by Red, Lynn
And when Ryan was planning a heist, the last thing he needed in the entire world was to be pining over a woman. He shook his head, disappointed at himself yet again, for falling out of touch with himself. Get it together. I haven't slipped this badly since that last job. Then again, I guess that's why it was the last job.
Grocery stores, cattle rustling, he could have done that sort of stuff with his eyes closed, one foot cut off and one hand super glued to the side of his head. Okay, to be fair, the cattle rustling incident didn't go how he'd planned, but he had meant to let himself get caught. Or at least seen.
Then again, he'd also intended on actually stealing that cow and not being paratrooper-dropped by an airborne bat. A gorgeous, curvy, lithe, airborne bat.
He sighed at himself and pushed the memories of Jamie aside again, with a great deal of conscious effort. "Okay," he said aloud, which he hoped would help steel his nerves. "Okay, down to business."
Ryan's dark brown eyes scanned the ledger intently, hoping to see numbers he knew he wouldn't. He'd planned every last, minute detail of this winter flawlessly. Each of the fifteen families and twelve individuals who were under his care had specific needs, and he had planned for all of them.
The panda couple was going to need approximately four hundred pounds of bamboo each to get through the season, but that was already on order; supposed to be coming from a place in Georgia within the week. And then the koalas down the road, Cora and Marmite, were spry enough to grow most of what they needed, although Ryan intended to have some extra stock just in case.
Terry, the crotchety old raccoon, he was no problem since he and the family of mountain goats who lived beside him would eat just about anything.
But that's where it all stopped being so easy. The thing about dietary planning for shifters is that unlike humans, most of them have fairly serious issues with digesting things they aren't supposed to digest. Ryan had heard about a meat-eating rabbit a few months back, but that certainly wasn't the norm. Digestive distress aside, without the right things to eat, shifters, especially ones this old and this frail, weren't going to last.
The rabbits need the vegetables, so do the turtles. He tapped his pen on the ledger's paper. And Lora's not eating right anyway, so she'll probably need yogurt and all other sorts of stuff if she's going to make it. And they'll need some protein. He shook his head. And the possums, where the hell am I even going to buy that many freeze dried bugs? I'd clean out every PetSmart within a hundred miles.
With that thought, his hand froze.
He needed money. Lots of it, and fast. There was no other way to buy what he - what they needed. If he had an entire year to plan, he might've been able to grow more, preserve more, but now? Aside from money, what he needed was time. If he could go back three months and start planning sooner, start buying sooner, he'd still be pressed for time, but it would be easier.
"But that son of a bitch Danniken," Ryan balled his fists, digging his nails into his palms. "He's not going to give these people anything. And even if he decides to, it'll be too late. The muskrats are already starting to dig in and shore up. I need to do this, and I need to do it now."
He'd held off for as long as he could, more out of a sense of self-preservation than anything else. He meant to raise alarms with the half-assed grocery store burglary, if nothing else, so that he could have some kind of platform, even if it was a small one, on a public access news channel that no one ever watched.
If he could tell anyone about all these forgotten shifters, then maybe, just maybe, he could win some hearts. And, hell, if he didn't get caught, he could steal a whole shit-ton of food.
But I screwed around too long. Got too distracted by Jamie. Lost three days I didn't have. Now I'm running out of time. Politics isn't going to work, asking for help isn't going to work. I guess I've got to get back in the game, just one last time. If I can squeeze by this year, I can start earlier on the next. I can grow enough to get by without—
Ryan's fingers had started to unconsciously spin the pen back and forth across the knuckles without him even noticing what he was doing. "Sleight of hand," he said with a grin. "Second nature."
He spread the fingers of his hand out wide, and before his very eyes, the pen vanished, only to reappear in his pocket. A second later, with the flick of his left wrist, it was back on his knuckles, and he was spinning it like nothing had happened.
"Parlor tricks ain't gonna feed this family," his uncle, who had silently entered the room seconds before, said, breaking Ryan's focus. "Unless you're Criss Angel, anyway."
The big bear snickered, but his uncle's face was tight and drawn. "It's bad out there," he said. "Real bad. Lottie and Sam, they don't have food - hell, they don't have oil for their furnace." He pronounced oil in a way that it rhymed with earl. "We can chop wood all day long, but without a pipe line and a refinery, I'm not sure how you're going to get oil for 'em to use."
Sam and Lottie were a pair of mongoose, close in age to Boston and his wife, but in far worse health. He needed oxygen, but refused, instead wearing some sort of odd contraption he'd made himself, to "keep his nose open," as he put it. Lottie was just frail with age, nothing more or less.
"You're right," Ryan said.
"Well, I know, else I wouldn'a said nothin'," Boston said, sliding into the chair facing Ryan's desk. "Just a question of what we're gunna do about it."
Ryan shook his head, staring straight at his uncle. "You're not doing anything," he said. "Not this time." His voice was stern and solid. "I mean it."
Boston winced like he'd been shot in the pecker with a really hard spit wad.
"I know you're the young one with all the pride and what-have-you, but I've been around this world more'n a few times, sprout."
Ryan hated when his uncle called him sprout, mostly since it usually came with a patronizing pat on the head. Luckily, it was hard to do that from six feet away and separated by a desk. But Ryan just kept staring. His jaws were clenched, the way he always did when he was deep in thought.
"Where the hell were you, anyway?" Boston asked, breaking the short-lived silence. "Moo-maw was worried after you. I guess maybe I was too, a little."
"It was nothing," Ryan said, looking down at the desk, pretending to go over the ledger. "I just had something to do." To further remove the possibility of expanding on his answer, Ryan lifted his mug to his lips, for a long drink.
His uncle let a long, slow, whistling sound escape between his teeth. "Makin' it with some fine young thing?"
Ryan's long sip of tea was cut short by a sputter, a cough, and a fine mist of Bigelow's Earl Gray filling the air. The best part was that most of it hit his uncle, who licked his lips and smiled. "Oh, don't get all upset. I'll leave your business to you, I was just joshin' you a little." He licked his lips again. "Pretty good tea."
"Want some?" Ryan reached for the Keurig he kept plugged in on his desk, and a handful of tea bags. Bears like their tea strong.
Wiping his face with his sleeve, Boston nodded. "Love some. Strong?"
Ryan chuckled, dropping all five tea bags into another of his novelty mugs - this one the type with a woman in a swimsuit which appeared when hot liquid filled the mug and disappeared as it was drained.
The Keurig moaned, popped, and steamed, and a few seconds later, one bear handed the other a steaming mug of murky brown liquid that smelled sufficiently strong to either raise the dead or peel the paint off a school bus. Boston took a long sip, sighed heavily, and then set the mug back on the table before crossing his hands over his paunch of a stomach.
"Do you respect wood?" Ryan asked, leaning forward.
Boston arched an eyebrow. "Is this one of your weird meditations?"
"No, it’s a Curb Your Enthusiasm reference. Larry's wife put a drink on a table without a coaster, and it left a ring. Real shame too, since it was such a nice table." He stared over the top of his reading glasses in a way that couldn't possibly be less intimidating if he were wearing a clown nose. He
looked at the rack of coasters on the desk top, and then back to his uncle.
"Huh? Oh. You could've just told me to use a coaster, you big jackass."
Clacking the coaster down more loudly than absolutely necessary, Boston took another drink and put the mug on top. "Better?"
A peaceful smile crossed Ryan's face. "Much. Now, we need to talk."
"What's that there? List of stuff we need?"
They'd been planning winters like this since Ryan's aunt and uncle moved in. At first, when there were only a few families, it was easy. Over the years, though, as the size of the compound increased, so did the demands - and the complexity - of meeting them. And with winter coming earlier and earlier, it seemed like they were always dancing on the edge of disaster.
Without saying a word, Ryan turned the book in his uncle's direction and pushed it across the table. "Left column is what we need, right is what we have."
Another whistle escaped Boston's pursed lips. "Those numbers don't add up."
"Sure don't." Ryan took the glasses off and placed them back in the desk. He immediately looked about a thousand times scarier. "And I can't come up with much of any way to make them add up, except by getting a hell of a lot more than we have. And for that—”
"For that, we need a hell of a lot more money," Boston said.
"Yeah. And for that, we need—"
"Okay, let's cut the Who’s On First routine," Boston said with a laugh. "What are you planning? I'm pretty sure I already know the answer, but what the hell, you may as well tell me anyway."
"I don't know," Ryan said, smiling broadly.
"Then what are you so happy for?"
Closing his eyes and interlacing his fingers behind his head, Ryan raised his eyebrows without opening his eyes. He stretched his long legs out in front of himself and sighed. "Because for the first time in a long time - and this mood isn't going to last, so relish it - I have the feeling everything's going to work out. Don't ask me why, but there it is."
A look of confusion, and then one of understanding, crossed old Boston's lined face. "So I wasn't all that wrong, then?"
"Hmm?"
"About you makin' it with the fine young thing?"
Ryan's answer was a chuckle. "Maybe... not entirely wrong. Go get some rest. I'll come up with something."
"I'm sure you will," Boston said. "But don't do anything stupid until you talk to me about it. You can do whatever stupid thing you want afterwards, but you can't do it before I know what you're aiming to pull."
The smile on Ryan's lips lingered. He remembered the way her hair smelled when she was near, how much he wanted to hold her and kiss her in those few moments where she was against his skin, burning hot, and he was still conscious. He remembered how her fingers felt in his hair, how the bare skin on her arms felt around his neck, how her teeth...
"You okay?" Boston said, turning back from the door as he was leaving. "You're kinda gigglin' over there. Sounds like you're havin' some kind of dream."
"Something like that," Ryan whispered. "Or maybe it's a nightmare, and I just haven't realized it yet."
"Keep your eyes open, son," Boston said. "Do what your heart says, but make sure it ain't tricking you."
Ryan nodded, narrowing his eyes.
The door clicked shut as his uncle drew it closed. "If only you knew," Ryan whispered. "I'm not sure I mind though. Maybe it's time I really let my heart lead. Fall into a trap or two, just to see what it feels like?" He shook his head, still smiling. "First, I have to set one and let it spring. I need her, and without knowing... really knowing if it's just me being me, and wanting yet another person who doesn't want anything to do with me?"
He shook his head. "Fool me once, shame on me. And nobody - nobody fools me twice."
Seconds later, he was stripping down, and a few after that, he was on the ground, chill dampness from the grass underneath wet against the knee he was driving into it.
Maybe it's time to stop fighting my feelings? Maybe it's time to just give in? He thought as his hair turned to fur, his bones shifted and his muscles thickened. Maybe I can do both at once?
-7-
“No, really, this is a brilliant idea. Really. I’m serious.”
-Ryan
He didn't think his plan was stupid, but Ryan was relatively sure his uncle would think it exactly that.
To be fair, breaking into a couple of grocery stores and stealing a load of canned goods to lure a girl to come and look for him? Yeah, maybe it did just have a little tinge of insanity. But still, nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?
I'm still gonna need some way to carry all this stuff, Ryan realized as he shifted back to his very naked human form. Doesn't matter how strong I am, I'm not gonna carry a ton of groceries twenty miles an armful at a time. I could go back, get a truck? Too much noise.
He crouched in a shadow near the loading dock of Fresh Land. Over his head, a primitive security camera panned back and forth, noisily recording an arc about thirty feet across. Each sweep took the big, boxy, age-yellowed camera forty-two seconds.
Ryan might have some experience with this sort of thing. To break or not to break? He considered, running his hand through his hair before pulling it back in a short ponytail with one of the elastic bands he always had around his wrist. How much do I want to give away? How much bait do I need to leave? Jamie's a smart girl. She'll probably figure it out as soon as she hears the news, but then again, I don't want to leave anything to chance.
The last time he left something to chance was the first time he got caught. Last time, too. He remembered the lights, the sirens, and the panic.
He bought his way out of that one, but he probably wouldn't get so lucky again. In fact, he knew he wouldn't. Not here, anyway. Especially since he didn't have a fortune to fall back on anymore. That fortune went to buy his way out of said trouble the first time. Ryan smiled up at the camera.
"Can you hear me?" he asked, waiting for the acknowledging click of the camera recognizing sound. It never came. "Wow," he said. "Not even a sound detector? This'd been easy for me when I was like twelve."
It started as a hobby - getting into places he shouldn't have been. Then it became a career. Then, it turned into a wild-eyed, frenzied crusade. And then, of course, he got caught, and it all came crashing down. He swore when he weaseled out of trouble that he'd never pop another lock unless it was on his own front door.
Then again, desperate times, desperate measures.
What started as a way to atone had turned into an impossible war that he loved more than anything - protecting people who couldn't do it for themselves, no matter the cost to his emotions, or his health, or...
He thought of Jamie as the bricks scratched his naked back. The camera whirred endlessly back and forth, watching the darkness for a threat that was already there, and past, the sad little line of defense. In a strange way, he felt sorry for the machine. It had one job to do, but by no fault of its own, couldn't manage.
Ryan blinked hard, forcing himself not to fall into an existential pit.
He remembered how she'd watched him at the courtroom, how graceful and elegant she was, even when she was feigning irritation or when she was knocking him the hell out. How she'd disarmed him, surprised him.
I got sloppy, I got arrogant and I screwed up. But she just surprised me. I must just be rusty.
There was no getting her out of his head. Nothing he did banished the thoughts of those long, black tendrils of hair, or those calm, cool, gray eyes.
He pushed himself to his feet using his shoulders against the wall for leverage. "But," he said out loud, since no one - not even the little camera that could - was listening. "But that has to wait. She'll come or she won't. She wants me or she doesn't. I can't control her. Hell, I don't want to control her. All I can control is this, right here. Come on, Ryan, do what you do."
Just like he figured, any place with a security camera that old didn't have the most secure windows in the world. The iron grating,
rusted and rough on his palms, had simply come out of the window frame with a little pressure, and the window itself hadn't even been locked. It made sense, in a Mayberry sort of way.
If things are locked, people want to get at them. If they're just open, if they just invite you in, then there's no thrill, no sport to it. At least, that's how he'd thought way back when. He lived for the challenge and the danger. The wealth was nice, but shedding a massive fortune didn't bother Ryan Drake as much as it would most anyone else.
Things had never been what he cared about.
He hoisted himself up and through the window into what he assumed was the manager's office. The safe was open, but empty; though he wasn't interested in that anyway. He would have left it if there was anything to take. There were, however, keys.
Lifting the key ring off the hook, Ryan went through them, slowly. Some were obviously locker keys, judging by their size and relative flimsiness. The loading bay key - or rather, the key to the huge padlock chained onto the door - was equally obvious.
With keys in hand, he silently pushed open the office door and descended a short half-flight of stairs that took him down into the warehouse. "Look at that," he said in a soft, but happy voice. "I couldn't have come up with a better plan myself."
The Fresh Land delivery van, in all its gaudy glory, was parked facing the bay door. It was a large, yellow and red panel van with the store's logo, the name in big, block font, along with a bunch of different vegetables arranged underneath. Alongside that were a number of very happy looking cartoon animals, including a jumping cow with a smile on her face, and a pig doing a somersault.
"Not quite what I'd drive if given the choice, but... what the hell. Oh, what's this?"
The door, he noticed, had been left ajar. The interior light was on, but fading fast. I'm gonna do some good deeds after all. If I hadn't come by tonight, this van would be dead in the morning. Call it karmic balancing.
He shut the door, but not before trying the headlights to make sure there was enough juice left to get the old tank running. Then, he grabbed a hand-drawn pallet jack, the big heavy type, and Ryan went shopping.
