by Dawn Steele
But human men.
Hmmmmm.
She could get used to human men.
If they got their feet off her glass table.
She told herself that this was what a real relationship entailed. She had to be tolerant and patient and penitent and all the good things her mother taught her that shifter women should be. This was a test of the greatest magnitude. This was the prelude to marriage. All women had to go through this! It would be abnormal if she didn’t!
Except that one day, she came home after work to find his coffee mug on the glass table with a large coffee ring around it.
She suppressed a click of exasperation and walked to the kitchen table, where they ate their meals. The butter was out again and softly melting in the sun rays streaming from the window. Trust him to put it out in a patch of sunlight so that the whole slab was almost a puddle by now.
Then she noticed something weird.
His clothes were not strewn around on the floor. He had a habit of taking off his clothes and dropping them on the floor or flinging them onto the nearest surface, like the couch or a chair or the bed. But this time, there were none of his clothes lying around.
She had a suspicion.
She strode to the bedroom and opened the closet. He had cleaned out his things, and there were empty spaces where his underwear – the underwear she had painstakingly laundered and ironed – had been.
She headed for the bathroom. His toothbrush and shaving kit were absent.
He was gone without a word. Not a text message, not a note, nothing.
She felt the blood drain from her head to her legs, and she suddenly felt woozy. She had to clutch one of her bedposts to steady herself. Why did he leave her like this? Was it something she said? Something she did? Or something she should have said or done?
She grabbed her cellphone and speed dialed his number. Her call did not connect. He had probably blocked her number as well.
She was in a daze. This was the worst breakup she ever had been in. And she didn’t even have a clue why.
But I did all the right things. I thought things were going great!
What would her mother say about her ability to retain men? She could attract the best of them, no problem. It was getting them to stay – that was the problem!
Her self-confidence was once again shaken badly.
What’s wrong with me?
Her eyes lighted on the top drawer of her bedroom cabinet. It was slightly opened. Funny. She always made sure that drawer was tightly shut because her bank cards were inside.
Her bank cards!
She rushed to the drawer and pulled it open. The entire cabinet shook. Sure enough, her bank cards were missing. She had never told him her personal identification number, but he had loitered around her many times when she had withdrawn money from the machine and he could have picked it up easily enough.
Oh fuck, fuck, fuck! She shouldn’t have left it in there, but she had mislaid it once in her purse and she was afraid of losing it again.
She quickly dialed her bank.
“Hello? I need to check something. Yes.” She gave her account number. “My mother’s maiden name? Nancy. Nancy Contralto. That’s right. And my favorite color is blue.”
So much for personal data verification.
“What’s that you said?” The blood drained from her cheeks once again. She didn’t think there would be any left. “The account is emptied? Oh, there’s ten dollars left in it. Thank you.”
Generous of him.
She clicked off. OK, this time she really had to sit down.
She had debts. Commitments. Her younger brother’s college fund to contribute to. Her own college loans to pay off.
Damn humans!
How the hell was she going to make ends meet now?
3
Jake breezes through the doors of Barton, Schaffer and Co. in a hurry. The receptionist, Peggy, looks up.
“You’re late,” she accuses. “Old Man Barton has been on the rampage. I’ve called your cellphone fifteen times and it keeps going to voicemail.”
“I know, I know,” Jake groans. He hadn’t had time to switch his cellphone on.
“You better go in there.” She jerks her thumb to the left.
Not good.
As Jake approaches Old Man Barton’s room, he passes his co-workers who are glancing at him strangely. Uh oh. But they are not speaking to him, as if a secret memo has been issued that he is not to be spoken to until he checks in.
Old Man Barton’s PA is not at her desk. Jake can hear voices behind the double oak doors of the executive office. So the old wolf is not alone. He raps at the door and listens.
“Come in,” says Old Man Barton’s voice.
Jake steels himself and enters.
“Mr. Barton, I can explain . . . ”
He stops short as soon as he sees Old Man Barton shaking the hand of Tobias Finney. Tobias is grinning in that foxlike way of his – and why not, because he literally is a fox.
“Why, Mr. Savage, so good of you to join us today. Have you heard the good news? Of course, you haven’t, seeing as you’re not answering your calls this morning.” He claps Tobias on the back. “Tobias here has just been made partner.”
What?
Jake’s world screeches to an abrupt halt.
“What about me?” he blurts out.
It’s the only thing he can think of saying.
“You?”
Old Man Barton’s eyes are very sharp behind his spectacles. He is extremely tall, and he wears a salt-and-pepper beard. Jake has seen that beard elongating before when Old Man Barton got angry and subconsciously shifted into his wolf form before he realized what was happening. He always stopped himself before he ripped his clothes, however.
There is a rule in the office handbook that no one can shift during work hours. There are pure humans working in the office, and no one quite likes to mingle with shifters in their animal form in professional climes.
Jake is nonplussed. And rabidly furious right now. Furious enough to shift.
“Yes, me,” he says. “You have been dangling that partnership in front of my nose for ages. You weren’t planning on ever giving it to me, were you?”
“With your work ethic?” Old Man Barton retorts.
“Uh, I suppose I’d better be getting back to work. I have to clear my desk and move into my new office,” Tobias says.
Jake can feel the gloat coming off him in waves. Tobias is a ball carrier of the Olympic magnitude, and Jake shouldn’t be surprised he got the job.
Jake grimaces. “Yes. My work ethic. You laid that Clemens account on me and I spent the whole of last night and the early hours of this morning working on it. It was a job meant for three people . . . which should have been comfortably done in three days! I was so tired that I couldn’t wake up this morning. But I’m here right now.”
He holds up his computer bag.
“I’ve reworked the entire conceptual art. And you lay this on me first thing in the morning?”
Old Man Barton glances at the wall clock above his door.
“Honestly, it’s well past mid-morning.”
“Fine. You’ll have my resignation on your desk in two minutes.”
Jake stomps out of the office without looking backward. His hands are sweaty and it is all he can do not to turn into a werewolf right here. It wouldn’t do to rip his clothes before his all-important interview with Peter Skaarsgard, would it now?
Did he do the right thing?
He passes everyone else in a daze. Old Man Barton’s door was open and Jake is sure everyone has been listening in. Faces look up and down again quickly as he heads for his office at the other end of the passageway. He is trembling when he finally reaches his room and slams the door behind him.
OK, what do I do now?
Take a deep breath.
I have to compose my resignation letter. That’s right.
Cool, calm, deep breaths. You can do it.
&
nbsp; Still, he is furiously upset. Old Man Barton had played a sting on him. Worked him almost to death for the past two years – and for nothing. Made promises he didn’t intend to keep.
Jake can see it all so clearly now. What a fool he has been!
He needs coffee. No, not coffee. That would only stimulate him and cause his hands to shake much more than they are shaking now. He needs to calm down. Meditate. Do whatever he can to compose himself before the Peter Skaarsgard interview.
He needs to land that job more than anything, or he would have to give up everything he has amassed so far.
Failure is not an option.
(God, how cheesy and Star Trekkie that sounds, he thinks. )
And how unfortunately true it is.
4
Terry hears the rap on her door just as she is about to turn on the vacuum cleaner.
“Coming!” she says, adjusting the bandanna on her forehead. She always wears one when she is cleaning her apartment to keep her curly hair from crawling into her eyes.
She opens the door without peering through the peephole. And immediately regrets it. Dwayne Tuney stands out there, grinning. The smell of cigarettes comes off him like a heat wave.
Shit!
She tries to slam the door on him but he wedges his foot in. She tries to close the door on him anyway.
“Ow!” he cries. “Open up, bitch. You’re going down, for sure.”
“Seen too many cop shows, Dwayne?” She hefts her entire body against the door, and he pushes back. “I’ll have the rent for you, I promise!”
“When?” he challenges.
He has considerable bulk on her and the door is giving way. This is the last time she is ever going to blindly open the door for anyone again. But she doesn’t want him to come in. The last time he did come in, he made all sorts of leering innuendoes and he checked out everything in her apartment with the precision of a rectal surgeon doing an anal probe.
“Tomorrow!”
Tomorrow is the due date for Shep’s college tuition fees. Maybe the college would turn a blind eye if she is late for a day or two. Right? She can’t ask Shep to fork out any more. The poor guy is already doing two waiter shifts out of campus. He needs time to study.
Dwayne licks his lips. “You know, I’ve always wanted a wolf lady to do me. I can give you an extension on the rent if you’ll just – ”
“No!”
The thought of it is so loathsome that she almost retches with the sudden bad taste in her mouth.
“You just have to open your mouth, and – ”
“If you don’t get out this instance, I’ll yell rape!”
This seems to shut him up.
“Please,” she begs, “I’ll get the rent to you by tomorrow.”
“I’d rather you put that nice, hot mouth around my cock and blow me.”
Ewwww!
“Goodbye, Dwayne,” she says, firmly pushing the door with all her strength against his shoulder.
He seems to relent this time – maybe the threat of rape scared him off – and she is able to close the door fully on him.
She locks it with a resolute click.
Okayyyy . . . now she has a problem.
5
Jake checks his look in the mirror for the tenth time. He bares his teeth. Thank goodness he flossed yesterday at lunch. He checks his hair. Looking good. He briefly wonders if Peter Skaarsgard likes to hire men with longish hair but decides it’s too late to give himself a crew cut.
He is dressed in a Van Heusen shirt and suit. Very preppie. Very serious-like. He decides the long hair will give him edginess in that ‘I’m imaginative and avant garde’ sort of way.
Resume? Check.
References? Check.
He takes a deep breath. OK, world, this is it. I really, really need this job. He has to appear eager but not too eager. Hungry but not too hungry. Hungry as in ‘I’ll do my best for your company, sir’, but not hungry as in ‘I really, really need this and I’ll do anything, please, because I’ve just unwittingly resigned from my previous job in a moment of self-righteous anger’.
That last would not look good on him at all. No way.
Jake steps out of the men’s room and into the reception. The pretty and rather full-faced receptionist smiles at him, sizing him up. He’s used to that, and so he nods at her, smiling back. She is probably wondering if he is human or a shifter. Pure humans are curious that way, especially in wondering how shifters would be in bed.
“Mr. Skaarsgard will see you shortly,” she says.
“Thank you.” He glances at his wristwatch. Two minutes to twelve.
The receptionist is still trying to catch his eye when all he wants to do is to compose his thoughts. How would he start the interview?
Mr. Skaarsgard, just let me tell you how much I look forward to meeting you. I’ve heard so much about you and your company.
It was incredible the way your company handled the Cigarello account. That ad deserved to win the Clio award five times over.
Nah. Too much hyperbole?
“Mr. Savage?”
“Huh?” He looks up.
The receptionist says, “Mr. Skaarsgard will see you now.”
Jake springs to his feet and grabs his document holder. “Thank you.”
“I’ll show you the way,” she says helpfully.
“Thank you.”
He follows her to a stairway. He is very mindful of the way her buttocks waggle in front of him in her tight, tight red skirt. He isn’t sure if she is doing it for his effect. His groin stirs despite himself, and he has to rein himself in.
How long has it been since he had sex? No wonder he has been having all these wet dreams. Maybe after he gets the Skaarsgard job, he will treat himself . . .
They walk down a long passageway to the room in the end. A PA is typing something on his keyboard. He looks up.
“Mr. Jake Savage to see Mr. Skaarsgard, Sam.”
“Thank you, Diane.”
Sam stands up, smiling broadly. He holds out his hand and Jake shakes it. Jake can’t help noticing all the photos of Sam and a happy, smiling family on his large desk. Sam’s fourth finger is banded with thin gold ring.
“Step this way, please,” Sam says, gesturing to the door.
“I hope you get the job, Mr. Savage,” Diane adds, eyeing him wistfully.
“Now, now, Diane,” Sam says, “you’re about to be married to your nice young man next June, so you behave yourself now, you hear?”
Diane pouts and turns heel.
Sam laughs.
“Don’t mind her. For a human female, she sure has a roving eye. Maybe she thinks we are better off on the other side of the fence.”
“Peter Skaargard employs both humans and shifters, right?”
“Yup. What he’s particular about is family. You’ll see what I mean.” Sam raps the door once and opens it a tad. “Peter? Jake Savage to see you.”
So his employees are on first name basis with him, Jake muses. It’s a good sign already.
“Step right in,” Sam says, holding the door open. He smiles again. “Good luck.”
Ah, sunshine all around. Jake swallows, feeling nervous.
The office beyond is bright, with the light streaming in from huge bay windows everywhere. Jake is immediately dazzled and he has to shade his eyes.
“Mesmerizing view, isn’t it?” says a voice to his left.
Jake blinks. Peter Skaarsgard rises from his chair and comes around the desk. He offers Jake his hand. Jake takes it and pumps it heartily.
“I like a man with a good handshake.” Peter winks.
He is in his fifties, Jake reckons. Slightly balding, slightly greying, but whole and very fit. His eyes are a crisp cornflower blue. He wears a very nicely tailored suit. Probably one of the designer labels which Jake is not too keyed up on.
“I’m very honored, Mr. Skaarsgard. I have seen every single ad your company has produced.”
“Then the honor is mine. A
nd please . . . call me Peter. Everyone here does.” Peter gestures to a circular glass table surrounded by four chairs. “We’ll be more comfortable here.”
Jake roams his eyes over the furnishings in the office. Other than the usual paraphernalia, the shelf space is filled with photos of Peter and his family. Peter’s red-cheeked wife beams from every framed photograph, as well as Peter’s grownup children and their babies. There are family photos everywhere against different backdrops – Cancun, Hawaii, Aspen, Disneyworld.
The interview begins in earnest. Peter starts off with the standard questions: job experience, Jake’s rather impressive bevy of ads out there on the market, what Jake would do in any given situation. As the interview weaves on, Jake begins to let down his guard and relax. He has an instant camaraderie with Peter and he finds himself liking the man immensely.
Finally, Peter says, “Very, very impressive indeed.”
“Thank you,” Jake says modestly.
He has a good feeling about this.
“We are a family outfit, as you know,” Peter says. “This company was founded by my father, who came to this country from Sweden. We are from the Nordic Wolves of Timollon, and we are rumored to have descended from Freya herself. We are an extremely close-knitted family. My father always taught me to withhold the traditional family values which have been passed down from generation to generation. So I treat everyone in this company like family, as my colleagues will tell you.”
“Great to hear.” Jake means it.
“Now this job you are applying for . . . I have to be honest with you, Jake. You’re a very talented young man, and I am very impressed with your work.”
Jake’s heart sinks.
He’s going to say ‘but’.
“But . . . ” Peter lets it trail, although he is still smiling, “you are the youngest candidate I have interviewed so far for the Head of Advertising position, which is just one step towards being made partner.”
Jake’s breath stoppers in his throat.
OK . . . he has said the ‘but’ word. But ‘but’ doesn’t necessarily mean ‘but’. Right?
“My youth doesn’t have anything to do with my work ethic and experience, sir,” he says, almost desperately.
