Feral

by Teagan Kade

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  DEDICATION

  For Josh. You really do cook a mean Kung Pao chicken.

  CHAPTER ONE

  SHANNON

  “You’re an odd one, Shannon.” That’s what Grandma used to tell me when I’d arrive home as a kid with my latest animal acquisition, whether it was a common grasshopper, a red-winged blackbird, or a tarantula. Grandma owned five cats herself. She smelled like lavender. On my last disaster of a date almost a year ago, I was served up lavender ice cream at a fancy-pants restaurant in town. I almost puked up the first spoonful. It was like I was literally eating Grandma.

  So yeah, I am an odd one. Surrounded by my friends here at The Swinging Dick — how do you even get away with a bar name like that? — it becomes even clearer.

  My friend Jenny, a twenty-two-year-old corporate go-getter, places down a tray of cocktails, sliding one towards me. “I had the bartender make this one special for you, Shan. It’s called the ‘Popped Cherry,’ and Mr. Cutie Barman said he’d happily follow it up with Sex on the Beach… if you’re so inclined.”

  The others laugh.

  I take the glass and stare into its crimson depths. “Ha. Ha. Can we just get the whole ‘I can’t believe you’re twenty-three and still a virgin’ thing over and done with now?”

  Jenny cups her hands around her mouth and announces, “Shannon Bailey is a virgin. I repeat, Shannon Bailey is a virgin. Bidding starts now.”

  A few males nod in my direction, smiling, while I turn as red as the cursed cocktail in front of me.

  One of my other friends, Belle, shakes her head, holding her own tropical headache-in-a-glass. “Jen’s right, hon. You’ve got to get out there and do something about that V-card of yours. We just need to find the right,” she clears her throat, “tool to stamp it with.”

  I’m not looking for a tool, a stamp, or anything else tonight. This is not my natural habitat. I’d rather be curled up at home with my animal kingdom menagerie than out here in the wild. I don’t do social situations like this. The girls practically had to drag me here as it was.

  I take a timid sip of my Popped Cherry.

  Yep. Tastes like alcohol alright.

  While the girls move onto the subject of handbags, I cautiously scan the room. I imagined a bar called The Swinging Dick would be full of unsavory types. I’m not wrong. There’s a guy in the corner who looks like a stunt double from a John Wayne film, a group of frat boys chugging down beer by the jug in the other, and a dude in a cheap suit by the bar trying to look expensive. He actually blows me a kiss when I look his way.

  Ew. It’s lavender ice cream all over again. If anything’s going to be ‘popped’ tonight, it’s going to the lid on my pepper spray.

  “Shannon!”

  I snap back to the conversation. “Sorry?”

  Jen’s shaking her head again. “Get out of the clouds and with the game. Do you see anything you like?”

  “No.” I feel like I should elaborate. It’s the social thing to do—add in a clever quip about the cowboy in the corner, but the witticism never arrives, leaving an awkward, eerie silence instead.

  “Right,” says one of the others, getting things back on track, “who’s in for chatting up the bartender?”

  Hands are raised. I keep mine locked right around the Cherry Popper, Popping Cherry—whatever this alcoholic abomination is called.

  “Shannon, you coming?”

  I give a small smile, my eyebrows knitting together. “You know, I think I’m going to sit this one out.”

  A slow nod. “Suit yourself.” And off my friends go to the bar, marooning me here at the table, and boy do the sharks start to circle. Cowboy is already getting up, pretending to stretch. I stare down into my cocktail, suddenly finding it completely fascinating.

  Do not come over. Do not come over.

  I look up and see the bartender smile at the approaching throng of push-up bras and primary-colored minis. His night is made. Jenny lost her virginity when she was fourteen. If there was a pro league of sex, she’d be in it.

  It’s not that I don’t want to. I just haven’t found the right guy by which to consummate said event.

  Calling it an event doesn’t make it sound very sexy.

  I’m not exactly waiting for marriage either. Sex just isn’t something I’ve gotten around to yet. Besides, I’m in no rush. I want it to be special.

  You wouldn’t know special if you were sitting on it.

  True, but I do know I’m destined to wind up with someone as awkward and clunky as I am, probably a dorky veterinarian or an oddball white-collar guy—someone far, far from an Instagram feed.

  “Howdy.”

  Oh, Jesus.

  I drag my eyes up to the cowboy, who’s standing beside me with his hands in his pockets, and he winks. He damn well winks at me. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “Don’t worry. She’s cheap!” shouts Jen from the bar, my beloved group of friends bursting into laughter.

  Cowboy is not perturbed. “How about it?”

  I’m expecting ‘partner’ to follow, but he doesn’t go that far.

  I hold up my Popped Cherry. “I’ve already got a drink, thanks.”

  At least he has enough sense to get the hint. He tips an invisible hat, starting to slink off back to his corner. “I’ll be right over here if you change your mind.”

  I attempt a smile. “Sure.”

  And back I go to burning a hole through the glass with my eyes Superman style.

  Jenny’s reaching over the bar, taking hold of Mr. Barman’s bicep. He’s flexing it, absolutely lapping this up. This is how my friends never have to pay for a drink.

  Something cuts out my view, a great big blob of pinstriped cotton seating itself in front of me. “Hey.”

  God. It’s the guy with the cheap suit who thinks he’s the Wolf of Wall Street. I wait for the line. Boy, does he deliver.

  He puckers his lips together, eyes dropping to my cleavage. “If I told you that you had a great body, would you hold it against me?”

  I fix my eyes on him. “No,” I reply, deadpan.

  “Hey, I’m just stating the obvious here. You’re the one whose boobs can’t stop staring at my eyes.”

  You.

  Did.

  Not.

  I look to my gaggle of buddies for salvation, but they’re completely invested in Mr. Barman. I’m on my own.

  Suit slides himself to the seat beside me. I move my left hand down into my handbag, grip the pepper spray tight. God help me, I’ll do it. I’ll spray this stuff right down his peehole if I have to.

  Suit suddenly looks down between his legs. “Ah, shit.”

  “What is it?” I ask, genuinely concerned.

  His smile comes back dirty as an oil slick. “My fucking dick just died. Mind if I bury it in your ass?”

  I go to stand up. “Okay, that’s en—”

  He grabs my wrist, pulling me back down. “The conversation is over when I say it’s over, sweetheart.”

  “Um, no.”

  I go to stand up again, but he pulls me back down. He’s stronger than he looks. His hand shifts between my legs. “You know you want it.”

  The pepper spray is halfway out of my handbag. I’m preparing to go full Rambo on this guy when he’s suddenly reefed backwards, staggering to his feet.

  He brushes himself down. “What the fuck?”

  I turn and spot some of kind
of superhuman facing Suit down. The new contender’s wearing a plain white tee and jeans, but his biceps are testing the tensile strength of said fabric, his chest cut like a gosh-darn diamond underneath. His hair’s inky, short. He looks practical, all man—the kind of testosterone perfection you’d sell your soul for. He looms over Suit like a skyscraper.

  Suit should leave, cut his losses, but he comes forward and pokes this guy in the middle of his marble chest. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “I don’t think the lady wants your company.”

  “What it’s to you, pal?”

  The other guy places his hand on Suit’s shoulder and squeezes. Suddenly Suit’s face is a muddle of pain. He buckles forward, unable to move.

  It’s some kind of crazy Jedi jujitsu pressure point thing.

  “Alright,” stammers Suit, “I get it.”

  The other guy lets go of his shoulder, dusting it off. “Good.”

  Suit heads to the door, doesn’t even look back, as the skyscraper takes up the seat opposite me. “Do you mind if I sit? I’m not going to hit on you, but I figure it’ll keep the vultures away. What do you say?”

  I close my mouth, which has been hanging somewhere around my breastbone. “Um…”

  Talk, you idiot. You move your mouth and it makes words, remember?

  “…sure,” I finish, sounding none so sure.

  I take the stranger in, trying to pinpoint where I’ve seen a guy like this.

  The Expendables? Apocalypse Now? Your wildest fantasy?

  He certainly appears like a walking, talking action film. I mean who does that?

  He extends his hand. “I’m Gabe.”

  I meet him with my own. “Shannon.” It’s like a feather sitting in a baseball mitt. One squeeze and he’d probably break every bone I have.

  He leans on the table. It groans with dissatisfaction. “I’m just here for a drink, Shannon. Nothing more, I promise. I used to come to this place all the time when I was on leave.”

  Over his shoulder I see my so-called friends have turned their attention to me, Jenny busy deep-throating an invisible penis, nodding with enthusiasm. I run a finger across my throat at her.

  Gabe looks confused. “You want me to stop?”

  “I, ah—” I stumble.

  “Just now. You ran your finger across…”

  “I know,” I bumble. “I was just… my friends.”

  He looks over his shoulder and waves. Suddenly they’re waving back like perfect, innocent angels.

  Traitors.

  “You said something about leave?” I stutter.

  He nods. “Yeah, sorry. I am, was in the Navy.”

  That explains a lot. I’m surprised I didn’t peg him as some kind of military dude sooner. “Very cool.”

  I sound like I’m sixteen.

  I point to his arm. “I like your tattoo.”

  He lifts his sleeve up where an eagle design follows up into that of another animal over the back of his bicep.

  Something long dormant sparks to life between my legs. “It’s a gecko,” he says, looking it over. “It’s seen as a symbol of good luck in some cultures.”

  “I know,” I reply, sounding defensive. I attempt to dig myself out. “Is good luck something you need a lot of?”

  He laughs, the timbre of it rich and mellow. A shiver pulses down my spine. “When you’re in my line of work, you need all the luck you can get. Don’t even start me on life insurance.” He strokes the gecko. “Admittedly, I may have gotten this guy when I was drunk deep in the jungles of Indonesia, but who knows? I’m still here, I guess.”

  I look to his other arm. “And what’s that one? Like a quilt or something?”

  “It’s an American eagle, actually, another one,” moving his finger across his chest. “Goes all the way across here.”

  …to the Promised Land.

  “It’s very… patriotic.”

  Way to go, Shan.

  “I got it when I first joined the Navy. I was young, dumb and full of…” he pauses, “enthusiasm.”

  I nod at the tattoo. “I’ve got one of my own.”

  His gorgeous face tightens in confusion. “A tattoo?”

  Hell no. I swallow again. Why am I swallowing so much? It’s not like we’re sitting in the Sahara here. “A gecko.”

  He straightens up. “Oh?”

  “And a sugar glider, a pair of lovebirds, a tarantula, and a three-legged squirrel.”

  “What, you live in a zoo?” he laughs.

  Close. “It’s silly,” I know. “I just really like animals. My dad… We used to watch Discovery Channel when I was a kid. I guess they make me feel closer to him or something.”

  “Your dad’s passed?”

  Normally, a question like this would have my back up, but the way Gabe phrases it, with such ease, makes me more comfortable. I hardly feel like I’m speaking to a stranger at all. “A few years back, yeah.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. What did he do, your dad?”

  “He was a marine, so a bit like you, I suppose, not that I’m saying they’re alike, I just…” I trail off, not willing to screw this up any further with my bow-tied tongue.

  “Everyone does their part,” replies Gabe, his bright blue eyes glinting. “He served his country. That means something. I’m sure he was a fine soldier. What was his name?”

  “Josh,” I reply. “Joshua Bailey.”

  The more we chat, the more comfortable I become. Soon I don’t even notice my friends as they drift past me on their way to the next bar. Somehow, my Popped Cherry is well and truly popped, the glass empty, and the tingle in my head is mingling with the tingle between my legs.

  Time to come back to earth, Shan.

  My head’s right. Gabe is mysterious, and sexy, and built. A guy like this simply wouldn’t be interested in a girl like me, especially if he got to know me. I’m playing it as cool as I can, miraculously haven’t spilled my drink on him or vomited yet, but it’s not going to happen. I’m destined for an animal-loving hippie or programmer, not an Adonis like this who probably eats bricks for breakfast and squats small cars.

  I know something else he could eat for breakfast…

  One cocktail and I’m turning into a full-blown pervert here.

  I point behind myself. “I should really get going.”

  Gabe nods, his strong jaw and full lips tempting me to stay. “Can I get you a cab?”

  I stand, my legs oddly shaky. “Okay.”

  He walks me out the front of the bar to the main road.

  He waves to a cab coming towards us. When it looks like it’s not going to stop, he just walks out onto the road and raises his hand. Suffice to say, the cab pulls up.

  Gabe opens the back door. “Here you go.”

  I stop by the door.

  Say it. Say it.

  “I think this is where I get your number?”

  He half-smiles as I pull out my cell, giving me his number while I punch it in with numb fingers.

  I slip my cell back into my handbag and stand there in the space between the door and car.

  I feel the tension, knowing this is ‘the kiss’ moment, but even as I lean forward Gabe gives no indication he’s going to return. He simply taps the roof the car and says, “It was nice to meet you, Shannon. Good night.”

  I lick my lips and nod. “Good night.”

  I get into the back of the cab, directing the driver as Gabe closes the door.

  He gives a short wave as the cab pulls away.

  I sit there completely still… and completely confused. I mean, that was sure-fire, right? I wanted to kiss him. He gave me his number for crying out loud? Isn’t this what happens?

  Apparently not.

  Not when you’re Shannon ‘The Twenty-Three-Year-Old Virgin’ Bailey.

  CHAPTER TWO

  GABE

  I can’t stop thinking about Shannon on the way to the hospital, that slightly awkward smile, her even more awkward social manner. But it’s her body that�
�s really playing on my mind, those sweet curves begging to be touched, her mocha hair drawn up tight at the back of her head, her beautiful, plump lips on show.

  You forget these small details when you’re on deployment, the subtleties, the smell. That’s what the game does to you. It makes you forget what a woman is like out of fatigues and camo, neither of which were designed to do any justice to the female form. But the way Shannon wore that dress, even though it didn’t really suit the girl speaking about her pet gecko or fondness for Peter Anderson films, was perfection. She doesn’t know how hot she is, but it wasn’t lost on me. Every poor fuck in that room was gunning for her, even if her friends thought they were stealing the show. Those social butterflies are not for me. I’m not looking for the next Kim Kardashian.

  You shouldn’t be looking at all.

  Maybe, but that’s the key word, isn’t it? Looking.

  I wasn’t going to do anything, wasn’t going to act on my impulses even if my dick was doing a rain dance in my pants.

  Yes, I gave her the impression I wasn’t interested.

  Yes, I lied.

  So what?

  I’m not a liar by nature, but even if I wanted to go there, and the tent pole in my pants suggests I do, I couldn’t allow it, not after her.

  Too much has happened. I’m broken in ways poor, innocent Shannon couldn’t even begin to comprehend. Frankly, she deserves better. She deserves the kind of adorable idiot who’s not going to bring baggage to the party.

  I park at the hospital and head up to Oncology, a fancy name that more or less translates to ‘you’re fucked.a’

  I clear my throat in the doorway to Mom’s room. My brother Matt, sitting beside her, turns and stands, walking over. He closes the door behind himself and embraces me. “If it isn’t my shithead SEAL of a brother.”

  I hold him away from me. “If it isn’t my ball-sack of a sibling. How the fuck are you?”