Season of the Wolf Pt. 01

I've never really known the luxury of space. Housing isn't cheap in L.A. and even though my parent's house had plenty of room for the three of us. Sometimes, it still got a bit crowded. I don't know how I'll fill the emptiness of a house so large by my lonesome. I'm not even sure if I'll stay or sell out and go back to L.A. at this point. But, some part of me feels as if I need to give the place an honest try before reaching a decision.

I'm not used to drawing attention. The stares are a bit unnerving. No one has approached me yet, but I have no doubt eventually someone will. Strangers usually stop long enough to pump their gas and maybe grab a bite to eat before they're on their way. They don't move in next door. I wonder how long it'll take, if I decide to stay, before I'm considered one of them. I noticed the county sheriff idled in the parking lot long enough to run my license plate before turning around and heading out. I don't know what that was about. I'm hardly a criminal. Hell, I've never had as much as a speeding ticket. But, I'm guessing the sheriff knows that about me now.

Another splash of hot coffee into the cool draughts at the bottom of the mug jolts me to awareness. I almost did fall asleep face first onto the stained formica countertop. I really need to get down to business. Ask Diane where I might find a payphone. Call Mr. Galloway and beg him to finalize the paperwork today. If he refuses, maybe he could direct me to a hotel or put me up for the night on his sofa.

I try to get Diane's attention, but she's busy flirting with a mountain of a man seated at the end of the counter. It's strange that for as crowded as the diner is, so crowded that people are just milling around sipping coffee until a place to sit opens up, that I've got the wall on my right and there's a vacant stool on my left. Nobody wants to sit next to the new kid on the block. I'm not offended. It's been over twenty-four hours since I've had a shower and I'm not exactly the freshest. Nobody has bothered to strike up a conversation either. I'm ok with that too. I'm in no mood for idle chitchat either.

Diane cleared my plate away and deposited the check in front of me. She's made no indication that I should vacate my seat for somebody else. Which is good because I don't intend to until I figure out what to do next. If my phone actually had reception, I'd drive out to the house and check it out for myself. Stupid me, I didn't think to write the directions down on paper. Screw that, if I had cell reception I'd call Mr. Galloway and then go out to the house with my keys in hand and start settling in. Not that setting up shop will take me long. I mainly just want my comfortable pajamas and a place to sleep. I can figure out the rest later.

The cowbell tied to the door jangles announcing another customer. That's not a shocker. The bell has been ringing fairly consistently ever since I came in and took a seat. The diner is neat as a pin despite it's worn, dated, shabbiness. In the polished stainless steel wall in front of me I can see the blurry reflection of a man moving to take the empty seat at the counter. The energy has changed in the atmosphere and people, though they are still talking, are doing so in a decidedly hushed tone.

I sneak a glance out of the corner of my eye at my counter mate. With the casualness of a man completely at ease with the world, he slides into the seat beside mine and sets a thick file on the counter. I'm trying not to stare, but I can't help it. I'm blushing from my attempt not to be so obvious as I check him out. He is tall and lean. His skin tanned and maybe a bit weathered from the sun. Biceps ripple beneath the strained fabric of his button down shirt. His slacks cling tightly to his thighs. He is wearing a pair of battered black biker boots completely at odds with the persona he's trying to create. He obviously is not a business suit kind of guy. But, somehow, he makes it work. He is the kind of man capable of wearing a polka dotted speedo to the opera and still manage to take sexy to a whole new level.

His windblown hair curls around the collar of his shirt in a kaleidoscope of shades ranging from soft, chocolate brown, to coppery red, and finally sun bleached blond. There's a hint of ginger stubble on his angular jaw. I flush as he smiles at Diane and thanks her for a menu. His lips are full and I find myself wondering if they're as soft as they look. His forearms are as muscular as the rest of him and bulge as he picks up the mug and holds it with his long fingers.

I'm trying not to look at him. I'm trying and failing. I duck my head and toy with the napkin rather than overtly stare. My heart skips a beat at the cleft in his chin. I'd love to run my tongue over that shallow dip as I make my way to his kissable lips. The thought of it makes my toes curl.

Living in L.A. one sees hundreds perhaps thousands of surgically enhanced perfect men. There are people who make their living off their looks. L.A. has no shortage of them. I can tell he hasn't had a nip or a tuck. He is simply too handsome to need such a thing. His muscles are honed to perfection, but I bet he has never seen the inside of a gym in his life. This is a man who works with his hands and his whole body. The overall effect is staggering.

Diane shoots me a wink and refills my mug before trotting off to the opposite end of the counter to take an order. Awkwardly I sit in my seat and stir some cream into my coffee. I wonder if I should say something and decide against it. He's just a guy who needed a place to sit, nothing more. The nearness of him is distracting. We're sitting close enough our knees almost brush and we're elbow to elbow at the counter. He hasn't ordered any food yet. He drinks his coffee black and seems content to sit here beside me.

I can't help but notice he has no shortage of admirers. Women bat their eyelashes at him and covertly glance at him. Men nod as he catches their eyes and engages in a brief stare. He is obviously a local. Everybody knows him and he knows everybody. The aura he throws off effects everyone in the diner. He knows it, but doesn't seem need it to solidify his concept of self. This man knows exactly who he is without any kind of acknowledgment from anybody.

Whoever he is. He's a natural born leader and it shows. People can't help but fall into place behind them. He's the kind of man you automatically trust and like though you can't exactly say why. He has charisma and charm and I'm not completely unaffected by it either.

He smells good. Though I can smell the vague hint of soap and the shave gel he used this morning. He smells of wild, and musk, of pine and cool crisp evenings by the fire. And that's not a scent found in any cologne bottle. It's just him. I blush violently red at the idea of bare skin pressed to bare skin and covering my body in his scent. It's not like me to have such brazen thoughts about a man I've never met and I'm blindsided by them. I dismiss my rampant mental tirade to too much coffee, too little sleep, and the fact that I haven't been out on a date in a very long while.

Christine is always trying to set me up. Though I'm over two thousand miles away. She'll probably still keep trying. She has no shortage of men scrabbling for her attention. I'm quite sure her engagement to Rod hasn't done a thing to change that. Hell, the single guys in L.A. will probably declare a citywide day of mourning when...if...she actually says, "I do". I don't want and have never wanted her rejects. I've had more than my share of quiet Saturday nights at home, but I'd rather find my own guy. I don't like the sort of man Christine picks out for me. I like men like... him.

If he's part of the scenery, I might not mind living here so terribly much. I realize that it's just my sex drive talking. Unlike Christine, I've never let my libido rule my head. That's probably why I don't have a boyfriend and Christine has a fiancée. I'm punchy and exhausted. I'm probably subconsciously feeling a little lonely being so far away from home. Maybe, I feel a little too vulnerable out on my own and I want to connect with someone. I get the sense he'd be very good at connecting. The idea of how good he might be at connecting and the type of connection we could make has my breath catching in my throat.

I wonder what color his eyes are. Pale blue eyes would be a little too startling. I think. Dark brown eyes would be too intense. Green? Exactly the shade of growing things and nature, a lush vibrant green, I'd bet. Maybe, his eyes are gray like colorless panes of glass and I could stare into them and see into the depths of his soul. No, that'd be too easy and simplistic for a man like him. I get the sense he's a man of secrets and there's nothing transparent about him at all.

Hazel eyes would suit a man like him. Hazel isn't a color unto itself, but a blend of different shades of green, brown, gold, blue, and gray, complex, exactly like him. I wish he'd turn his eyes to me so that I could end my debate. Preoccupied as he's been silently taking command of the room with nothing more than his very presence and sipping his coffee. He has paid no attention to me. He isn't covertly curious about the new stranger in town like everyone else seems to be. It's almost as if he has accepted that I belong here and am a part of this place. Though I'm not convinced of it myself.

I get the sense that he's studying me without making any outward sign of it. Gauging me and who I am by means I cannot begin to fathom. Maybe, he is one of those rare people who can read others by body language and facial expression alone and draw a fairly accurate conclusion about who they really are.

Considering I'm sitting as close to the wall as I can get and therefore, as far away from everyone as the limited space will allow. He might think I'm closed off and don't want to talk to anybody. And well, that's sort of true. I'm sure the expression on my face is not open and friendly. I've simply got too much on my mind to spare the energy to invite idle conversation.

Maybe, I want to scare people off so that I can convince myself the best thing to do is to sell out and run back to California. I've been hunched over a mug of cold coffee for a while now and nobody has bothered to approach me. So whatever body language or vibe I've been putting off. It has communicated the proper message. I really don't want to be bothered.

I make myself as small as possible as he swivels in his seat. His eyes are on me and I am not disappointed. They're hazel as I suspected and I am smothering in the heat of their stare. His brows are expressive, thick, and darker than I guessed and they add a dimension to his face. His lashes are long and veil his hazel eyes, giving them a sultry look any woman would die for. The bridge of his patrician nose has a ridge and is slightly crooked. This adds to his overall good looks instead of taking away from them. He has had his nose broken before and I wonder how it happened or if it's been broken more than once and he's more of a fighter than a lover. He isn't a soft man. I knew that already. Either way the crookedness of his nose adds to the ruggedness of his features.

His voice is as intense as the rest of him. A deep resonant bass that is somehow as overwhelming as the aura radiating off of him. Heat flares through me. I can imagine that voice whispering things in my ear only intended for me to hear. He asks if I'm Grace Klein though I get the sense that he already knows I am. Stupidly, I nod. The powers of speech have abandoned me. He reaches out to shake my hand. His grip is firm, but not crushing. His long fingers are calloused and very warm.

I can't imagine this man is Hanson Galloway, Han, for short. I'm tempted to ask him for ID. He simply doesn't look like an attorney. But, he assures me he is an attorney and Hanson Galloway. He offers to show me his driver's license, if I need to see it. I don't. I'm too embarrassed by my mistrust to demand confirmation of his identity. He has the file containing all the paperwork I'll need to sign to take possession of my inheritance with him. But, he recommends, unless we want everyone in town to know my business, we go over things in his office.

He operates out of his home. Somehow, in this little burg, that doesn't surprise me. There is plenty he hasn't told me yet. I don't know how I know this, but I do. Before I can make a move to pay for my food. He snatches the check off the counter and hands Diane a twenty to cover my breakfast and his coffee. He doesn't bother with waiting for change and tells her to keep it. That's a generous tip, considering my pancakes were 4.99 and refills on coffee are free. Maybe, paying for breakfast is his way of making me feel welcome. I doubt if he paid to impress me. This is a man who doesn't need to pull out his wallet or prove a thing to impress anybody.

"Give me your keys, Grace," he says in a voice that leaves no room for argument. He goes on to explain that he can see I've driven straight through from L.A. and I'm not safe to drive another mile. He is right about that. He tosses his keys to Diane and tells me not to worry about it. She'll find someone to drive his motorcycle to him.

He'll drive me in my car unless I want to ride with him on his Harley. The idea of wrapping my arms around his waist and hanging on tight makes me blush. I'm attracted to this man. Very attracted. He's not only an attorney. He's my distant cousin and until I know how distant. It isn't going to happen. Deep inside of me though, I'm hoping we're so distantly related that we aren't technically related at all.

I'm ashamed of my car. The floorboard is a litter of fast food wrappers and potato chip crumbs. The backseat is crammed full of a hodgepodge of boxes and trash bags containing my stuff. I've had the car since my senior year of high school and it was old when I bought it. The paint is faded to a dull gray and there's a coating of rust eating away the wheel wells. Hell, it might not even start, but that is too humiliating to consider. I haven't handed over my keys yet and he pins me with a look. Gritting my teeth and begrudging how right he is about my current physical state, I drop my wad of keys into his palm.

I'm a key collector or at least it seems that way. I've still got the key to my parent's house and to the apartment on the ring. I'm hesitant, with good reason, to climb into a car with someone I don't really know. He could be a psycho or a serial killer. Maybe, a rapist, but you can't exactly rape the willing. And a part of me would decidedly be willing. He must be able to sense my reluctance because he draws a pained breath at my unwillingness to simply trust him. "Grace," he says in a voice hot enough to melt the polar ice caps. "You're not in L.A. anymore."

He holds the passenger side door open for me and motions me into the seat with a wave of his hand. I climb in and buckle up while discreetly kicking the collage of wrappers, cans, and crumbs out of the way to make room for my feet. If he noticed, he makes no sign of it. Grunting, he slides behind the wheel and shoots me an apologetic smile as he slides the seat back to accommodate his long legs.

He steers the car, not toward what little bit of a town there is, but out onto the highway. Ok, so now I am a little nervous. The pepper spray is on my key chain and out of reach. I keep my nails short out of practicality and clawing his eyes out is not much of an option in terms of self-defense. I could knock him on the head with my purse. Make a try for it and leap out of a moving vehicle. I guess. Screaming for help won't do any good. Nobody would hear me. "Where are we going?" I demand to know.

He rolls his eyes at me as if it should be perfectly obvious where he's taking me. I don't trust him. I wonder how he could hold that against me considering we just met. But, somehow I've managed to offend him. He's just trying to be nice and I'm automatically ashamed that I thought anything other about him. I don't say another word. The awkwardness between us, two strangers, is bad enough without any inane conversation. I slide down in my seat and watch the scenery zip past the window trying to remember the route so I can find my way back into town. "Grace, I'm taking you home," he answers.

My head is filled with images of what the house will look like. What it'll be like to live someplace so different from anyplace I've ever lived. I'm also wondering exactly where home really is. Is it here or California or someplace else I haven't even thought of yet? I don't know. But, I know, or have the sense that once I cross over that threshold my life will never be the same again.

Chapter 8

The diner is hopping. I wedged my Harley between two rusted out pickup trucks and pocketed the keys. My skin ripples with awareness. My wolf wrinkles his nose at the lingering scent of her in the air and prowls agitatedly in my head. He has already staked his claim to her and it is all I can do to hold him back. He definitely lacks my finesse and between the two of us it's best that I handle this. Grace doesn't know a thing about my world and for now it needs to stay that way. She is on my turf. These are my people. This is my place. But it's our time, our season.

Carving a place for us out of this wilderness wasn't an easy thing. We had grand plans back in the day. Some of us still hold that vision. Progress pushed forward and shoved us back until we were confined to this small place, our place, in the corner of the world. I can't put into words what hopes I have for Grace. So much hinges on her. The truth is that we are a dying breed and I'm clinging to the glimmer of hope that she can breathe life into us once again.

I have fought and bled for these people and this place. My position is never a secure one. There's always a challenger waiting to fight me for rights to it. Grace's father went the way of the wolf. But, he returned a changed man. The hunger and darkness within him ate him alive. I thought him dead after so many years. Nathaniel knew differently. He answered the challenge and lost. I don't know whether the things I did to secure our future were done out of rage or from my pain of losing the only father I had ever known. I can't regret them or the death I delivered. I saved my pack. I only wonder when the time comes for questions how I'll answer hers.

Grace isn't ready for the truth about anything. I don't have much time to prepare her. Being here, with her true family and the magic that flows between us, will call the reality that is her true self forth. There is a chance if she had stumbled into a life in a different place, been close enough to a pack, the magic would have claimed her sooner. L.A. is hardly a place for a wolf. Perhaps, that was part of her mother's plan. The hiding of her daughter in such a crowded, civilized place. But, I don't believe that dying was part of her mother's plan. She was going to hide the both of them and raise her daughter among the humans and as far from the magic as she could get.

Nathaniel worked so hard to uncover the truth. It took every bit of influence he possessed among the more clandestine of the world to locate his daughter in law and bring her home to be laid to rest. There were truths he could not unearth though. Who fired the bullet that ended her life is just one of many unanswered questions. Nathaniel didn't believe her death was just a series of circumstances, a simple matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He suspected a great many things, but had no facts to base them on. I do too. She was hunted and what creature on earth hunts as stealthily and lethally as a wolf?

The outer brick walls of the building that houses the diner are beginning to crumble in places. Tall weeds scrabble for a foothold along the chipped foundation. This place is old, almost as old as I am. Part of the diner's charm is the building. Sure, the food is good, but the atmosphere draws just as much of the crowd. I can smell the musky earthy essence of wolf mingling with the enticing aroma of frying bacon and fresh baked cinnamon rolls cooling on the rack.