“Sounds good.” Isaac confirmed, sipping his coffee in the last hazes of drunkenness, “Man, I am going to have a wicked hangover in a few hours.”
Anthony eyed him for a few moments, then held out his free hand, and, in a voice that commanded attention, said: “Give me the keys to your friend's ride.”
Isaac complied before he even realised he was doing it.
“Hey!”
“I'm doing you a favour.”
“I wasn't gonna drive, you fuck!” This was probably a lie.
Back at Kellogg's van, the absence of their lead singer had roused the Saviour Flavour from their restful morning, and Tommy and Kellogg were sitting in the now open back end of the van, eating snickers bars. They gave Anthony a silent, mistrustful nod of recognition, and Anthony tossed the keys to Kellogg, who caught them in their non-snickers hand.
“So,” Said Isaac, with the lazy indifference of a man not in full time employment, “We're probably going to get back in the van and sleep for a few more hours, then maybe we'll go drive to the Toys 'R' Us or something? You wanna come with?”
Anthony eyed the back of the van mistrustfully, then gave Isaac a sideways glance, clearly wrestling with the desire to bond, and the desire not to ever be in the back of Kelloggs's van.
“Maybe I'll just... meet you at the Toys 'R' Us?”
“Suit yourself.” Tommy offered, critically, as he lounged against the wall of the van, “Later, Blue Ivy.” He threw his fingers up, to form a peace sign around his left eye. Kellogg nodded meaningfully.
“Yeah, bye Mr. Illuminati Lizard man.”
Anthony gave them a bemused wave, patted Isaac fondly on the shoulder, and got back into the back of his Rolls Royce.
The band did not, in fact, sleep in the back of the van. They dozed a little. Talked about the gig, and eventually abandoned the idea of going to the Toys 'R' Us, in favour of going to the Walmart. As they pulled into the car park, the long black body of the Rolls Royce pulled in behind them.
Tommy watched it, solemnly, from the passenger side window.
“I don't like him.” He said, finally and decisively.
“You know, he probably ain't actually in the Illuminati, huh Tommy?” Isaac protested.
“He's Anthony Eden,” Said Kellogg, “He's like, JK Rowling rich. He's so in the Illuminati.”
“Yeah, well I don't like him either, but some shit you don't get a say in. We're stuck with each other, me and him.”
“Reckon he probably had a say in it. No one made him bite you.” Tommy pointed out, as they pulled into a parking space, “I don't like him messin' with you.”
“I ain't gonna let him mess with me.”
“People with that kind of money,” Kellogg interjected again, “You can't stop 'em messin' with you, if they want.”
“You know, he got that werewolf hearing bullshit goin' on.” Said Isaac, “He's probably listenin' to the two of you shit talkin' him over here.”
“Okay.” Said Tommy, “Then if he's listenin' in? Fuck you, Anthony Eden. Suck my left one.”
“Yeah, Lizard boy.” Kellogg whispered, seriously, “Eat shit.”
The Rolls Royce parked beside them, and the band carefully piled out. If Anthony had been privy to their conversation, he certainly didn't show it. He was, in fact, the very image of mild manners and civility as they strolled towards the Walmart together. They browsed through to the frozen produce aisles, and he asked,
“Are you going to Toys 'R' Us after this?”
“Nah, this'll do us for the day.” Tommy replied tersely, as he perused the frozen yogurt selection.
They drifted past the milk and eggs, to dally around the preserves.
“Do you guys actually need anything from here?”
Anthony asked.
“No. I live with my parents.” Kellogg answered.
“I only eat at Dennys.” Tommy offered.
“My landlord trades me food in exchange for working night shifts in his shitty convenience store.” Said Isaac, “I have like, brand loyalty and shit.”
Anthony seemed to accept this, as they meandered to the chilled foods. He picked up some buffalo mozzarella, which Kellogg eyed suspiciously.
“You gonna shoplift that?”
“No, I just-- I thought maybe one of us should buy something.”
The band made assorted sounds of disapproval.
“That's consumer America for you. We should buy something. Like spending money is a moral imperative.” Tommy denounced.
“Yeah, plus, dairy? You know how messed up the dairy industry is, man?” Isaac shook his head sadly.
“You sicken me.” Said Kellogg.
“But,” Tommy added, “Maybe we should pick up some beers for the drive home.”
“Right.” Agreed Isaac, “Only I don't have any money.”
“Well I already spent mine on gas.”
“No problemo. We'll shoplift them.” Decided Kellogg.
“I'll buy beer.” Said Anthony, quickly, interrupting the train of thought that threatened to take all those involved off a cliff, “And I'll put the mozzarella back. Problem solved.”
“I don't need you to buy me beer, mom.” Isaac protested.
“Well I don't need to get caught with you stealing it, son!” Anthony finally snapped, and tossed the mozzarella irritably back on the shelf. Tommy and Kellogg seemed to relax a little, in response to the rising tension, but Isaac was growing irate.
“I don't need your coffee, or your breakfast, or for you to stop me drink driving, or for you to teach me how to be a werewolf!”
“Why are you shouting about being a werewolf in the middle of Walmart?” Hissed Anthony, furiously, “What is wrong with you?”
“What's wrong with me is I don't need your stupid money, okay?”
“What's wrong with you is that you're an idiot! I'm trying to be nice to you!”
“Well you failed! I don't like you, okay man? And I don't trust you, and I don't need your god damn beer money!”
He flapped his arms out dramatically, taking a decisive step away from the multi-billionaire. Unfortunately, Anthony Eden had enjoyed the full compliment of bullshit that he was prepared to put up with in one day. He closed the distance between himself and Isaac, grabbing the younger man hard by the arm.
“It doesn't matter if you like me, understand? It doesn't matter, if you want my money, or my friendship, or anything to do with me at all. You don't get a say in the matter!”
At this point, six foot seven bass guitarist, Scat-porn-Tommy, decided that the time was right to punch multi-billionaire werewolf Anthony Eden in the face.
Anthony let go of Isaac's sleeve, and staggered sideways, before rounding on Tommy with fire in his eyes.
“If you have a fucking problem with me, you brainless thug--”
“You show up on my best friend's doorstep and drag him out into the desert with you. You follow us around, show up after our gig, and then you lay your goddamn hands on him and tell him he don't get a choice about liking you? And you're stood there like I shouldn't have a problem with you?” Tommy leaned forward, every towering, human inch of him looming over Eden, “I don't give a damn what Illuminati frog-monster bullshit you think you've got goin' on, if you tried to pull that shit on Kellogg, you'd be a dead man right now. You get one warning – on account of Isaac got a way of inviting this shit sometimes – and this is it. You ever mess with my friend again, and I will kill your Yankee ass.”
Hanging around with Tommy, Isaac had always enjoyed a sense that if ever the need came for it, the taller man would probably kick someone's ass in defense of his honor and livelihood. In reality, however, Tommy was far more likely to use his height advantage to diffuse Isaac's battles, than to fight them for him. In fact, Isaac didn't think he could name a single time that his bassist had actually instigated a fight with anyone.
Anthony's mouth had dropped half open, his lips drawn back into a snarl that bared all his teeth. His eyes gleamed with a weird
inner light, and suddenly Isaac could smell pine needles and fresh, crisp air. Dirt and earth and fur and something old and awful and horribly familiar.
“I could tear your throat out where you stand.” He hissed through his teeth, “I could force my hand under your ribcage and push my fingers around your heart if I wanted too. If you attacked me, Tommy, you would die.”
“I don't know if you heard me earlier, Eden,” Said Tommy, solemnly, “But I'd like to cordially invite you to suck my left one.”
“And,” Said Kellogg, behind him, “Please eat shit.”
Anthony looked from Tommy, to Kellogg, then finally to Isaac, then, slowly, some of the otherworldly horror leeched out of his expression. His rage seemed to abate into something that was almost-- almost hurt.
“Fine.” He said, stiff and unhappy, “If you truly want nothing to do with me, then I'll leave you be.” His gaze flicked back to Isaac one final time, “Just-- Be safe, all right, Isaac?”
Something in his expression implied that he wanted to say more. That there might have been volumes yet to say, but he stiffened his resolve, and turned to walk away from them, leaving all of it unsaid.
The drive from the Walmart to Isaac's was long and quiet. The band felt subdued, after their explosive argument with Eden, and the more he replayed it in his head, the less certain Isaac felt that they had done the right thing.
“Kellogg,” He asked, as they pulled up outside his apartment, “Was that us being assholes, or him being an asshole?”
“Us for the first three quarters.” Kellogg answered, with a kind of calm, content certainty, “Him right at the end.”
“Yeah, but he was an asshole by biting you.” Tommy interjected, “And by trying to force you to like it.”
“Yeah,” said Isaac, “But I think he was trying to make up for it by buying us beer, and I just spat that beer back in his face.”
“We all did.” Said Kellogg, “I think our class warfare instincts just kicked in, and nature ran it's course.”
“Yeah.” Said Isaac, solemnly, “Still. I kinda wish we could apologise for being such a pack of dickholes or something.”
“So write a song about it.” Tommy suggested, “He's RSVP'd on Edentity to say he's coming to Night of the Living Shitkickers, So, y'know, if he actually comes, then he'll get to hear it.”
“He won't come.” Predicted Isaac forlornly, “Not after today. Thanks for the ride home, Kellogg.”
Kicking open the back door to the van, Isaac shrugged forlornly back to his flat.
—————
Over the next few days, Isaac pondered over the opening chorus of a punk apology song (Working title: Dickholes in the Walmart (Pissing on your Mozzarella Dreams) ). He popped popcorn in his apartment, and forlornly listened to Siouxie and the Banshees. At four pm on Thursday afternoon, he took over from Louis Zhen for a fourteen hour night shift at his convenience store.
A few hours into his shift, having written the first verse of Dickholes in the Walmart on some unused till roll that he’d found stashed under his seat, Isaac began to get the niggling feeling that there was something else he was supposed to be doing that night. Somewhere he was supposed to be. Something important. It was sharp and certain in the back of his mind, like a gnawing, needling insect bite, but it wasn’t until he idly clicked the CCTV Monitor across onto the weather channel, and saw the little icon of the full moon hanging in the top corner of the screen, above the humidity predictions. A low, nervous tension began to reverberate through his bones, and Isaac realised where it was he was supposed to be, and just what an intensely stupid decision coming into work had been.
The store was mercifully empty, but with every second that passed, Isaac could feel a red, pulsing heat, prickling under his skin. He could hear his heart beating fast in his chest, like the fluttering of a hummingbird’s wings beneath his pale skin. He could hear the hum of the refrigerators, the footsteps of people passing outside, the breathing and muttering and laughter of hundreds of people, spread out around him in an agonizing, mile wide radius. He could hear their hearts all beating out of time. He could smell their perfumes, all mingling, and beneath that, their sweat. Beneath that, he could smell their blood. Smell the sickly, cloying marrow in their unbroken bones.
His mouth was watering, and Isaac found that he was suddenly afraid. More afraid, even, than when the heavy, loping beast that was Anthony Eden had first clamped his jaws around his forearm. More afraid than he’d been when he first smelled the sick feces stench hanging over his grandmother. More afraid than he’d been when Tommy had called him up about the men in black car outside his flat. Because his whole body was aching with a bone, deep hunger, and as the full moon slowly rose, Isaac knew how he might have to slake that hunger. He stared at the bandit screen, and forced his mind to focus. Forced himself to question whether three inches of bullet proof glass would be enough to keep him in. Tried desperately to think about the door that opened onto the shop floor. Whether it was possible for him to secure it in such a way as to keep himself contained when the moon was full in the sky.
His skin felt taut. Something strong and animalistic clawed at the pit of his stomach, and as the sky darkened he knew he couldn’t wait any longer. The shop door chimed, and unwillingly Isaac was on his feet. It would take him less than a second to reach the door that would take him onto the shop floor. Whether he’d have the strength to bar it, or if he’d tear it off his hinges and plunge upon whatever poor soul had stumbled in that night, for the life of him he couldn’t tell. He clamped both hands over his eyes, trying helplessly to ignore the sweet scent of flesh that wafted around him, fragrant as the first hints of spring after a painfully long winter.
“Get out. You— You need to get the hell outta here!” He almost groaned the words, almost begged the unseen customer, but the footsteps did not depart. The heartbeat, just as fast and urgent as his own, drew nearer. The scent of blood and flesh and marrow intensified and then— mercifully. Gloriously. He caught the scent of something else.
Pine needles.
“Isaac?” Anthony’s voice was hollow and low, but somehow he managed to still sound human. Still sound like himself, “There’s a metal shutter outside. You have a key for it?”
Isaac dragged one hand from his face to dig wildly in the till for the key, which he shoved under the bandit screen.
“Keyhole by the chest freezer.” He ground out “Put the key in— and— it’s automatic.” The sound of Anthony Eden’s heartbeat bounced and echoed louder than the drumming of a marching band inside Isaac’s head, as he paced around the confines of the convenience store, Isaac could almost taste his sweat on the air, could imagine digging his teeth into the pale muscle of Anthony’s shoulder. Pushing back thin folds of expensive fabric or fur and surrendering himself to the deep, predatory hunger that scrambled at the underside of his skin like a wildcat, trying to get out, “I can’t do this--” he blurted out, voice high and breathless with desperation, “I can’t fucking— you need to leave.”
“Not happening.” The voice was close, just beyond the bandit screen, right beside the door that would open up onto the shop floor, “You have to let me in, Isaac.”
“I’ll hurt you!” Isaac said, his voice ragged and desperate. He could feel his teeth growing long in his mouth. The nails digging into his face turning hard and sharp, “What if I kill you? You only— you only ever been good to me, man!”
“Isaac, open the door!”
Something shifted under the words, turning them from a plea to a command, and whatever shallow pool of resistance Isaac had left fell away from him. He staggered to the door, and wrenched it open, to finally confront Anthony Eden, who stood with his eyes flashing golden bright, and as wide as the full moon hanging in the sky.
Isaac fell into a crouch, staring at the other man with his lips slack and wet. His resistance had ebbed away to nothing, now, all rational thought swept away by hunger, instinct, and longing. Anthony regarded him with a kind of ragged,
ravenous fascination, from where he stood with his hands pressed hard on either side of the doorway. Blocking the exit and boxing them both into the cramped cashier’s desk, behind the bandit screen.
“You poor thing,” He muttered, voice still low and raw from the exertion of holding onto his control, “I hope you can forgive me. I promised myself I’d never do this to anyone… but I can’t think of any other way.”
Isaac stared at him, muscles tensing, teeth slowly drawing back. Completely uncomprehending of his words.
“All right,” Anthony growled, suddenly low and decisive, “Bring it on, Holy Isaac.”
Isaac lunged at him, but Anthony met him half way. Nails stretched into claws, and caught in hair and flesh, but Anthony pushed back harder, dragging Isaac down until they hit the ground together in a flurry of limbs.
Isaac fought hard. Couldn’t help himself. He tore through the expensive suit fabric of Anthony’s jacket like it was tissue paper, and left a red streak of claw marks across the other man’s chest. But Anthony fought smart. He used his strength and his weight rather than the frantic, rabid, rage that had overtaken Isaac. He pressed Isaac down into the ground under him, pinning their hips against the floor, before grabbing Isaacs wrists in his own clawed hands, even as Isaac bucked and writhed and snarled like some inhuman beast beneath him. The heat had intensified, and when he finally pressed Isaac’s hands down to the floor on either side of his head, they were both sweating. Anthony’s torn clothing hung open over a body that was damp with perspiration, and in the wild recesses of Isaac’s mind, he suddenly didn’t know what he was hungry for anymore. Didn’t know if he wanted to dig his teeth into Anthony’s flesh, or have the other man bite down on his lips. On his body. A wave of heat had crept down the length of his chest and was pooling in his groin, and when he let out another low, angry snarl, he could only feel a sharp sense of relief washing over him when Anthony swallowed the sound with a kiss.
Some Punk Rock Werewolf Romance in the Oklahoma Sun Page 4
