by Noah Harris
Fated Desire
Noah Harris
Contents
Newsletter
1. Goldilocks at the Scene of the Crime
2. Creature Fought a Blueberry
3. I Want to Believe
4. No Question
5. Something Good
6. The Ocean & The Hurricane
7. The Silly Man
8. Valid Reasons
9. Splashdown
10. The Feast
11. Your Man
12. Gifts
Epilogue
Please read this
Published by BUP LLC, 2018.
Copyright © 2018 by Noah Harris
All registered trademarks in this book are the property of their respective owners.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. All resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
This book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Please don't read if you are under eighteen.
All rights reserved.
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Goldilocks at the Scene of the Crime
At hour fifteen of my drive from California to Texas, I see a car stalled on the side of the road, all wiggly in the blacktop heat. My first thought is, “Oh no, it must be a disaster.”
My second thought is, “Oh, thank God.”
That’s how bored I am. The only evidence of human existence in six hours, and I want it to explode.
I’m trying to be a better person. So far, it’s been a slow process.
After hours of nonstop driving, all deserts blend together. I imagine the landscape repeating, like the background in a Scooby Doo cartoon. Cactus, cactus, roadkill, cactus, mesquite, sandstone, dirt, dirt, dirt.
I’ve never been able to convey to my friends from elsewhere just how big Texas actually is. It’s eight-hundred miles from L.A. to the Texas border, but you still have six-hundred miles to go before you get to Austin, in the center of the state.
When I was young and desperate to escape, the fact made my stomach churn.
Almost halfway to anywhere else, and you’re still in Texas.
Now I’m back. For reasons I probably couldn’t explain even if you cared enough to ask.
I wouldn’t know what to say.
“I lost my soul sometime in the last ten years”?
Too much.
“I never got over my first love and I may be a terrible person”?
Closer to the truth, but unclear.
“My family abandoned me when I was fourteen years old”?
That’s just a statement, not an answer.
“I’m returning to the scene of the crime.”
That’s the truth. But nobody needs to know that.
I don’t see another person until I’m two hours deep into Texas. Davy. Gas station attendant. Stained coveralls hiding a round, juicy ass. Long, dirty-blond hair. Oil, cigarettes, sweat. That auto-mechanic scent that still gets me instantly hard just like when I was barely out of high school and still jacking off six times a day.
There’s something in his eyes, heat. I can’t tell if he’s coming onto me or thrown off by my vibe. Could just be a nice guy. His eyes are clear, honest, sweet, and genuinely so. Not the innocent sweetness of some kid, but the proper friendliness of a man.
You can’t be too careful. Humans are drawn in by my kind, and don’t always understand what they’re feeling. A guy could be halfway to declaring his love for you before he snaps out of it and remembers he likes girls. And that’s a problem that can turn dangerous.
Not usually for me, obviously. As a shapeshifter and a wolf, I’ve always boasted dense muscle and strength, along with my heightened senses and instant reflexes. But that just makes it doubly important to watch for the signs. I don’t want to hurt anybody, and I don’t want anybody to hurt me. So if I’m ever going to get laid again, I have to be very good at reading men.
This guy, though? I have no idea what he’s thinking. He grins shyly, revealing large, perfect teeth. Another quick flicker of heat in his eyes, and I can definitely smell the slight scent of arousal in the air.
You’re better off, Davy the Pump Jockey, I think, shaking his hand and slipping him a ten.
Thanks so much for making me feel sexy for the first time in months but believe me, I’d only drag you down with me.
He waves with a hearty smile as I pull out, and it’s almost enough to drag me back.
Almost. I want him to be happy more than I need to feel better. Even if it means driving for the next hour with his scent all over me, turning me inside out with lust.
I don’t really have a place to stay once I’m home. I’ve considered hooking up with somebody, just to have a warm bed. But that’s a game for younger folks and lost causes, and I’m neither. I need to get used to being alone.
Ten years ago, maybe even five, it would go without saying. Hit a bar or a club sometime after midnight. Catch the eyes of a few men, go for the surest thing. But I have some money now. A lot of money, to be honest. It’s just such a desperate move if it doesn’t happen naturally.
It’s not about shelter, a roof over my head, staying out of the rain.
It’s about not sleeping alone. It’s about not waking up alone.
It’s about pretending not to be alone. A few hours at a time.
With other shifters, it’s simple. They know what they want, they know what you want, and you can tell with a look and a sniff if you’re both on the same page.
Humans go through life half-blind, and that’s why they’re afraid all the time. I think they must know, on some level, there’s more to the world than what they can see, hear, and smell.
I’m working on being less vain, but the results speak for themselves. Scruffy, ripped and tan, copper beard and strawberry blond hair. I’m told my bright green eyes are startling in the right light. Personally, I’ve always thought my mouth was particularly sexy, lush lips with a cocky twist.
Add to all that the commanding presence and power of an alpha shifter, and it’s quite a mix. It’s luck, all genetics and mutation. The perfect recipe for arrogance.
It’s also the perfect combination for crippling self-doubt. Guess which one I’m currently dealing with?
The fact is, if you don’t like yourself much, all the reasons other people might like you start to seem pretty empty. They just want you to fuck them. Or they want an alpha to follow. Or they see how broken you are, how smart or beautiful. Or you remind them of some lost love.
There’s got to be something. Otherwise they’d know better than to choose you. If they don’t…well, then they’re an idiot, and you’re better off without them anyway. A no-win scenario, perfect for a loser.
One of the things that made life in L.A. bearable was that I knew nobody liked me for me. First, because we’re all fakes out there. Second, because in L. A. I’m just not that likeable.
It’s easier being judged for what people can take from you, what you can offer.
Simpler, and cleaner and a hell of a lot lonelier. Which I guess is why I’ve driven halfway across the country, to hide in Salt Flats, my old hometown. At least until the storm passes, and I can reinvent myself again.
Until I can look in the mirror and see somebody new, somebody different, and start over.
I can’t imagine going anywhere else, but if anybody recognizes me, the hardest part will be coming up with an excuse for coming back here of all places.
My dad died a few years back, and my mom lives in Florida with her new husband. Besides, I never talked to any of them much anyway. I left this little northwest Texas town when I was fourteen, and never came back.
That makes it sound like it was my choice though, doesn’t it? I have a bad habit of taking credit for things that just happen to me.
Even becoming a shifter just happened. Being an alpha, I take a lot of pride in that. When I think about reasons to love myself, to keep hanging on, those are the things I go back to.
All things I didn’t earn. But as long as they matter to other people, they’ll matter to me.
Here’s a story. Twenty-four hours ago I was sitting in my apartment in Hollywood, contemplating a bowl of high-fiber cereal and low-fat milk without interest. I felt a warm wetness on my right cheek and realized I’d been crying without knowing it.
“This is the beginning of a nervous breakdown,” I said out loud, to nobody, in a voice that sounded as if I was kidding. But I wasn’t kidding, and I knew I wasn’t kidding.
And within two hours I’d packed a bag, thrown it in the car, and was on the road.
You start telling one lie, just so things will hurt less. Then you blink and it’s a decade later, and you’re having trouble keeping up with all the lies you’ve told. They all add up to who you are now. Just a knot of lies around empty air. That’s not sustainable.
Or maybe it’s just a problem of motivation. Maybe some part of you knows it would be better if you tripped and fell. Just so you can stop running.
I haven’t seen Salt Flats since I was fourteen, but it all floods back when I reach the edge of town. Oil refinery, pump jacks, cattle yards. Very strong smells, very strong memories. That rich rodeo smell of manure and dusty hay, and the harsh sweet burn of the oil fields.
In an instant I’m a kid again. Full of desire, confusion and pain. Those first jolts of adolescent hormonal madness.
The first time you feel your capacity to love someone open up, like a pit you could fall into, that’s how this place smells to me. I don’t hate it.
It’s that feeling that ruined my life ten years ago, but it’s got its own sweetness. And just two years later, when I found out I was a shifter, I understood the intensity of those feelings. But for those two years in limbo, I thought I was going crazy. Wilder still, I thought it was because I was so desperately in love.
That’s how intense it was by the time my family cut me loose. I thought I loved him so deeply and passionately that nobody on Earth had ever felt this way, so how could they be expected to understand it?
That kind of passion, that center-of-the-universe romance, is precious. Feeling like every song on the radio is about you and him, your future, your past. The secrets he’ll be telling you soon. The future, the new life that can begin the very second you’re both brave enough to let it.
The pretzels you can twist yourself into when you’re fourteen and in love. That’s what it smells like, and I can’t hate that.
I know now that life isn’t a movie surrounding you, waiting to begin. It’s been a long time since I felt that way. I think I lost something big when I lost that.
The petroleum bite at the back of my throat brings me back to Davy. Sun-kissed, deep golden tan peeking out the top of his overalls. The defined muscles in his forearms bulging as he pushed his t-shirt sleeves up past his shoulders, revealing his thick, tattooed biceps for me.
I wasn’t even thinking about sex until I saw those arms and looked a little closer at his eyes and realized he was older than I thought. A bit more experience behind those sweet eyes, the sexual prowess of a man behind those youthful looks. I should have gone for it. This place has me feeling so young. I would’ve dropped to my knees for that guy’s attention back then.
Maybe it would be worth it, I think. Do that lonely young version of myself a favor. Throw him a bone in the shape of Davy.
I owe that younger version of myself a lot. Starting with about ten years of apologies. But going back and sleeping with every guy he never got to? That seems like a really charitable act. Win/win for everybody.
I’m not seriously thinking about turning around, not this late in the day. But I do resolve to give it more thought the next time an opportunity like that arises. It won’t solve my problem, but it might at least scratch an itch.
But hey, if hiding out and drying out in some small-town means being alone for six months, a year, the rest of my life, I can handle it. Still better than what would have happened if I’d stayed.
I’m on borrowed time no matter where I go. They mustn’t see me sweat. If I look nervous, or like I’m in hiding, they’ll smell it and I’ll have to run. Again.
“I’m fleeing L.A.,” I experiment out loud. “On a whim.”
No, that sounds like a fairytale princess, or Jane Austen. Not nearly close enough to the truth. People won’t believe you if you don’t believe yourself. If this is the person I’m choosing to be, less is more.
“I fled the city on a whim,” I try again. “But I’m so glad I did.”
Better. But it could sound snide. Remember, you’re not among your people here anymore. You changed, they didn’t.
“I couldn’t stand L.A. I didn’t know who I was anymore. I needed to come home.”
Perfect. It’s true enough even if it’s not the whole truth.
On the other hand, I think, you’re assuming somebody will ask.
The first thing I really recognize are the train yards on the edge of town, where all the warehouses and restaurants have sprung up and taken over. When I lived here they didn’t even have streetlights this far out. It was where they told us we’d get murdered.
And later, where we’d get picked up by men if we weren’t careful. They always made it sound like a very bad thing, but never explained why. When I was a kid I always pictured it like Treasure Island. It sounded fantastic. Come get me! Please! Let me be a pirate, I’ll wash dishes, I’ll do whatever you want. Just get me the hell out of here.
And when I was older and looking back at it, it sounded even better, for different reasons. Everything I wanted was out there. Men, with their secrets and their smells, hair on their bodies. I felt nearly mad with it, that aching desire to learn it all.
Now I know this was part of being a shifter, too. That sexual peak still hits every month, right before the full moon. But I didn’t know what a shifter was then, so it just seemed scary and overwhelming and a little gross. Just like everything else my body was experiencing.
Since that time, I’ve seen a lot of shifters initiated into a pack. Some come kicking and screaming, terrified of the way their life’s changing. Some show up already in love with it, ready to get started.
But I’ve seen how much care goes into those first experiences now. How hard the pack works to make sure you don’t lose your mind, or control, heading into your first shift.
It’s become one of my favorite things about this life. About being part of a pack. Even when you don’t have a lot in common with the others. That scent of a newborn shifter about to hit the moonlight. The anticipation and excitement and the utter, naked terror.
It’s impossible to believe any of us were ever that young.
If I’d stayed here, if my parents hadn’t drop-kicked me across the country that fateful day, what would it have been like? To meet the shifters of Salt Flats, and be welcomed among them? To know what I was, and what I could be, instead of terrified and alone?
The guys who jumped me, hazed me, brought me into the life but they weren’t soft. They weren’t kind. I grew to love them as brothers, and they were as loyal as they were capable of being.
But it’s not the same thing. If I’d become a shifter here, at home, among friends, I’d have a p
lace to stay now. The local pack, whoever they are, wouldn’t think twice. They’d just stick me on a couch or sublet a room or apartment, whatever I needed. When we run the next moon, in about three weeks, I’ll be sniffed, nipped and poked by them until I’m part of the family. Safe.
I’m always fascinated and jealous, moved even, when guys talk about that, the kindness of a pack forming around you. The joy and warmth of recognizing faces in the crowd. Guys you’d never have suspected or imagined, shifters just like you, welcoming you in.
But for the next three weeks, the only way I’ll find a friend is just running across a shifter at random. To do that, I’d need to be out and about. Scenting the town and roaming the night. Not the best way to hide from the world.
Giving a false name at a motel just seems like a recipe for disaster, and I don’t know enough about being sneaky to pull that kind of thing off. The only thing I know for certain is there are some very bad people looking for me. They’re going to find me eventually, and when they do, all bets are off, and you wouldn’t want to be within ten miles of me.
I need a specifically casual arrangement. Garage apartment, guest house, pool bungalow. Somewhere my name won’t be on any bills. Friendly, but not intimate. Sympathetic, but no connection. I’m better at that game than anyone I’ve ever met.
It’s how I’ve survived. It’s how I’m going to survive now.
I’m Goldilocks. This house is too warm, I’m scared I’ll grow to need it. This house is too big and cold, it reminds me how alone I am. This bed is too hard, he won’t stay the night. This bed is too soft, he won’t ever leave.
