by Roxie Noir
“I was just thinking that,” Calder said, sliding his hands into the pockets of his black leather jacket. “Though I think it kinda makes me look rakish.”
Greta snorted, but before she could say anything, the door behind the bar opened again and the girl with the braids was standing there.
Annika, thought Calder. That guy called her Annika.
She put two more plates down behind the bar, already talking.
“Okay,” she said. “That one’s brownies, obviously. Then, from left to right, we’ve got peanut butter thumbprints, mini jam tarts, maple crunch cookies, and shortbread surprises.”
“What’s the surprise?” asked Calder.
Finally, she looked up from the cookies.
“It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you,” she said, putting her hands on her hips, a slow smile spreading across her face. She looked from Calder to Greta and back.
“You should have just said you were her brother,” Annika said. “You could’ve had the brownie.”
“I had two,” Calder admitted.
Annika laughed.
“This is Calder,” Greta said dryly, already reaching for a brownie. “The current biggest pain in my ass. Calder, this is Annika. She’s doing the desserts for the wedding.”
“I guessed,” he said, and leaned across the bar, taking her hand in his and shaking it.
He felt that spark again, the tiniest bolt of electricity zipping through his body.
“Hi,” she said. “Don’t let her lie to you, she’s over the moon that you’re here. I’ve heard lots about you.”
“Good things?” he said, finally letting her hand go and taking a peanut butter thumbprint.
“Things,” she said.
Behind him, Greta laughed.
“Thanks for bringing over the samples,” she said. “We’ll conduct a double-blind study and get back to you in a bit.”
“I like these,” Calder said, mouth still full of peanut butter thumbprint. “Though I also liked the brownies.”
“I gotta get back to the bakery,” Annika said. “Nice meeting you, Calder.”
Then she waved and disappeared through the door again. Calder watched it until the latch clicked, and she was really gone.
What was that, he thought to himself. The fist around his heart was still there, though it wasn’t squeezing quite so tight anymore. Now there was something else, too, something new, like a seed just sprouting for the first time.
Don’t mix your metaphors, he thought.
“Okay,” said Greta. She went behind the bar and put all the plates in a line. The guys drinking at the end paid more attention. “Annika’s making a cake, of course, but we’re also having a selection of cookies put at each table so that the guests don’t have to wait to get cake to start dessert, since that can take forever.”
Calder nodded.
“Annika says she can do three, if we give her enough warning. I’m pretty set on the brownies, but I also want to eat cookies, and I’m not allowed to eat brownies at my wedding, so we need two other things.”
“Why can’t you eat brownies?” Calder asked, frowning.
“Because I paid a lot of money for a white dress, and I don’t want to get chocolate on it,” Greta said.
Makes sense, Calder thought. Greta had been pragmatic her whole life, so it wasn’t surprising now.
“Is there some kind of rating system?” he asked, picking up a jam thumbprint.
“Pick your two favorites and don’t make fun of me,” Greta said, biting into a maple crunch cookie.
It didn’t take them long to agree on the thumbprints and shortbread surprises — the surprise was a gooey, cinnamon-spiced center, and it was delicious. The two guys at the end of the bar agreed, though one made a case for the jam cookies.
“Okay,” said Greta, dusting the plates off into the sink behind the bar. The couple playing pool had helped, as well, and the last brownie had been eaten by a quiet blond guy with an earring who’d come in, gotten a beer, and sat in a booth.
“Will you take these back to Annika and tell her what we decided?”
“Sure,” said Calder, even as his heart clenched.
Every time he left the safety of a building, he could run into him, he knew. Calder felt desperately unready for that, despite the years between them. He’d thought time would make that particular pain better, but instead it hadn’t helped at all, just driving the spike deeper into his already-delicate heart.
Each year was just another year that he hadn’t contacted Sam, another year that they hadn’t spoken. Another year that Calder hadn’t fixed a goddamn thing with himself or anyone else.
On the other hand, he didn’t mind seeing Annika again. He didn’t mind at all.
“Thanks,” Greta said, and handed him the five plates.
Calder balanced them on one hand as he reached for the door, but it swung in before he could reach it.
In the doorway, backlit by the orange street lamps, stood his former mate.
Chapter Two
Sam
Sam had nearly canceled his date a dozen times before he left work that day. If he didn’t think that Scarlet might murder him, he probably would have.
Walking down the street, sweater over his t-shirt, he smiled. She was right, of course: seven years was a long time, and there were other fish in the sea. Other wolves in the woods, as she put it.
The wolf he was heading to the Tooth & Claw to meet seemed nice enough. They’d chatted a bit through Triangle, the shifter-specific dating app. Scarlet’s sister-in-law worked for them, so she’d hooked him up with a Deluxe account for free.
Greg was the guy’s name. Greg was good-looking enough, and he had a couple of tattoos, said he was into kayaking and woodworking. Sam didn’t feel any particular spark for him, but Scarlet had rather forcefully reminded him that a spark was hard to feel via screen.
So here he was. Going on a date. Before he left the tattoo shop he’d even combed his hair and made sure there was nothing in his teeth. Part of him wanted to be nervous, because that would at least mean that he was interested, but he wasn’t. He was curious at best, if he was being honest.
Outside the Tooth & Claw, Sam looked down at himself, making sure that his fly hadn’t come unzipped and that he hadn’t gotten mustard all over himself. No disasters.
Then he pushed the door open, and nearly ran into someone carrying a stack of plates.
Above the plates were two indigo-blue eyes, a shock of wild dark hair, and a couple days’ worth of stubble.
For a moment, Sam thought his heart had stopped in his chest.
Then it roared to life, thundering through his veins. His mind went utterly blank, filled with white noise, everything but his former mate’s face blurry and muffled.
Calder was crystal clear, though. Slowly, it sank through the layers of Sam’s surprise that he was real, that this was real, he was really walking into a bar as Calder Waltz, his former mate, was walking out.
Then he felt like he’d been punched, the wind knocked out of him. Sound and light rushed back in, and some tiny part of Sam became aware that he was just standing there, blocking the doorway.
“Sorry,” Sam said. He pushed the door wider and moved to one side, letting the other man through. It was pure automatic impulse: this is what you do when you nearly hit someone with a door.
“Thanks,” Calder said. He nodded, then walked through the door.
Just like strangers, Sam thought. He turned to watch Calder through the window but the other man was already gone, and Sam shook his head like he was trying to shake something free.
He looks exactly the same, Sam thought. He could have ridden off yesterday.
The sensation passed through him that maybe, somehow, the past seven years had been a long, bad dream, that he was in bed with Calder and Marie. That they were calling his name.
Then he cleared his throat, shut the door carefully, and proceeded to the bar. He felt like he had to order every muscle
to move individually, like he couldn’t trust himself to simply walk or order a beer or do anything without strict oversight.
One thing at a time, right now. One muscle at a time, right leg, left leg.
Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in.
“Sam,” said Greta. She opened her mouth again, then shut it.
“I just ran into him,” he said, saving her the awkwardness.
“Oh,” she said. “He’s here for my wedding. Didn’t tell anyone he was coming, just showed up.”
She glanced at him, the blue-purple gaze that was also Calder’s. It had taken Sam two years to come back to the bar because of it. I would have warned you if I’d known, the look said.
“I’m glad he could make it,” Sam said, the phrase sounding stiff even to him. He put his hands on the bar, because that felt like something that people did with their hands.
“Get you something?” Greta asked.
“Surprise me,” Sam said. He didn’t even feel like he could pick a beer.
“How’s it going otherwise?” Greta asked, her eyes flicking over the taps.
What the hell else is there? Sam thought.
“It’s going well,” he said. “I had to turn down a couple clients this week, actually. Not enough time in the day.”
“Time to raise your prices,” Greta said with a smile. She picked a tap and held a pint glass under it, the amber liquid streaming out.
“That’s not a bad idea,” Sam agreed. “I’m almost the only game in town.”
“It’s you or Paddy’s,” said Greta. She let the tap go carefully and pushed a paper coaster onto the bar, then carefully set his beer on it. “And if you raise prices, everyone who just wants a tattoo and not art will go there. You’ll have more time to do the tattoos you really like doing, and you’ll make the same amount you do now.”
“Are you a business woman or something?” he asked.
Greta laughed.
“It’s Anchor Steam’s hoppy amber ale,” she said.
“How much?” Sam asked, reaching for his wallet.
“On the house,” Greta said. “Since you nearly had a heart attack and everything.”
Sam took a long swallow. It was strong beer. Good.
“Thanks,” he said. Normally he’d argue, but he didn’t think he had it in him.
He finally scanned the bar, looking for Greg, who he’d nearly forgotten about.
“You meeting someone?” Greta asked.
“I’m on a date,” he admitted, then wished that he hadn’t.
Why? Because Greta might tell Calder?
“Good luck,” she said. “I’m glad you’re getting out there again.”
Sam nodded once.
“Thanks,” he said. He wasn’t sure if he was glad about it, but he took his beer and walked to the booth where he’d seen Greg sitting.
Greg stood up as Sam walked over, his hands in his pockets like he was nervous.
“You look like Sam,” he said.
“You must be Greg,” Sam answered.
There was a beat of silence, and then Sam stuck out his hand. Greg shook it.
Greg was attractive, and Sam knew it: he was a couple years younger, tall and buff, with a neat beard and a sort of Scandinavian handsomeness. He didn’t feel a thing, though: no rush, no spark of nervousness, no flicker of desire.
He seems nice, Sam thought. They both slid into the booth and Sam put his hands around his beer, wondering what the hell people did on first dates. Did they talk about their days, tell each other about their jobs?
And when the hell did he bring up Calder and Marie? Even if he still hadn’t really dated, Sam wasn’t an idiot. He knew one mate died, one left, and this is the first date I’ve gone on since that happened seven years ago wasn’t a strong selling point for himself.
“Do any interesting tattoos lately?” Greg asked.
“How do you define interesting?” Sam asked. He took a long drink of his beer, wishing it were even stronger than it was.
Greg shrugged.
“Anything stand out?” he asked.
“I put a zombie unicorn on a college student’s back,” he said. “It was actually pretty tricky, since she wanted the unicorn to be white, and white is hard to work with.”
“Why a zombie unicorn?” Greg asked.
It was warm in the bar, and Sam pushed up his sweater sleeves, revealing the tattoos underneath. He had full sleeves down both arms, and about every six months he thought about getting his hands done but hadn’t yet.
“I didn’t ask, to be honest,” Sam said. He took another long swallow. “After a while, I realized that everyone’s tattoos have some deep, convoluted meaning that really only matters to them, so I stopped asking that. Now I just ask what lines I can change, whether we can place it differently. That sort of thing.”
Another pause. Sam wondered where Calder had gone with the plates and whether he was coming back.
Maybe Greta warned him, he thought. I hope so.
“How was your day?” Sam finally asked Greg, remembering the other man in front of him.
“It was all right,” Greg said. “We’ve got a big event coming up, so my boss was on my ass all day for the invitations to go out...”
Greg went on, but Sam wasn’t listening. He didn’t mean to tune the other man out, but he couldn’t get Calder’s face out of his head.
He looked happy, Sam thought. He was smiling when I opened the door. Did he find someone new? Two someones? Is that why he’s never come back, because he’s settled down somewhere else, with two other people?
Maybe they have a kid. Maybe they have two or three. Maybe he’s moved on six years ago and here I am, still stuck in the past like an idiot.
“...Sam?” Greg asked. He frowned, looking more concerned than anything. “Is something wrong?”
Sam looked at the other man and realized that he hadn’t heard a single word that Greg said. He looked down at his beer and shook his head.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Listen, you seem like a great, nice guy, but this isn’t going to work. It’s me, not you. It’s very, very much me and not you.”
Greg looked puzzled, but he wasn’t heartbroken. Sam guzzled the last of his beer.
“It was nice meeting you,” he said, then got out of the booth.
“Bye!” called Greta, and Sam gave a single, short wave as he escaped out the door.
He put his hands in his pockets and dropped his head down, power-walking to the alleyway behind the bar. It was dark and smelled like garbage, but Calder wasn’t likely to be using it, so it was perfect. The cool air felt good in his lungs, and without another soul around, he finally started relaxing.
The first order of business was to tell Scarlet no more dates. At least not for a week or two. Until Greta’s wedding was over, he just wanted to lie low: his tattoo shop, his house, maybe the grocery store.
Then, Calder would leave again, and Sam’s life could proceed.
Even that thought twisted something in his stomach.
It has to be one way or the other, Sam thought. Either he’s here or he’s not.
He kicked a paper cup down the alleyway.
I wish he’d stayed, Sam thought. We would have figured it out.
Then he snorted softly to himself.
That’s water under the fucking bridge.
He turned onto a street, glancing both ways, then walked along it, crossing Main Street to the alleyway on the north side, back to the smell of trash and being totally alone. His shop was only a few blocks away, his car parked behind it, and then he could go home, have another drink. Sit on the couch and watch brainless TV until it was time to go to bed.
Two years after Marie died and Calder left, he’d finally moved into a one-bedroom cabin back in the woods. In those first days, all he’d wanted was to be left alone. He’d gone days — weeks — without seeing anyone else, most of that as a wolf.
The only thing that made him shift back was needing to pay the rent on his new
house. He’d found a couple of odd retail jobs, gotten another tattoo, and eventually started apprenticing with a tattoo shop in Canyon City.
Fast forward five years and he had his own shop in Rustvale, the Midnight Gun. He even had his own apprentice: Scarlet, the ex-con who’d convinced him to go on the date with Greg.
Sam came up to his truck, and instead of getting in he leaned against the side, tilting his head back.
Your life is good, he told himself. You run your own business doing art. How many people can say that?
Deep breath in, deep breath out.
It doesn’t matter what Calder’s doing. It doesn’t matter if he’s married and has ten kids and barely remembers your name. You’re fine. You’re gonna be fine.
Sam got into his car, and he drove home with the radio volume turned way up. He took a shower and ate leftovers standing at his kitchen counter, then poured himself three fingers of whiskey and watched a western he’d seen a thousand times before.
Then he went to bed, and after a long time, he finally fell asleep.
By the next afternoon, he was beginning to feel like the previous evening had been a weird dream that hadn’t really happened. The day skated by: he did a touch-up, filled in some color on someone’s half-sleeve. He was cleaning up, wiping his equipment down and sterilizing the gun when the doorbells chimed.
“Are you Sam?” a voice said as he looked up.
The woman speaking didn’t look like the tattoo type. She was on the short side, snub-nosed and blond, her long hair braided and wrapped around her head in some complicated configuration.
Sam straightened up. Something inside him suddenly felt unstable, uncertain.
She made him nervous.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m Sam. You looking to get inked?”
She laughed, and the sound made the corners of his mouth tug upwards in a smile.
“Not at all,” she said. “Scarlet left her sweater at the bakery. I was headed this way and I thought I’d drop it off.”
In her hand, she held up something fuzzy and knit.
“I’m her other boss,” she said. “The morning boss. Annika.”
Sam crossed the waiting area to where she stood, shook her hand, and accepted the sweater.
