by Casey Morgan
I probably will if this play crashes and burns. If I make absolutely no impression during the Christmas festivities, I will most certainly lose my mind then. As well as any hope of doing anything worthwhile with my theater degree.
With a heavy sigh, I return to unlocking my phone and looking at my screen. One new voice mail. What? The stupid thing didn’t even ring. I dial voicemail and prepare for more bad news.
“Hello, Ms. Winterborn,” a strange man’s voice with a slight southern drawl speaks to me from the recording.
I immediately feel my heart rate increase. My breathing slows to a crawl and sweat begins to form on my fingers and the palms of my hands as I grip the phone and listen to the message in its entirety.
“Ms. Winterborn. My name is Cole Grayson. I’m interested in helping out with your production between now and Christmas. I am good with theater, having studied it to a great extent in my youth. More importantly, though, I am interested in helping with the heavy lifting. I have good, strong muscles. I am new to the area and I would love nothing more than to help launch your inaugural show. Please call me if you are still interested or in need of assistance in this, or any other matter. I’ll be waiting for your call. Goodbye.”
His voice is deep and resonate. It’s sound sends electricity through my veins. I feel lusty. There is an intoxicating feeling to his voice, to him, I think automatically, even though I don’t know who he is. This… Cole Grayson.
Even from just listening to his words, there’s something about him that’s overwhelming and suffocating, but in a hungry, delightful way. It’s a way I’m not sure I quite understand but I’m eager to experience more.
Cole’s call has me grinning from ear to ear and stumbling over my own fingers to call him back. After days full of lazy or clumsy workers, his promises are exactly what I need.
My call goes to his voicemail and I am disappointed. I leave him a quick reply.
“Hello, Mr. Grayson. As it happens, I am in dire need of people to come and help. As of today, most of my original crew has abandoned the production, for one reason or another.” I can’t help it, I start flushing with heat and excitement, just replying to him. “I could really use your extra pair of hands.” I could use his strong, capable muscles as well, but I don’t dare say that, or allow myself to think about it for more than a second. “If you are still interested in giving your time, know that I am willing to pay at least twelve dollars an hour at this point. Please give me a call back as soon as possible. Have a great evening, and I look forward to hearing from you!”
I hang up and stare at my phone for a bit. I wish he had answered. I feel a combination of trepidation and excitement. It’s a mixture of joy and fear, as if I’m about to find myself at the edge of a precipice, or in the mouth of a terrifying beast. I shake my head trying to get the feeling to go away.
I’m just about to get up off the stage where I’ve been sitting, and go and find Sarah in the main office, when I see her approaching from one of the many side doors leading into the theater. She’s looking a lot more relaxed and put together than I feel. But then again, that’s the reason I wanted her on my team. That’s the reason I wanted her to make this company with me.
She’s the levelheaded one. The calm to my raging storm.
“Congratulations,” Sarah says, drawing up to the stage, and smiling, “you haven’t gone completely off on someone tonight.”
Sarah has dyed purple hair (it’s naturally a light brown, chestnut color) done in a Mohawk, and these insanely-bright green eyes. They’re so bright, that when I first met her, I thought she wore contacts.
She smiles and leans against the edge of the stage. She knows my infamous temper. Plus, she knows how I want things done my own way, on my own timeframe.
She laughs now. “With these guys, I would’ve dunked someone’s head in the toilet by now,” she admits. “And I’m the calm one.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “You are.”
I fall silent directly afterward, my mind wandering between two extremes. On the one end is the disaster I’m sure my show is going to be in a few days at Christmas, and on the other is the alluring presence of Cole Grayson, who still has yet to respond to my call.
I look at Sarah, wondering how far my mask of civility is going to fall. “I don’t know how any of this is going to turn out, and I wish to hell I did. I wish I didn’t feel like it was going to be such a disaster.”
She must see the devastation being wrought on my “calm and collected” façade, because she wraps an arm around me. She hugs me.
In front of me, I see some of the prop people misplacing something, then nearly breaking a piece that’s just been finished and needs time to dry. I jump off my perch, and out of Sarah’s hold.
“All right!” I yell. “Just for that, you all had better hope you don’t have any lives to go back to tonight or tomorrow!” My voice booms in the space. It seethes around my lips. I’m breathing heavily, as if I’ve just run a marathon, even though I’ve only said a few words. “You all had better plan to stay into the wee hours of the morning, if you are going to keep pulling stupid stunts like that!”
The prop people scurry away from me, and out of the room, murmuring various apologies. But they break yet more things on their way out.
Sarah pulls on me, as my useless workers clear out of the room. “I think it’s time for you to pack it up and go home for tonight, Ava,” she says. She hugs me again, though I’m stiffer now than I was. I’m tight with my frustration and my numerous anxieties. Anxieties that’ve really started to take hold, and nip at me like a pack of wolves.
“Time for you to relax.” She nudges me, smiling. “Or get laid. You really need to find a good guy and get him to show you a good time. Get some of that creative anal retention out of you.” She sticks her tongue out and winks at this bit of dirty wordplay, but I’m not in the mood.
Get a boyfriend and get laid are easy things for her to say. She’s never had trouble making anyone interested in her. She’s not an angry mess like me. I’ve never had a boyfriend. No one has ever been interested. I’m almost twenty-six and still a virgin.
I roll my eyes.
Everyone always says I’m too uptight, and therefore too obnoxious for anyone to deal with, or I’m too ineffectual, too forgettable, and I make no impression whatsoever.
I really am damned if I do, damned if I don’t.
“You need to get someone in your life who can help you relax. And you need to trust in life and people more,” she adds, as if she’s now also my mother, telling me all the things I need to do.
I walk away from her, shoving my phone into the back pocket of my jeans. As I do, I’m livid. I try to tell myself it’s not because Cole hasn’t called me back immediately, and that I only got one taste of his energy before it ran away from me, but I know it is. I don’t want to acknowledge it because it seems silly. It was only one voicemail. I never should have gotten my hopes up over his convincing words.
Sarah catches up with me as I leave the main theater through the large doors, and we head through the lobby to the front door. The same lobby where we recently held a grand opening party back in the fall, when we officially launched. Even now, I can see some little pieces of confetti and streamers steadfastly remaining, as if to say don’t give up hope. But I don’t feel like listening to them any more than I felt like listening to Sarah.
“Sorry to bring up things that probably don’t make you feel any better,” she says, jogging to keep up with me (I have always been told I have a naturally fast stride), “it’s just because I care about you. I don’t want you to feel like the whole world rests on your shoulders or that everything is going to make or break because of you.”
I nod at her, although I’m barely listening. I’m still thinking about how it’s just my luck that the one person I really wanted to hear from won’t call me back. I fix my collar on my coat before pushing through the main doors and stepping out into the night.
“You should go
to a bar. Get a drink. Celebrate something tonight, Ava.”
I’m sick of hearing all her “should” and “you need to” lectures. Sarah stays by the door while I start walking across the parking lot toward my car. It’s an old beater, a Ford Tempo, but I like the style of it. Classic in its own late-nineties kind of way, much like me.
As I’m about halfway there, Sarah shouts to me, “You go enjoy. I’m going to finish up some work on some of these sets.”
I turn, feeling a bit of a smile fall across my lips. Not that she’ll see it, with it being already so dark outside, but it feels weird on my face, after so many hours of frowning.
“I know you’ll do a great job,” I yell. “You’re always impeccable and reliable with your work.”
Unlike nearly everyone else on this planet, I think, and climb into my car. I know I should show her more often that I’m grateful for our partnership. It’s hard for me to focus on the positive instead of the negative.
Shutting the door and buckling myself in, I take my phone out of my back pocket, and look at it again, searching it again for any new notifications. None. Not one from that Cole guy, that’s for sure.
I don’t want to admit it, but my heart drops into my shoes, where I know it’s going to get stepped on when I punch the gas.
Geez, Ava. It was one voicemail. I turn on the ignition, and carefully take off the brake. Why are you getting so worked up about it? Why is it affecting you so much?
Because I wanted him to be different, I answer myself. I needed him to be different, but I guess he’s just a flake like everyone else.
I sigh, driving myself out of the parking lot our theater shares with a few other buildings, such as a dry cleaner and a thrift store. I make plans to head to the one place I allow myself to drink.
It’s where I like to forget my troubles, and the fact that no one seems to have the same commitment, the same drive, as I do. It’s called the Great White Wolf, and it’s our small town’s one and only bar where I feel comfortable.
Chapter 3
Ava
The Great White Wolf’s beautifully-painted sign outlined in ice-blue neon catches my eye the minute I enter the parking lot and find a parking space. Only here do I feel welcome and at home. I park and get out of my car, wrapping my coat around me as tight as I can to keep out the frosty air. I’m determined to leave any thoughts of what mayhem and destruction might be going on at the theater with Sarah. I’m here to relax and breathe. I need to relax and breathe.
As I carefully step onto the icy sidewalk and head for the doors, which are teeming with people coming in and out celebrating during the holiday season, I also promise myself I’m going to keep my mind off Mr. Grayson. Just thinking of his name is enough to drive me crazy with confusion. I have to stop wondering why he didn’t call back, after he went out of his way to call me the first time.
I march to a wooden table close to the bar, one that’s amazingly still open despite the foot traffic, and put in my order for my favorite drink, a Timber Wolf, which is mint and coconut schnapps mixed with vodka. And yes, all the drinks and menu items at the Great White Wolf are in some way wolf-themed. It’s one of the things I love about the place. Wolves have always been my favorite animal.
As I get comfortable in my chair, I tell myself to forget all about this mysterious man. Still, as I drink my drink, I can’t help but think about him: his name, what he could be up to right now, what he could possibly look like, and if he will ever call me back.
And if he does, Ava? What are you going to do then? Are you still going to let him help you out? Or are you going to yell at him about not following up with you as quickly as you would like? Because you sure can be a control freak at times.
“Just hearing from him again would be nice,” I murmur under my breath, taking a large sip of my drink, and deciding I’m going to order some fried cheese curds. Here they are known as “Wolf Paws”, really for no other reason than the fact that they are arranged on the plate in the shape of one.
Just as I’m about to sigh and berate myself for this foolish longing I’m going through—this yearning I don’t understand, and which probably proves I just always end up falling for guys who don’t want me— I hear a noise. A yelping, barking noise.
It’s definitely coming from a wolf, and a wolf in distress at that. There are quite a few wolf packs who inhabit the forests that surround our town. Hunters and farmers call them a nuisance, making any excuses they can to shoot the majestic creatures. It’s heartbreaking when they do. I’ve always found wolves to be so noble and magical.
The bark sounds out again. The sound is a harassed one, and not out of heartache or separation. It’s shrill and painful, to the point where I can almost feel it in my bones. My arms and legs ache and my chest tightens.
In my heart, and I wonder how is it that people can even think about being cruel to animals. How they can’t feel what they’re doing to a creature like that, when that’s all I can feel now.
I bolt up from my seat, hardly aware of what I’m doing. As I make my way toward the front door, and toward the growing sound of the wolf’s suffering, no one else bothers to get up, making me think they really aren’t human.
I push myself out the doors and into the night, preparing my heart and soul for how hurt the wolf might be. The moment I’m standing vulnerable in the night air and chill, what I see in front of me disturbs me, but it also confirms my suspicions.
There is a large gray wolf in the bar’s parking lot. It’s larger than most wolves I’ve ever seen around here, but despite its size, it’s being cruelly and unfairly menaced by a pack of ruthless humans.
About seven farmers circle the wolf. Four of them hold rifles, aimed and ready. The others poke at the creature with pitch forks trying to rend its skin and cause it to bleed. These are men who are obviously drunk, and have nothing better to do with their small, pea-sized brains than pick at and harass a wolf. They are actually harassing him: lunging for him with then pitchforks, and then moving away. The men laugh and taunt it when it acts afraid, or snaps and snarls and tries to back away.
As one of the farmers moves in swiftly to strike the wolf, it growls and bites onto the man’s pitchfork. Its bite is like iron and no matter how much the farmer shakes, he cannot get the handle out of the wolf’s grip. He pulls and thrusts, trying his hardest to shake the beast free.
“Damn it! Let go you shit!” the farmer yells.
“Move back, Terry,” another farmer instructs. Once his friend is clear, he fires his gun close to the wolf. The bullet grazes the animal’s skin, drawing blood, but doesn’t enter its flesh.
The huge animal barks and growls. It hops away from the gun, only to be prodded by the farmer with a pitchfork behind it.
One of the guys steps forward and hits at the wolf. He strikes him on the muzzle with a big stick, before grabbing for its soft fur.
“Here, puppy, puppy, puppy! Here, you big shit head! Here, you big dumb wolf! I wonder what we could sell your pretty coat for.” These taunts come from all around, and from a various number of speakers.
The wolf snarls and exposes his teeth, as if he understands every word they say. Its anger is apparent in its amber eyes, but instead of striking out again, he tries to press himself against the wall of the bar, move alongside them. He tries to slink away, but they all block off his movement, and start taunting him again.
That’s when I feel compelled to step forward. “Hey!”
In that moment, my voice comes out louder than I’ve ever heard it – louder than I expected, given how tight and raw my throat feels. In my head, I was prepared for it to come out only as a squeak – as a pathetic, rasping nervous attempt at heroism. But that’s not what comes out. What comes out is a booming command, enough to get everyone’s attention.
“Hey, you! All of you! Leave that poor wolf alone!”
One of the gathered farmers, some douche bag actually holding an open container of beer, turns and swaggers toward me.
/> “What’s your problem, bitch?” He grins nastily at me. “Aren’t you enjoying the show?”
“This big boy is getting too close to town,” another farmer explains. “Can’t have wolves wandering into town. It’s too dangerous.” He turns around, and actually swings for the wolf again hitting it on the haunches with his pitchfork.
I leap forward, even surprising myself at my willingness to put myself in the middle of at least seven pairs of hands, all of which could decide to grab for me in an instant.
The wolf backs away, snapping his teeth. Backing away only puts him in range of the other tormentors, however. And they begin to kick and grab at him mercilessly.
As they kick at him, some of their movements making contact with the stomach of the wolf, it whines and hunches down, trying to protect itself. They continue to insult him. I really can’t take it anymore, so I run in a circle in front of the wolf and start shoving them away. I punch and claw at the farmers as if the wolf was part of my pack or one of my few friends.
“Get away from him right now,” I shout, doing my best to put myself in between the wolf and the guns. “Get away from him. Stop kicking him, or I swear to fucking Christ I’m going to call the cops on you and report you all for animal abuse! Multiple counts each!”
As I say this, the guys begin pushing me around and around their little circle, making fun of my hipster glasses. They grab them, succeed in cracking the lenses, and breaking a bit of the frame – just enough so that when they put them back on my face, they look horribly crooked and skewed.
“You’re not going to report anything to anybody, cunt!” one screams.
I don’t know who says it, and I don’t care. They resume pushing me around their little hellish circle of jerks. But I don’t care. I don’t see the wolf anywhere, it must have run off and that’s all that matters.
“The only thing you’re going to have to report are bruises on your body, and memories of how dumb it was for you to try to defend a stupid wolf, meanwhile leaving yourself completely open to our fists!” another farmer taunts.
