ROMANCE: PARANORMAL ROMANCE: Coveted by the Werewolves (Paranormal MMF Bisexual Menage Romance) (New Adult Shifter Romance Short Stories)

by Hawke, Jessa

  I didn’t even say goodbye.

  * * *

  I went and sent him a friend request. Yup, I did it. What was wrong with me that nervousness was bubbling up in my stomach like a cat on wheels? People send random friend requests all the time. I held my breath, waiting for him to respond, trying to tell myself I didn’t care. Something that I knew not to be true because I jumped out of my seat squealing as he accepted it.

  Contact, make contact, I told myself. So I typed him a little message.

  When did you learn to play guitar?

  It felt like someone was squeezing me tight around the middle, and then I saw the little bubble at the corner of my screen that let me know he was typing back.

  I was about six. I just picked it up. Then I took some jazz guitar in college.

  I could just picture him at six. Squeeze those cheeks tight, little Music Boy. Instead of answering him, I scrolled through his pictures. Nice family, lots of trips all over the southern states, and… some tall, dark emo chick on his arm. Fuck. Was he with someone? It didn’t say it. So I ignore it and type back. Because guys don’t talk to you if they’re already with someone. If they’re with someone, they don’t give you the time of day.

  That’s cool. I always associated jazz with sax, so I’m always surprised to hear about it with other instruments.

  Please think I’m cool, I pray silently.

  Well, what would a jazz band be with only a sax?

  Well, what would it?

  A solo performance.

  I’m pretty pleased with myself; I even chuckle aloud. A few seconds goes by and he says nothing. This doesn’t surprise me, although music puns are not my specialty. I realize after several more minutes that the conversation is over, that likely, he either didn’t understand or appreciate my joke. And somehow, although there’s a slight sting at this realization, it doesn’t bother me as much as it ordinarily would. At all other times, I’m a sensitive as a fair-skinned person is to a mosquito, but there’s something about my recent breakup that’s made me a little numb. I’m somehow less inclined to ask questions of myself. Sometimes, it’s better just not to think at all.

  I keep scrolling through his pictures, find the ones of him where his hair wasn’t so long and other times in his life where it was just like mine, short and busy, thick ropes of curls. I like the ones where his hair is short, too, because then you can see his face, all contorted in song. I like that he does what he loves. I like that I’m sure his songs will tell me exactly how he is in bed without my even having to imagine it.

  A notification pops up and I see that Henry has invited me over to Otto’s Shrunken Head, where apparently, he’s hosting a show that will feature in its nameless little band ensemble of nobody I’m sure anyone has ever heard of before, the esteemed Justin Raleigh. Usually, this is the point where I’ll call up one of my few girlfriends—smart mouths attract mostly boys whose mothers were the same way when they were growing up—but somehow, I don’t feel ready to share this tiny tidbit of nothingness with anyone just yet. There’s something about all of it that I don’t want to say out loud to anyone.

  When I click “Attending” on the event page, I wonder if Justin will notice. I don’t ask myself why I’m going, especially when he doesn’t seem to be responding to me in any way that could be deemed encouraging. I’m so used to going places with other people, using them for social crutches, that imagining going is havoc-wreaking all in of itself. I feel like I’m a brave sailor about to go and conquer a brand new land.

  And possibly suffer the barb of the natives, as well.

  I’m not a musician. I don’t even know what type of show it’s going to be. All I know is that prettyboy Justin Raleigh will be there, and that’s somehow enough for me.

  * * *

  Getting dressed for your first solo journey out in years is more stressful than anybody ever tells you it’s going to be. Do I show my boobs? Is a dress too soft-spoken? How do I look like a tough, no-nonsense woman and like a God damn adult? I’m stuck somewhere in between wanting to be the kind of girl someone approaches at a bar and to have no one talk to me at all. Sometimes, even to myself, I make no sense and all the sense all at the same time.

  I settle on a long, pink flowered tunic over black leggings, and my leather jacket on top. Nobody fucks with a girl in leather, unless that person also happens to be slightly fetishistic, which I am. The train ride is long, all the way into the city and then onto the Z, a train I never take because it’s all the way at the end of the alphabet and I’ve never lived anywhere that far out into the world before. And yet it’s like someone’s injected numbing stuff directly into my veins—I would never take this train for anyone anywhere, but here I am, not caring one whit. I get off at the correct subway stop, fingering the yellow post-it with directions on it.

  The long walk to the bar takes me past two walls of billboards with model’s faces on them. I get nervous and pull out my glasses; I’m against wearing them, but it’s going to be hard to look like a woman in charge if I’m fumbling around like a teenager trying to find my way. I almost miss the place, it’s so dark and tiny, squished in between two equally dark buildings as if it’s an accident. I get in, and I’m blasted by noise. This place is packed; I show my ID to the bouncer and follow the sounds of live music all the way to the back room, which is slightly more well-lit than the rest of the place. The décor is something out of Malibu Ken meets dive lounge, with a psychedelic blue wall across from the band. I spot Henry, who gives me a huge hug and tells me how glad he is to see me there, but I’m keeping an eye out for the Spanish boy. I see him, and he surprises me by greeting me with a wave. Odd, I expected a much cooler reaction.

  I see Susyque in the front row, this girl who’s been chasing after my friend Max for ages and goes to all his shows. Even though he’s not there that night, I’ve seen her around, and I greet her, asking if she’d like some company. I haven’t invited anyone else along, and Susyque and I know each other little enough not to make conversation past small talk about her pina colada. Then we turn to the stage as Henry steps up to the mic to introduce the show. The whole time, I’ve got my eyes glued to the long-haired boy with his arm resting languidly on his guitar off to the side of the stage. Henry says the band’s about to open up the show with a song, and when they do, it’s cacophonous and odd and perfect for my strange mood. And even though I’m edge with nerves, it’s nice to be on this side of the performance again, being able to have an excuse to stare at the object of my intrigue without excuses or shame.

  Comedians take the stage, one after another, and I let myself sink into the anonymity of the crowd, offering up my laughter to mix with theirs. I’ve always had an offbeat humor, so sometimes I laugh when the audience doesn’t, and this doesn’t make me as embarrassed as it normally would. I wonder if anyone from the audience is looking at me strangely when I do, and suddenly, it occurs to me that if they don’t like it or think I’m strange, too bad for them. I’m going to find funny what I find funny, and since I’m sitting in the first row, it actually gives the performers a chance to interact with me.

  The thing is, I keep finding my gaze snaring on Justin, trying to gauge his reactions to the comedian’s jokes; I like that we laugh almost at the same things, a good sign in my eyes. I know I’m boring holes into him, but I keep thinking that it’s no danger, it’s no crime, because somehow, I’m morphing into a groupie and I don’t care. And then sometimes, his eyes will hinge on my just for a split second, and then once, he looks at me and doesn’t look away and I feel myself flush and look away first. Damn it. What, I can’t even look back anymore?

  It’s down to the last performer and the band starts playing Stevie Wonder’s Superstition, and Henry, whose vocals leave something to be desired, all of a sudden hands a mic over to Justin and he makes room for himself and his guitar and croons into the mic. Jesus, who knew his voice could go that high? And yet it’s not feminine at all. Instead, his voice, which mellows out into this manly
rumble goes right into me like a diver leaping off a pool edge, curls and collects in my loins. I squeeze my legs together tight, but I don’t have time to staunch the feeling because the voice goes on and on until all I can do is helplessly wait until Henry gives him back the mic again to hear his voice. God, there’s just something about him, the cut of his jeans, and finally giving in to the knowledge of what it’s like to lust after a performer. I’ve never been the type, always bucked against the norm, but all of a sudden, I feel too old to fall for all the fixer-uppers and just young enough to succumb to the raw sensuality of falling for the obvious. Because why, oh why the fuck not?

  The band stops; the show is over. The people around me scrape back their chairs and walk around the room, mingling with the people they know. I don’t get up, though. I have no idea what keeps me glued to the chair, but I’m unwilling to move. I’m looking at the band packing up their instruments; Susyque makes a beeline for the drummer, whose blonde hair and sensitive blue eyes make it obvious he’s the real reason she’s hear, Max be damned. I’m drowning in this sea of self-doubting and anticipation when all of a sudden, I feel a hand on my shoulder.

  “Hey,” Justin Raleigh says to me.

  It’s strange to feel the balance of power that hangs so precariously between us. He’s standing, I’m sitting, and all I’m getting is a view of his chest. He towers over me, he knows the space, and it is I who is the interloper. At the same time, I can’t believe he’s talking to me. By himself. Willingly.

  “Hi,” I say, praying he’ll sit down next to me. He does.

  “Did you like the show?” he asks, and we talk about the comedians, who we liked and who we didn’t. It turns out I’m more easily offended by jokes that make excessive use of the word “cunt” than he is, but I try not to dwell on this. The fact is is that I want to tell him the effect this voice had on me, but I’m suddenly all tongue-tied; besides, the environment is all wrong. It’s too noisy, too crowded, and I still can’t understand what he stands to gain from talking to me.

  “What do you do outside of this?” I ask.

  “I’m in school for music,” he tells me, then, catching the expression on my face that makes my thoughts oh-so-clear, he adds, “I took a few years off. Also, I gig for a living.”

  Without thinking, I shoot out, “My parents would rip me a new one if I had ever done that.” And then I smack myself mentally. Because clearly, the fastest way to a man’s genitals is to insult his livelihood.

  But he doesn’t seem to notice, and if he does, he doesn’t seem to mind. “You grew up here?” he asks me.

  “Yeah, born and bred. You?”

  “Nah, grew up in North Dakota, one of the only Jewish families there.”

  Did I just hear him correctly? It’s loud as hell at Otto’s, and it’s not getting quieter. “That’s so strange; I thought you were Mexican.”

  He gives me a long look. “I pegged you as one of the tribe the first time I saw you. I’m Sephardic. That means—“

  I cut him off. “I’m from New York, I know the different flavors of Jew.” And then I stick my tongue out and we both laugh. The conversation takes off from there, and I’m feeling a growing sense of wanting to be alone with this guy, but there’s something in the way. I can’t put a name to it, or maybe I don’t want to—maybe because that name is my ex’s—but there’s something about Justin Raleigh that I can’t seem to accept just yet. That lends itself to the resulting awkwardness. I want to ask him if he wants to go somewhere and talk, but I don’t. Instead, I excuse myself to the ladies’ room, leaving him sitting there entirely by himself.

  When I come back, he’s no longer planted in the chair, but rather packing up his guitar. I glance towards the stage; another band is setting up their instruments. I waver between making good on my desire to invite Justin somewhere and running away. Henry passes by and we hug goodbye, and then, because it appears to be the only logical conclusion to the evening and because I am ultimately a giant social failure, I give Justin a quick hug goodbye and hop on out of there. He looks confused, as he rightfully should be.

  He thought we were stopping for just a moment. He wasn’t ready to say goodbye.

  * * *

  I want to hear you sing, Justin writes to me, and a heat spreads over my cheeks and chest. I put the phone down, trembling with excitement.

  These musicians always have the strangest desires. I can’t sing worth a rat’s ass, so of course he wants to hear me warble away.

  I only sing in the shower, and even there not well, I type back to him, going for full-frontal honesty here.

  Sounds good to me, he jokes, but there’s no denying his flirtatious tone. Although I do try. It’s still weird to me. I disappeared on a bio conference for a week or two, and all of a sudden, Justin’s bombarding my phone with texts, asking to see me. Sure, I’ve been to a few more of his shows, but I’ve always used the excuse that it’s a great place to go without running into somebody I know. Somebody I don’t want to see, if you get my meaning. But really, God and I know it’s just to catch one more glimpse of Sir Raleigh.

  The fact is that I can tell Justin the truth—I could never sing in front of him, because that’d be pretty much like Monet asking Mozart to paint him a landscape—a complete crime against nature. Also, I can’t figure out why it seems like Justin’s just become interested in me overnight. It throws me off, and I think twice about going back to Otto’s for his and Henry’s semi-regular show.

  I go. Of course I go. Even though as usual, this week’s been so packed with grant proposals that I’m too tired to do anything but put on my “nun dress” and schmear some lipstick onto my mouth. So I’m off to a trendy young bar in an outfit that covers me wrist to ankle, and I don’t give a damn. I’m going just for me. Me, my eye candy, and I.

  I position myself at the periphery of the crowd, and there’s this intriguing-looking guy next to me. He’s like a mix of Eric Forman from That 70s Show, all dweeby, skinny charm, but the choker peeking out of the neck of a white linen button down shirt clues me in that he’s not nearly the nerd he appears to be. I see him eyeing me rather blatantly; I must be ovulating, because I can’t imagine that my appearance could give anyone any real feels right now.

  “You’re into standup?” he asks me, smiling.

  “Not really,” I tell him, leaning in. “To tell you the truth, I’m only here for the music. I like Henry’s band.” I hesitate for a moment, then think about the fact that I’ve never seen this guy here before, and if he’s not a regular, who’s he going to tell, anyway? “I’m here for Henry. And the guitarist.”

  The guy’s grin turns extremely mischievous. “I like the guitarist, too,” he says, and then, after a moment, “I hear the stand-in drummer’s a real hot piece of ass.”

  I crane my neck, but it looks as though Susyque’s object of lust has not joined us this evening; this explains her absence from Otto’s, as well. Instead, the drum kit is empty. I turn to my new companion. “There’s no one there, though.”

  “Welcome to Otto’s, everybody!” I hear Henry cry, and the guy beside me locks eyes with me, gathers himself up from the fake pleather booth, heads over to the kit, and picks up the sticks. God damn it. He’s the drummer.

  And he’s right. Now that I see him in his element, he IS a hot piece of ass.

  Someone’s developing a thing for musicians, it seems.

  I try sinking myself into the music like I always do, but tonight I’m distracted by the fact that Justin keeps looking at me from the stage. Is he jealous that I was talking to the drummer? Whatever his reasons are, when he starts performing songs from his latest album release, he keeps looking out at me, making eye contact. I squirm, not knowing where to plant my own eyes, because my own private oasis of Justin-ogling has been invaded. Suddenly, there are two of us on the island, and it’s uncertain which one of us will end up the survivor.

  My little rough girl, he sings,

  You’re worming your way to my heart

&n
bsp; From the start

  I met you and I was your fool

  Work me, use me, I’m your tool.

  He’s singing to me. I swear he’s singing to me. And I’m loving the way the words are rolling off his tongue, all the rs and alliterations, and when he says rough, I’m picturing him in bed with me. I can’t help it and I don’t want to. I want Justin’s own rough tongue on my body. I want him to push me down onto the bed and hold my wrists captive above my head. Then I want him to worry the sensitive, fine hairs on my neck with his lips and teeth until I’m writhing out at him, all my secrets unwound. I want him to look me in the eye, just like he’s doing right now, straight into the wide-pupilled heart of me, into the aroused center of me, and I want to feel the fullness of his erection against my thigh. Because I want him to know he’s got power over me, but not be left unaffected. I want to affect him.

  The more he sings, the more I shiver. It’s all over much too soon, and as he closes, he’s looking at me again, and it’s all I can do to keep from scanning the audience so that everybody knows that the sexy, talented guy on the stage right now is talking to moi. Little old moi. I want the world to know we’re eye-fucking each other right now. If that is indeed what’s happening.

  Pretty soon, it’s the same old story, the band packing up the instruments, the crowd a’mingling. Henry asks me to guard his stuff while he grabs a beer from the bar, and I gladly do, delving into a little dark nook far away from the roar of the hipsters who have just decided that Otto’s is the place for them to be that night. I close my eyes and indulge in my aforementioned fantasy, and just as I’m unbounding Justin’s hair from the tie that holds it together, I feel a hand on my shoulder. Talk about déjà vu.

  I open my eyes, but it’s the drummer. Hm. I like his glasses even more now, and those big gray eyes behind them, too.

  “Let’s go sing,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And somehow, it is.