Free Diaries of an Urban Panther by Amanda Arista Page A

just another “Dear Diary” entry.
    So for today’s little craving, I tried running up and down my stairs. I tried popping in a yoga video I’d bought for some failed New Year’s resolution, but it wasn’t what I wanted. What I needed. This whole exercising thing was not previously on my list of needs; remember: coffee, food, shelter. No exercising.
    Looking at the discarded tennis shoe by my front door, I sighed. “Fine,” I snapped at the poor shoe. “But I’m going prepared this time.”
    After slipping on my Chuck Taylors, the only other things in my closet that resembled athletic wear, I shoved my keys, the can of mace, and a bottle of water in a small messenger bag. My hand trembled like I was coming off something. I shook it off and put the bag over my head.
    Feeling more like Rambo than I cared to admit, I threw open the door and took in a deep breath of fresh air. There was a flutter in my chest, like, well, like nothing else that I’d ever felt before. It stirred just under my breastbone for a second and then was gone.
    Again, I feigned through some stretches on the front porch and twirled my ankle around. There was no pain, no twinges. Good as new.
    And then I started to run.
    H eading back to the house, I slowed down when I saw the dark Bronco parked across from my house. He was watching me. Just sitting there, watching me in his side view mirror as he sipped out of a 7-Eleven cup.
    I didn’t want to deal with him right now. Right now I wanted a shower and a hot cup of coffee. And at some point I was going to have to e-mail Sera with the mad changes that I had been making to that werewolf script and e-mail the three articles I had cranked out that morning to the online magazine. Something about running, then subsequently mending a broken ankle, really cleared up the cobwebs in my head.
    Chaz didn’t give me a choice. He got out and leaned against the side of his car. Arms over his chest, he looked like an Abercrombie commercial.
    Guess I had to talk to him. I took my time crossing the street, looking both ways as I tiptoed across. But I’m not paranoid about anything, right?
    “I figured you would have fixed a pot of coffee before you finally moseyed out here.”
    “I can go back,” I said hitching my thumb over my shoulder.
    “Only if you bring some out here for me.”
    I smiled softly and crossed my arms over my chest to mirror him. My sweaty hair gave me chills, or was it the way he was looking down at me?
    “How was your run?”
    “Great,” I shrugged. “Really hitting my stride.”
    I leaned against his car and faced my house. We were only inches apart, both staring at the little townhouse with the little red door and the empty flower pot. I could feel warmth radiating from his rigid bicep and forced myself to slip further down the side of his car.
    “You have to see the Shala,” he said softly, tenderly. “She can help with everything.”
    I just shook my head. “I just don’t understand, Chaz. Why me?”
    “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “Couldn’t tell you why any of us were chosen for this. It just the way it’s written.”
    I looked up at him. It was the first time I’d heard an ounce of doubt in his voice.
    “What was your deal again?” I asked. I vaguely remembered something about something but it was buried under all my own emotional baggage.
    “Guardian. Heal fast, move fast. And I find people like a human compass.”
    “That doesn’t sound like something you catch in a back alley.”
    He shook his head. “Born with it, just like my dad.”
    “So this stalker union is a family gig. That must be nice.”
    He took in a deep breath and his face hardened for a moment. His hands gripped tighter on his biceps as he studied his boots. It was regret and it didn’t look good on those model features.
    My chest hurt to see those kinds of memories flash under his hazel eyes. There was no family, at least not anymore. I had to do something that relieved the pain