Werewolves of New York: Dontae

by Faleena Hopkins

“Smart.”

  “Come on in.” The man turned around, but Dontae stopped him.

  “Let me just tell the nice lady she can go now.” The man shrugged and continued inside.

  Back at the car Dontae climbed in. “I’m all taken care of, Linda. Thank you.”

  “I can stay and make sure…”

  “I’ll be fine. I promise.” He closed the borrowed parasol of sorts and slipped it onto the floor. “Stay dry,” he smiled, but something in her eyes had changed. “Everything okay?”

  She cast him a sideways look. “The police called while you were out there. They want me to go back and file a report.”

  “Then go file it. Whatever needs to be done to put that man away, do it.”

  She stared out the windshield. “It’s so embarrassing. I don’t want to…”

  “Listen to me, Linda.” She looked at him, his tone arresting her. These kinds of cases were always the hardest. Women didn’t want to make a fuss. Better to just forget it ever happened.

  “You have nothing to be ashamed about. Victims of these types of crimes always feel shame but that’s wrong. You know why?” She shook her head, doubtful but listening. “Because they’re not the ones who should be ashamed. Predators did the crime. They should feel the shame, and only them. You were attacked. You didn’t attack someone. It wasn’t you who did this, therefore you cannot blame yourself. It’s on him. Only on him. He’s gross and unworthy and a foul human being. You are just a woman who fought back. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, tears in her eyes.

  “And Linda, you have to file that report because if you don’t and you ignore this—which I can completely understand why you’d want to—another woman will suffer. This was not his first rape attempt. He’s probably been successful before, from the look in his eyes when I interrupted. He wasn’t surprised, only angry. That’s not an innocent man. And it will not be his last. File the report for her…for the woman who needs you to save her.”

  Linda reached over to touch his hand. “Thank you for what you did. I will go file it.” Her fingers were so feminine and fragile, the skin very soft. She watched him get out and remove his suitcase from the backseat, nodding goodbye. With the rain threatening to drench him all over again, Dontae strode quickly to the waiting open door, eyes locked on the repair shop. He heard the Toyota drive off. He didn’t look back.

  Chapter Twelve

  Crushed, Catherine had taken off to save what little remained of her sanity.

  As her parents’ Mercedes fought the storm, visions kept replaying of the fucking bastard standing naked in the pouring rain telling her he couldn’t forgive her, mingled with those of his punishing kisses and angry, urgent thrusts.

  “Dammit!” she yelled at the windshield. The outside darkness only exacerbated her feeling of loss. And the torrential downpour wasn’t helping, either. “I’ll get over it,” she whispered. “I can do this. I don’t need him. I don’t want him. I really don’t.”

  Ten miles north from the old motel, she pulled off the freeway, used the dark parking lot of a closed mechanic’s shop, BOB’S GARAGE, to turn around in, and sped on the 95 in the other direction. She kicked herself for being such a masochist, all the way back.

  As she pulled up, her heart stopped at what she saw. There were three empty cop cars sprawled throughout the parking lot with their emergency lights ominously swirling.

  “What the hell happened in the last twenty, twenty-five minutes?” she whispered, inching her car into an empty spot. The room they’d been in—number 7—looked dark, but a door a few rooms over was hanging off the hinges, split down the middle. What the hell did that? Two policemen stood nearby. She watched as four other policemen walked out the man who’d checked them into the hotel, his hands cuffed behind his back. He had blood running down his face, a lot in his ear, and he was furious. The police weren’t handling him gently.

  She waited until they left before she got out and knocked on Room 7.

  No answer.

  “Dontae? It’s me.”

  She knocked again. On a whim she tried the doorknob and pulled her hand back quickly as it gave way. When he didn’t come barreling at her, she peeked inside. The room was empty, his suitcase gone.

  “Oh no. What have I done?” She stared at the emptiness. “The diner!”

  Running for it, she yanked the door open so hard the welcoming bell nearly had a heart attack. There were less people hiding from the storm than before, but the place was still crazy busy. The waitress looked like this was the worst night of her life.

  Catherine walked through a cacophony of clanging silverware and loud conversation, searching the faces. The counter had the usual, mostly solo drivers but he wasn’t among them, either. Dontae, where did you go?

  Out of options, Catherine approached the shorthaired thirty-something waitress. Two ketchup bottles, a notepad, pencil, and a slew of paper-wrapped straws protruded from her apron. “Excuse me, umm…Melanie,” she said, reading the nametag. “Has a handsome blonde man in an expensive suit come in here just now? Within the last half hour?”

  The waitress looked at her like she was an alien. “How should I know? This was supposed to be a slow night so I was the only one on the schedule. Look at this shit!” She waved an exhausted hand around the room and headed away.

  Catherine followed her. “You’d notice him. Hazel eyes. Oh, he had a suitcase! Not everyone has those.”

  The waitress picked up two empty plates with balled-up napkins on them and told the customers, “I’ll get your pie in a sec.” She walked past Catherine, exasperated at being followed. “I don’t remember anyone like that.”

  “Well, what about the cops? Do you know why they were here?”

  The waitress rolled her eyes. “How the hell should I know?!” Thwarting more questions, she headed inside the kitchen. Catherine almost followed her in, but a balding man in a nice coat leaned over from the counter.

  “A woman was almost raped,” he said with a look of conspiracy in his eyes.

  She turned to him, aghast. “I saw them take away the guy who works in the office.”

  “Uh huh. He did it. Or tried to. Apparently some man saved her. He came in and beat the crap out of the guy.”

  Catherine stared at him. “How do you know this?”

  “My wife’s never been afraid of butting in, so she asked the police. It’s a small town,” he shrugged. “Even the police love a good story because, well, little happens out here.”

  “A man saved her? Who?” Catherine’s mind swam back to when Dontae mysteriously listened at the wall and vanished. She’d thought he was…well, she hadn’t known what the hell he was doing! But she definitely had no idea it might be this!

  “They don’t know. She said she didn’t see much because she was covering her eyes, in shock, you know.”

  “Right. God, I can imagine.”

  “She said he had a high voice.”

  Catherine frowned. “Oh.” Well, that makes no sense. Or it just can’t be Dontae.

  “Yeah, the guy with the high voice beat the crap out of him.”

  The man’s fifty-year-old wife in a nice sweater and slacks, returned and, hearing the story recounted, jumped right in with a gleam in her brown eyes. “Yeah! Isn’t it wild? Some motel guests walked by the room to go get ice, saw the broken door and him lying there unconscious and all bloody. They called the police.”

  Catherine blinked several times, horrified that this had happened so close, and after she’d seen the man give Dontae the room key. It made her shudder. “How do you know she was almost raped? She’s okay?”

  “Oh, yeah,” the wife enthusiastically chimed in. “The police told me that when she called, she told them that he hadn’t. That the man had gotten there just in time! And when the other motel guests—the ones who went for the ice—went to see if he was okay, he started rambling in his sleep!”

  Her husband quickly added with a knowing look, “Bet he wishes he’d kept his mouth shu
t. Pretty damning stuff he said.”

  Nausea waved through Catherine’s stomach. “Okay, I think I’ve heard enough. It’s awful.”

  Disappointed she wasn’t as excited by the drama as they were, both wished her the polite, “Have a good night.”

  That’s not possible.

  Outside the diner, she paced aimlessly. The rain seemed never to want to end. It was late, she was tired, and the road was treacherous.

  She ran to her car and rolled her suitcase quickly over to Room 7. Laying it on the chair she’d towel-dried her hair on, she walked to lock the door. “Well, it’s paid for. And I’m guessing the sicko who runs the place won’t be coming back tonight.” Turning to look at the empty room, she shook her head, spirit defeated. Why’d I have to run?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dontae asked, “So…are you Bob?” taking a look around the unorganized shelves of parts, tools, old rags and new tires.

  “That’s right.” He cocked an unkempt eyebrow. “You wanna buy a shop?”

  Dontae smiled and said with uncharacteristic politeness, “No, thank you.”

  “I’m just kidding.” Bob cracked up with a series of low, wheezy, smoker’s chortles. “I’d never give this place up. But I like to tease my wife that I hate it.” He walked to the back door, dirtier than the front one, adding over his shoulder, “Would I be here this late if I hated it? Nah!” He waved his hand toward the floor as he gave the door a sharp kick. “This knob’s busted. Gotta give it a little help. Not too hard though.”

  Dontae followed him out to where a very long roof had been erected to shield an open driveway out back. The pellets of water were having a field day with the tin acoustics. Beneath, there were cars in various stages of repair, plus a few off to the side that looked finished. One was a 1970 Ford Mustang, the other a 1974 Jensen straight out of a James Bond film, and the last a Honda Accord circa 1992.

  “The Jensen is mine. Ain’t she pretty?”

  Dontae nodded, “She’s gorgeous,” running an admiring hand down the sleek eggshell-white hood.

  “Yeah, but like most gorgeous things, she costs.” Pride glowed from Bob’s crinkly eyes as he whistled. “I put more money into that baby than I like to admit. I love her though.”

  “How about this one?”

  “I knew you wouldn’t go for the Honda. That Mustang is a money-gobbler, no doubt.” He glanced to Dontae, noticing the werewolf’s surprise. “I like to tell it like it is. Keeps my conscience clear.”

  “Rare trait.”

  Bob shrugged. “Helps me sleep at night. Anyway, you don’t have to worry about nothin’ for awhile though, because I put a new engine in her and she’s got new hoses, brakes, hell…even her tires have great tread. She’ll get you back home until your car is fixed.”

  “I’m not going home. Well, to my old home.” Dontae trailed off, bending at the waist to look inside. Midnight blue with matching interior, bench seats like he’d seen in movies. There were even red fuzzy dice hanging from the mirror. “I’ll take it.”

  “I didn’t tell you how much!” Bob chortled, wheezing again. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

  Dontae straightened up, the rain a backdrop. “How much?”

  Bob’s eyes twinkled as he thought about it, taking a big puff of his cig. “Tell ya what, you can borrow it for a few days and give me the job of fixing your…what do you have?”

  “An Audi A4 Sedan.”

  “Weehoo! That’s gonna be fun!”

  Dontae chuckled and glanced to the car. “Well, Bob. That’s a generous offer, but I was going to have you do the job anyway. How about I buy the car and when you’ve fixed my Audi, I’ll sell it back to you, minus a couple thousand?”

  Bob made a noise and said, “Deal!”

  They shook on it and Dontae smirked, “I might fall in love with her. If I do, you’re outta luck.”

  Bob chortled, took another deep puff with his forehead all scrunched. “If you’re driving as nice a car as the one you’ve got, you might fall in love with her like a man loves a whore, but you’ll put her back when you’re finished with her just like one, too.” He stomped on the cig, and walked back inside to get the paperwork. “Can’t have fire near the gasoline,” he explained.

  Wolves are nocturnal by nature. Even with the night’s dramatic events he felt awake. As soon as he paid the mechanic, gave him the keys to his Audi, and told him where it could be found, Dontae bid the man goodnight, eager to drive his new horse far, far away from there. He liked the feel of the old car. I could get used to this driving thing.

  He followed the freeway heading to his childhood home, and tried to find comfort in picturing the faces of his old pack. He loved them dearly, and they, him. But there was no comfort to be had now. He had an itch inside him that bugged the shit out of his determined, stubborn spirit. For two hours he struggled to ignore it. Finally he found himself following signs that led in another direction altogether. And then there he was checking into a Bed and Breakfast on the coast of Maine, nearest the lobster fisherman and the places who bought and sold their daily catch.

  “Do you know how long you’re going to stay,” the widower asked, swiping the wolf’s credit card.

  “Just the one night,” Dontae answered, his mind on her. “I just need one night to do what I have to do.”

  The widower’s white eyebrows knit together, pushing up pale skin under a shock of wintery hair. “You sound like you’re on a mission.”

  Dontae nodded to himself and slid the card back in his wallet. “You could put it like that. I have to get closure around an issue that’s been haunting me for a long time.”

  “Something happened here, did it?” The old man’s green long-sleeved sweater stretched as he leaned on the desk with both hands. “We’ve got a mysterious town, I’ll tell you that.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, ghosts you know. Actual ones, but also the kind that rise up from decisions people made, ones they wish they could take back! This is a place of romance, and with romance—sad to say—often comes pain.”

  Dontae stared at the man. “Well, it’s my first time here, but I can’t argue with you. I’m sure that’s in the cards.” He turned for his suitcase. “It’s been a long night. I’m going to get some sleep.” Then he remembered he didn’t have his phone, which meant no alarm. Lifting his suitcase by the handle, he turned back to the widower. “Can you call my room in a couple hours? What time is it? My car doesn’t have a clock.”

  “Oh?” The man pulled an iPhone from his pocket, surprising Dontae very much. Everything about this place said ‘old fashioned,’ especially its owner. “Fifteen after seven in the A.M. When do you want to wake up?”

  “When do most people eat lobster?”

  “All day long around here!”

  Dontae chuckled. “Okay, well, how about the tourists?”

  The man pursed his lips. “Hmm…one o’clock? Unless you’re talking about dinner, then it would be more like—”

  “One is fine. She’s not the type to wait. Can you wake me at twelve-thirty?”

  “Sure. I’ll give your door a good knocking. No phones in the rooms. We’ve only got four of ‘em so people just walk down and ask when they need something. And you can grab extra towels if you need ‘em, from the closet in the hall. Help yourself!”

  Dontae smiled and headed for the stairs. “See you then.”

  “Sweet dreams, Mr. Sheppard.”

  Realizing his rudeness, he turned. “I’m sorry. What’s your name?”

  “Thomas. Thomas Willoughby.” He saluted lightly.

  “Thanks, Mr. Willoughby. Nice place you got here.”

  He found his room with no problem at all. Green walls, leaded glass windows, antique furniture and rugs. The inviting four-poster bed had him in its clutches within minutes, his wolf loving the fact that they were sleeping in the daytime for the first time in weeks. He and his pack of four kept normal hours most days of the week, but left a couple open for late slee
ping, to appease the beasts they each shared soul-space with. But with the new job they’d booked recently, it was a daily grind of court-clearances and foundation-laying details that could not be put off.

  As he closed his eyes, his mind slipped back to the firm. He wondered how Nathaniel, Eli and Darik were handling everything without him. Probably fucking it all up, no doubt.

  Ah well, let them find their way. I can’t hold their hands every time.

  A little after noon, a knock on the door woke Dontae. He rolled over and called out, “Thomas?”

  “Yes, Mr. Sheppard,” came the muffled reply. “It’s that time,”

  “Thank you.” He blinked away his grogginess and lay staring at the door as the widower’s footsteps got quieter and finally disappeared downstairs. From the lack of human sound on the second floor, the other three rooms were unoccupied, but that might just be because of the time of day. It didn’t matter. Still, he couldn’t help but listen for a few moments for the hell of it.

  The quilt pulled to accommodate his long stretch. Why am I sore? He remembered how tense he’d been waiting for help in the rain, and then having his ex the surprising answer to his prayers. He’d been knotted up the entire time, and the ride in the old Mustang wasn’t exactly smooth. Not that he was complaining about the car. He loved the thing already.

  “Coffee,” he muttered, climbing out of bed, dick swinging as he walked to the en-suite bathroom. As he took care of business, he eyed himself in the mirror. He sniffed the air and realized his body still smelled of her. She was in his pores, their sex sweat mingled. On a low, irritated growl, he said, “So, today’s the day you say goodbye forever. I gotta tell ya, I thought this day had already come and gone.”

  He went for the shower and ran his hand under the water to wait for the hot water to come. Flashes of Catherine wrapped around his torso danced before him like teasing fragments of desire he could never again allow himself to indulge in. Suddenly he didn’t want to wash her off him, but he was barely conscious of this. Turning off the stream, he opted for the sink and splashed his face instead. “I don’t have time,” he lied. “I’ll shower later.”