The Werebear’s Swing (Bathhouse Beasts #4)

The Werebear’s Swing Johnny

The Werebear’s Swing: Johnny

“Great,” I grumbled as I climbed back into my car. “Over a hundred dollars worth of pizza and I got a thirty-cent tip. Thanks a lot, assholes.”

I shoved the key in the ignition, twisting it so hard the engine protested with a whine.

The smell of cheese and pepperoni still hung in the car, mixing with the lingering scent of twenty other deliveries I'd made today.

My fingers drummed against the steering wheel as I pulled away from the curb, watching the porch light of the massive house fade in my rearview mirror.

Rich people were always the worst tippers.

Seven hours on my feet. Seven hours of "The customer is always right" smile plastered on my face. And for what? I checked my phone. I’d made barely eighty bucks in tips for the whole day. Rent was due next week, and at this rate, I'd be eating nothing but leftover pizza crusts until payday.

The radio crackled as I turned onto Main Street. Some pop song I'd heard fifty times today already. I switched it off, preferring the sound of tires on asphalt to another chorus about summer love and broken hearts.

My phone buzzed in the cup holder. Dave from the shop. Great. Probably another delivery he wanted me to take even though my shift was supposed to end fifteen minutes ago.

"Yeah?" I answered, not bothering to hide the irritation in my voice.

"Johnny, I need you to take one more. It's on your way home anyway."

I bit back the response I wanted to give. "I'm already off the clock, Dave."

"It's a big order. Sixty-five bucks. Could be a good tip." Dave's voice had that pleading tone he always used when he knew he was asking too much.

"Fine," I sighed. "Text me the address."

My phone dinged a moment later. I glanced down at an unfamiliar street name and frowned. "The Bathhouse? What the hell is that?"

"Some place that opened up downtown a couple years ago. Supposed to be fancy. Rich people, Johnny. Rich people and their fancy bath... I don’t fucking know. Whatever. Maybe they'll actually tip this time."

I made a U-turn, heading back toward the pizza shop to grab the last delivery.

Twenty minutes later, I had three large pizza boxes balanced against my hip while fishing for my phone to double-check the address.

The street was darker than I’d expected, lined with old warehouses that looked like they’d been around since the fifties.

The only entrance I could find was an unassuming metal door with a security camera and a single light.

It didn’t look like a bathhouse at all. In fact, it looked like a good place to get kidnapped.

I stood there for a moment, weighing my options. The pizza was getting cold in my arms, and my back ached from the long day. Part of me wanted to just leave the pizzas at the door, take a picture as proof of delivery, and get the hell out of there. But I needed the money. God, did I need the money.

"Screw it," I muttered, shifting the boxes to free up a hand. I pressed the buzzer beside the door, hearing it echo somewhere deep inside the building.

Nothing happened for almost a full minute. I was about to hit it again when the speaker crackled to life.

"Yes?" The voice was smooth but disinterested. Definitely not what I expected from a creepy kidnapper warehouse door.

“Pizza delivery for a…” I glanced down at the note. “Ferguson?”

There was another pause before the man’s exasperated voice came back through the speaker. “I don’t know why he doesn’t eat before he comes here, but come on in.”

A loud buzz cut through the night, followed by the metallic clunk of a heavy lock disengaging. I pushed the door open with my shoulder, balancing the pizza boxes carefully as I stepped inside.

The contrast was immediate. Instead of the grungy warehouse exterior, I found myself in a clean, well lit lobby with light vinyl floors and walls painted a warm creamy color.

The air was warm and humid, carrying hints of eucalyptus and something else I couldn't quite place.

A man in a black polo sat behind the desk, a book lying open on the desk in front of him.

He had silver hair and, like his voice, a general air of disinterest about him.

I walked in, stepping up to the desk while he talked on a corded black desk phone.

“Ferguson?” he sighed. “Your pizza is here.” He paused for a moment.

“Uh-huh. You know I’m not your personal assistant right?

” Another pause. “Yeah, I know you’re popular with the guests.

Yes, I know you bring a lot of customers…

alright Ferguson. I get it. Jesus.” The silver haired man dropped the phone back on the receiver, shaking his head.

“Apparently I’m supposed to pay you and Ferguson will come up front when he’s not busy. ” The man rolled his eyes. “Lucky me.”

I wasn’t really sure how to respond to that. “Uh… the total came out to sixty-five eight-two,” I said, placing the boxes on the far end of the counter where there was a clear space.

The silver-haired man pulled out a wallet from beneath the counter and thumbed through it. "Sixty-five eighty-two," he repeated, counting out bills. "Here's seventy. Keep the change."

Four dollars and eighteen cents. Great. Another shit tip to cap off my shit day.

"Thanks," I said flatly, shoving the bills into my pocket.

As I turned to leave, a door I hadn't noticed before opened somewhere to my right. Heavy footsteps approached, and a deep voice called out, "You better not be eating my pizza, Gary."

I looked over to see not a man like I expected, but a Werebear, completely shifted, walking toward us.

He was huge—at least seven feet tall, with broad hairy shoulders stretching a white tank top that clung to an impressive chest. His biceps were as big around as my head, and his dark fur was meticulously groomed.

He wore extremely short gym trunks and flip-flops, his impressive bulge leaving little to the imagination.

My eyes locked on the outline of his cock through his shorts and heat pooled in my belly.

How long had it been since I’d been with another man?

Two months? Four? Maybe it was more than that.

Working every single day for weeks on end left little free time for dating or even talking with people.

And to be honest, I was so exhausted most days that the most I could muster was a quick jerk before bed to shitty Twitter porn.

But this guy… this Werebear… gave me a sudden burst of energy I didn’t expect and my cock was already thickening in my jeans.

I knew there were monsters in the world, but I’d never seen one like… this.

"Ferguson, your delivery boy was about to leave," the desk clerk said.

Ferguson's eyes landed on me, and his serious expression melted into a smile. "Well, that would've been a tragedy." He walked closer, and I caught the scent of chlorine and some kind of cologne. "Sorry about making you wait. Tuesday nights are always busy."

I shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. "No problem. Enjoy your pizza."

"Hold up," Ferguson said, reaching for his own wallet. "Gary here is a notorious cheap-skate." He pulled out two twenties and held it out to me. "You probably drove all the way across town for this."

I stared at the bills, wondering if this was some kind of joke. "Uh, thanks."

"Don't mention it." He winked at me as I took the money. "You work for RJ Pizzeria, right? I've seen their delivery cars around."

"Yeah," I replied, still stunned by the unexpected and large tip. "Seven days a week, it feels like."

Ferguson nodded, his eyes lingering on mine a bit longer than necessary. "Well, maybe I'll order from there more often." He picked up the pizza boxes. "Have a good night..."

"Johnny," I supplied.

"Johnny," he repeated, like he was testing how my name felt in his mouth. "I'm Ferguson.” He gave me a once over, his eyes raking across my body. I saw them widen slightly as they drifted down and a grin pulled at the corner of his mouth. “So Johnny, are you done for the night?”

“Y-Yeah,” I replied, feeling strangely nervous. “I was just about to head home.”

“Well, you look like you could use a break after all those long days you’ve been working.” He gestured toward the door leading into the bathhouse. “Would you like to come inside?”

“The bathhouse is for members only, Ferguson,” Gary chimed in through gritted teeth. “You know that.”

“Thank you for the reminder, Gary,” Ferguson replied, clearly annoyed. “Please sign this man up and put his membership on my tab.” He gave me a small grin. “I know he’ll like what he finds inside.”

“Ferguson, I can’t just go letting anybody in here off the street, this isn’t—”

The Werebear growled, his fur bristling.

“Gary,” he said calmly but forcefully. “You’re being rude.

I have invited this man to join the bathhouse.

Now take a copy of his driver’s license and give him a locker key.

” Ferguson turned back to me, a placating smile on his face.

“Don’t let him bully you. Go inside and relax. ”

“I don’t want to be any trouble…” I started.

“You’re not,” Ferguson insisted. Then he nodded toward Gary. “He’s the trouble.”

I watched Gary reluctantly pull out a clipboard from behind the counter, his jaw clenched tight.

The whole situation felt surreal. Ten minutes ago I'd been delivering pizza to what I thought was some sketchy warehouse, and now a seven-foot Werebear was buying me a membership to what appeared to be some kind of exclusive sauna club.

"I'll need to see your ID," Gary said tersely, sliding the clipboard across the counter toward me.

My hands were shaking slightly as I pulled out my wallet and handed over my driver's license. Ferguson noticed, because of course he did, and his expression softened.