior would, and he’d fight dirty.”
A boulder lodged in Seth’s throat. “What do you mean, ‘challenge’?” The lawyer had mentioned challenges, but hadn’t fully explained.
“Exactly what you think I mean. A fight, in possum form. Sometimes to the death.”
What the hell had Seth walked into? “My choices are either man up or nice folks get screwed?” Oh my God! When’s the next flight out of this crazy-ass place!
Monica took her frustrations out on another piece of toast. “And don’t get any bright ideas about simply handing the town to Junior on a silver platter, those folks over there be damned. He’d lose face, and in losing face, he’d lose support. We’re a rather old-fashioned group, I’m afraid. He’ll issue a formal challenge.”
Maybe Seth still stood a chance of dodging the bullet, though he hated to throw Dustin under the bus in his stead. “What happens if I don’t turn?”
“Dustin’ll announce his intent to be leader, Junior’ll challenge him, and I’ll hope for the best. But the challenge might not happen if enough of Junior’s supporters are swayed to Dustin’s side, or vice versa.”
“Which is why they’re both showering me with gifts,” Seth grumbled. “Junior’s hoping to bend me to his will so he can take over, and Dustin wants me to stay here and fulfill my supposed role as a McDaniel.”
“Hey!” Monica managed the closest thing to a smile Seth had ever seen on her face. “Enjoy it. You didn’t ask for gifts; they gave them.”
“I’m a McDaniel.”
“So?”
“I found a notebook my mom wrote. She and Dad were proud to be McDaniels. Aunt Irene was proud. I’m the family screwup.”
Monica gave Seth a conspiratorial wink. “Yes. But you can change.”
“How?”
“By pulling yourself up by your bootstraps and being the man you were born to be.”
What? Was she actually trying to help him? “I’m worried I’ll fuck everything up.” He expected scorn and ridicule; what he got ran beyond his wildest dreams.
“I’ll teach you.”
Seth regarded Monica with suspicion. Did he dare hope she’d be on his side? “But you hate me.”
“No, I don’t. I don’t like you, and in my book you’re an ungrateful slacker, but I don’t hate you.”
“Why help me if you don’t like me?”
“Number one: I may not like you, but I don’t like Junior more. Number two: I love Dustin, and he makes an excellent second-in-command, but he’s a doctor and healer first and foremost. He’s not a fighter or a leader.”
Seth couldn’t have been more shocked if Monica had fallen to her knees and proposed. “And you think I am?”
“You can be. Underneath all that city-slicker exterior beats the heart of a McDaniel. Or so Irene always said. If it’s under there, I owe it to Irene to help you find it.”
> At least she wasn’t offering to take the direct route through his chest.
And she wasn’t finished yet. “A wise woman once told me that you don’t have to be perfect to lead; it’s more about your heart than your head, and about caring for your people. And you don’t have to be smart, just smart enough to know where you’re lacking, and surround yourself with folks who’ll take up the slack. Dustin played that role for her, and he’ll play if for you, too, I’m willing to bet.”
Seth took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “The parcel Aunt Irene’s house sits on goes back in my family for hundreds of years.”
“Yep.”
“I have family buried out there.”
“Yep.”
Although still not totally convinced the whole town didn’t suffer from mass hysteria, he finally made up his mind. “I want your help.”
Monica beamed a genuine smile. It scared the hell out of him.
After she left, he paid the bill, gathered the torn bread into a napkin, and made his way down the pond to feed the ducks and digest Monica’s words along with his meal.
Junior wanted power. The gifts and phone calls were a means to an end. He didn’t care about Seth. And though Seth hadn’t befriended many townsfolk, he didn’t believe any of them should be forced from their homes. Who wanted an elitist who thought he was better than everybody else running the show? That sounded like some kind of crazed dictator to Seth. Junior didn’t want him for himself. Did anyone?
An image of Michael flashed before his eyes, a man he thought he’d loved at one time. They’d finally agreed on one thing: they really weren’t meant for each other. Michael wouldn’t be content living in Georgia; he liked the city’s nightlife too much. He’d never give up nightclubs, valet parking, and room service to live a quiet life in a farmhouse.
Wait. Live a quiet life in a farmhouse? Since when had Seth decided not to go back to Chicago? He imagined his lonely apartment, empty, awaiting new tenants, and felt not one ripple of remorse. Next, he envisioned the farmhouse, a red and black “For Sale” sign in the yard. His heart ached, particularly when his mind formed images of families tramping through, criticizing the things that, despite the many years of separation, Seth still valued. “The ceiling’s too high,” he heard an imaginary potential buyer screech. “It’s too far from town! Hardwood floors! Let’s get some carpet in here!” Seth cringed, for the polished floors were the house’s best feature, in his opinion.
