Chapter 7
seven
RUSS
I have an entire twenty-four hours off today, and I’m going to use every last bit of it.
I return to each of the McFlips locations I’ve already visited and ask their daytime staff the same question, spinning the same lie. Still, no sign of her.
On to the next one. Even worse than a positive “no” is the two kids behind the counter shrugging, saying they’re college students who just started a week ago. The manager isn’t interested in answering my questions, either, as he’s much too busy wrangling his underage staff.
Great.
Up until the fourth stop, I’m driven fully by my need to find Amanda, to make sure she and my cub are all right. It sprouted as a primal urge, but when I pull into the parking lot, it’s morphed into a resigned frustration.
What if I can’t turn up any leads at all? The weight of the time ahead, wondering and waiting while my mate grows my cub, sinks down on my shoulders like a stone .
Fuck. I can’t give up already.
I get out of the car, slam the door, and walk into the McFlips. It’s on the nicer end of town, with cleaner tile floors. Aston is a predominantly human city, but most of the diners politely try not to stare as I walk in.
I take a deep breath, searching for a whiff of her. For a moment, I almost think I can pick it out, but then it vanishes just as quickly.
“Can I help you, sir?” asks an older woman behind the counter. Her tag says MARIAN.
“Sure, please.” I study the menu for a moment. “I’ll have a double bacon cheeseburger. But I’d also like to ask you something? Um, Marian?”
She tugs up her visor and peers at me from under graying curls. “What’s that, sir?”
I smooth back the wild fur around my cheeks. “Look,” I say, tired of all the pretenses. “I’m searching for someone. A woman I... a woman I slept with. A couple of weeks ago.”
Marian’s eyes go wide. Then, a slight smile tugs at the corner of her lip. “Go on.”
I lean forward so I don’t have to speak as loudly. “It was really amazing. But we didn’t exchange information.” It’s about as close to the truth as I can get without spilling the sordid details of the strangers-fucking-in-a-white-room situation. “She said she worked here a few months back, and I just...” I trail off, hoping I’m not about to wreck my chance of getting an answer. “I want to see her again. More than anything.”
That smile spreads, and Marian’s eyes crinkle. “I see.” She calls back over her shoulder. “Jason, I’m taking my break.”
“It’s not time for your break!” A scrawny man leans around the corner, face pink with pimples. He has a tag that says MANAGER.
“My feet hurt,” Marian answers as she heads away from the counter. She waves at me, urging me toward the door that leads behind it.
The manager sighs and vanishes.
When I reach the side door, she opens it for me and ushers me in.
“Don’t let anyone see you,” she says, which is a rather big ask of a giant wolfman inside a fast food restaurant.
She leads me down a hallway to another small room, and I have to hunch down to fit through the door. There, she goes to a cabinet and opens it.
“You want her number, right?” Marian asks.
“Or her address,” I say. “I just want to leave her flowers or something. I feel like that’s less intrusive than calling out of the blue.”
She rubs her chin. “True.” She leafs through the files. “Here we go. Deanna Jackson.”
Deanna. That’s her name. That’s Amanda’s real name. It sounds much more... right for her.
And it feels like I’m finally a step closer.
“She went by Dee, by the way,” the woman says with a knowing arch of her brow. “Since I assume you didn’t get her name, either.”
I sheepishly shrug. “Thank you,” I say, fully sincere. “This means a lot to me.”
She pulls out the file and grabs a notepad, quickly copying down the address. “You’d better not be some creep ex-boyfriend, though,” she says in a warning tone.
I raise my hands in the air. “No, I’m not, I promise.” I swallow, not sure if I should say what I’m really thinking. Marian tears off the paper with the address but doesn’t hand it to me.
“Would you give me the number, too?” I ask, knowing that I’m pushing my luck. I just want a back-up, just in case.
Marian frowns. “I don’t think I should,” she says, now uncertain. “I probably shouldn’t even be giving you this?—”
Before she can finish her sentence, I snatch the piece of paper with Dee’s address right out of her hand.
She huffs with indignation. “Sir!”
“Sorry,” I tell her, heading for the door. At least I was able to get this much. It should be enough to locate Dee. “You don’t understand, but I have to find her.”
Then I rush back out the way I came in.
My heels are practically on fire as I hop into my car and turn on the navigation. I type in the address and then hit GO.
My GPS leads me deeper into Aston, back toward the seedy end of town. It’s only a few minutes to the apartment complex, which is rundown and falling apart on the outside. The stairs are rickety, and she’s up on the second floor.
I don’t like that hazard. She could lean too hard on the railing and tip right off the side if I’m not there to watch out for her.
Fuck. Danger is everywhere in the world. I don’t know why I thought I could handle this.
I park in the lot, which is on an unsettling slope, and step out. That one should be hers—number four. Navigating my way up the slope to the old, haphazard stairs, I find they’re just cement blocks laid down with big gaps between them.
Not safe at all .
I reach the top floor and walk across the landing to the apartment marked with a “4.” Then I slowly raise one knuckle and knock.
I might be doing something really, really stupid right now. Maybe Amanda—no, Dee— was silent after our second session because she really didn’t want me to know who she was.
That was what we signed up for, isn’t it?
But it’s too late. I’ve knocked, and I hear footsteps on the other side of the door headed towards me.
The knob turns, and the door opens.
The man who answers it is wearing an apron and carrying a bucket of water. He scowls at me.
“What?” he demands. The apartment behind him is...
Completely empty.
“Deanna?” I ask. “Deanna, uh, Jackson?”
The man squints at me. “Do I look like a Deanna?” he snaps.
“No, no.” I wave my hands. “I’m trying to find her.”
The man looks me up and down, from my bare, clawed feet to my pointed ears.
“No girl named that here,” he says pointedly, gesturing at himself. “Maybe she’s the one who moved out. I don’t know, and I don’t care.” He shoos me, and promptly slams the door closed.
I stand on the landing, staring at the “4” that hangs slightly off to one side. I right it, and realize that my hand is trembling.
I expected her to be here. I expected to see her again.
Immediately I pull out my phone and start looking up the property. It’s managed by a rental company, as I expected, so I call them as I head back down the stairs to my car .
At least she isn’t living here anymore.
“Hello, Muer Real Estate Management.”
“Hello, hi,” I say, tapping the handle of my car door to unlock it. “I’m looking for an address. My friend just moved, and I’m...” What, I’m trying to find her? That doesn’t sound suspicious at all. “I’m trying to forward her mail, but I don’t know her new address. I know how to find the damn place, but that’s it.”
“Right,” says the woman on the other end. “Sorry. I don’t have that. Once our business is concluded with a renter, it’s up to them to have their mail forwarded.”
I gawp at the phone. “Really? You don’t ask them for a future address?”
“No. Is that all?”
I can’t fucking believe it. I end the call and shove the phone into my pocket as I slide back into my car.
A hard, abrupt dead end.
DEE
Finding a new apartment is more difficult than it sounds. Eventually I do locate a nice place, right at the top of my price range, that’s a little farther outside of Aston than my old spot. It’s not like I have to commute anywhere, so a bright, high-ceilinged loft in a bedroom community sounds perfect for me. Once I’ve packed up everything I own, I call as many friends as I can to help move it all, and buy them pizza at the end of the day. It’s when I do one last check of the empty apartment, vacuuming in some of the corners, that I realize that I’m not just saying goodbye to this dump of a place.
I’m saying goodbye to my old life, too. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but it’s now happening at full speed.
At the last minute, I remember my planters on the balcony, and take them with me.
I spend a lot of time that first week in my new place getting everything unpacked and arranging it just-so. I’ve never had the time or energy for decorating, and I don’t have much to decorate with , but I do make a run to the secondhand store that results in some tacky sculptures, weird paintings and extra furniture. Then I find new homes for my plants on the back porch, and even pick up a shiny new silver watering can.
But once everything is all hung and placed... I realize just how fucking lonely my life is without a job.
I don’t mind the not having a job part. It’s nice not to force myself to go to sleep, or wake up at an ungodly hour in the morning when my alarm goes off. It’s wonderful not to stare longingly up at the clock for my shift to be over. In fact, after a few days, I’m setting an alarm voluntarily so I don’t oversleep and feel groggy all day.
Still, I wish I could teleport my good coworkers right to my house and just... do things together. It’s boring being by myself at my house all the time, even if the new apartment has far better mojo than my last one did. I can’t see Liesel every single day, and my other friends either have kids or work long hours. They make time for me when they can, but it’s not much compared to the hours alone.
It’s not that I’m bored. It’s that everything feels too quiet. As the days go on, the quiet grows deeper and deeper, and I wonder if I might get sucked into it .
I seriously need to get out more. I don’t care if I have to go to a bar and sip virgin cocktails to have a conversation with someone. Hell, even if all I do is watch the game while surrounded by strangers, that’s good enough for me.
Maybe Liesel was right, and I do crave connections. Maybe all of this was a really dumb idea.
It’s a little harder to find a good lounge spot outside of the city, but I do manage to locate a bar and grill nearby that seems more focused on the “bar” part. Perfect. I could use some deep fried food since I’ve been eating healthy salads all the time.
The bar is dim inside, with a few chunky pendant lights hanging above the bartop and tables. It has a homey feel to it, different than the trendy bars in the city where a cocktail costs fifteen bucks. This reminds me more of my hometown, where every bar looks and smells just like this one, and you can order a side of mozzarella sticks to go with your cold beer.
Almost everyone in the bar is human, save for a pair of fish-men over by the jukebox arguing over what to play next.
“What would you like?” the bartender asks the moment I sit, while she’s filling a beer glass.
“A virgin cocktail,” I say. “Any kind.”
She arches her eyebrow, opens her mouth to say something, then closes it and nods. “I can respect that,” she says. “Preferences?”
“None.” She departs to drop off the full beer, then grabs some jars and a pitcher of orange juice out of the fridge. She mixes things together like a mad scientist, then slides an orange and pink drink in front of me.
“Not sure what to call it, but I think it’ll be good.” Then she’s gone to help another customer.
There’s no one sitting next to me, but two seats down on my left is a man in my age range, swishing his beer while he watches the game. I study him, trying to decide if I find him attractive or not. He has an okay face, but nothing to write home about. He’s probably about the same amount of attractive I am. That’s a positive sign.
The cure to loneliness is to hook up, I’m pretty sure of it. Maybe if I can just get some tonight, I’ll stop longing for wolfman cock to such an embarrassing degree.
I lean over to get a better look at the TV. It’s a Broncos game, and the man doesn’t look particularly interested. Good. Just like me.
Eventually he spots me looking at him, and turns his head to make full eye contact. I don’t waver, but I do offer a smile.
“Not that exciting of a game?” I ask, glancing at the television and back.
He shrugs. “I’m just not invested.” He has greenish-brown eyes and short, brown upswept hair. He’s dressed like he came here after work, with a collared shirt and slacks. “Which team are you here for?”
I shake my head. “Neither. Rarely watch football, actually. I’m not even sure what the rules are.”
He laughs, which is a good start. “So why are you here by yourself?” He glances down at my drink. “Screwdriver?”
“I don’t know. Something the bartender made up.” I take a sip, trying to decide how much to say. “I just needed to... be around people for a while.”
The stranger cocks his head. “Are you alone a lot?”
“All the time.” I swish my drink and sip it again because I’m starting to sweat. It’s been a minute since I tried to hit on someone, and I’m rusty. “It gets old after a while.”
But it’s not just the need to have company. It’s the hunger for Bill’s company, specifically, and the odd void it’s left behind in me.
“And a seedy bar is what does it for you?” the man asks, skeptical.
I hold up my drink. “And virgin cocktails, too.”
Another laugh, and I think perhaps my charms are working. “I won’t ask why,” he says. “None of my business. But I guess a bar is a good place to be if you don’t want to be... alone.”
He smiles as he says this, and I know I’ve caught him.